Brenda's speech at Daniel ז"ל's shloshim

Lessons Learned

Today I finished Shloshim—the first 30 days after burying my husband, Daniel Frederick Rubin. As a result, there should be a lightening of the sorrow I feel. First, the shock, then the burial, then the steeping in shiva, then a less severe mourning period. And now tonight, as his wife, I am supposed to be free of all restrictions. I can return to the material world. So, since I am a material girl and work out many of my demons by shopping for bargains, I can return to my old coping mechanisms. I can shop 'til I drop. However, I won’t have my best friend to return to. He never liked to treasure hunt. Often I bought things I didn’t need or like because at that price, how could I turn it down? But he always supported me in my relentless bargain hunting. Usually it was stuff I bought for him or the children or the grandchildren. He always liked getting new things and he hated shopping. When I would spend money for something ridiculous and say I really don’t know why I bought it—he always encouraged me to enjoy myself. He reassured me that I never spent so much and it was less expensive than therapy. Besides, we always had lots of gifts to give to the grandchildren when we visited them. After the children left home, I filled our closets with my bargains. Daniel loved bright colors so I was always on the lookout for bright clothes for him that were not glaring to me. When I would call up to say I was on my way home, my husband would ask, “So where are you?” because he learned that my shopping adventures took me to faraway places. The reason I am talking about this is that I learned how to love by being married to a loving man.

Daniel was the youngest child in his family. His only other sibling was his brother who was 14 years older. He had older parents who indulged him. Instead of getting spoiled, Daniel retained a sense of how loveable he was. As a result, he spread his love around. He would slap friends on the back, do shtick with them, remember certain facts about them that he never let them forget, and basically make people around him happy. I was a middle child. That should say it all. However, my parents were always afraid that we children would be susceptible to thinking too much of ourselves. Or maybe it was the evil eye that would get us. So, my parents did not tell us that they loved us when we were young. Daniel said “love” all the time, so we always showered our children with love and loving words. I remember about 30 years ago how triumphant my husband was. He called me up and said, “I just called Daddy (the name we called my father) and told him I loved him, and he said “I love you” back to me! After Daniel hung up, I got a phone call from my father saying, “Daniel just called me up and said he loved me to me and I said I loved him back. But I couldn’t just say that to him and not let you hear that I love you too.” That was one of my husband’s favorite stories.

He spread the love by going to shiva houses and doing the mitzvoth of mvaker holim and menachem ovel. I was taught that you only go to people that you know. That if you are not friends, you are imposing on that person in their time of sorrow. Under my husband’s tutelage, I started following his lead. I can tell you that he was right. I learned that when acquaintances come and give you support, it is very meaningful. I learned how to give comfort like that from my husband. I grew up Modern Orthodox. Daniel was a ba’al tshuvah. He would show me the books where different things were written. We would try to follow the law not as it was customary in my home but the way the books said. I learned from my husband how to be more Orthodox and less modern that way. For example, my husband always would stick in a “dvar Torah” during the meal. I say “stick in” because I was not used to having a dvar Torah at every meal. My husband would twist the conversation around so all of a sudden it was a dvar Torah instead of normal dinner conversation. After being bamboozled so many times, we had a rule. My husband would have to preface his “very interesting” story by saying it was a “dvar Torah alert!” That way, I didn’t feel tricked into it. Eventually, I became accustomed to the divrei Torah and enjoyed them. If I had attended a shiur, I would tell the divrei Torah. My husband always got his way. He just did it his way—a steel hand in a velvet glove.

Daniel was always interested in making new friends and learning new things. He found all people interesting and loved to learn about what people did. He would ask questions, pay attention to the answers, and remember things about people ever after. He made people happy by his interest in them and added to his own interesting personality by getting so involved in their stories. When he was diagnosed, Daniel needed to wear oxygen all the time. The disease had progressed so far so fast. People wanted to bring us food. Daniel hardly ate anything. I didn’t need more food. However, I didn’t know how I would get Daniel the company on Shabbat he loved. We used to pick up guests from shul all the time. But now he couldn’t get to shul. Besides, he was wearing a tube in his nose. People wouldn’t want to come and visit a sick house. Additionally, I needed to get Daniel to the doctor all the time. How could I cook for company? My mother came every Friday night, and it would be a somber occasion each Friday night thinking about Daniel’s illness and dwelling on his prognosis. Rina Isenberg told me people wanted to help us and that I couldn’t deny all their friendly overtures. I thought how I needed Daniel to be buoyed up by company and I needed company food. My friends and acquaintances filled up our Friday nights with fine food, fine company, and diversion. We felt the air lift as the friends came. Esther Rothberg figured out that friends could share the work. Even as Daniel’s health declined, he looked forward to our Friday nights filled with friends and good times. He would sleep all day just so he could have the strength to be there for our Friday night meal.

A friend asked me why we made our bad news so public, saying, “Didn’t you want to keep it quiet? I would. Didn’t you feel like you were objects of pity?” I asked Daniel and he replied, I don’t feel like people are pitying me. I feel the love they are expressing.” The last Friday night we had I had to warn our friends, the Samsons, beforehand. Daniel was not doing well. I asked them whether they would still come, still bring the food, still sing, and not leave if Daniel had to go to sleep. When Daniel left the table just after the chicken soup, the singing continued. Daniel said he felt good as he dreamed and heard the zmirot in the background. We felt so supported by the community. Daniel didn’t live long enough for us to party with all the friends who volunteered. We couldn’t believe all the love that was being expressed. My mother would get embarrassed and say every week, “What kind of business is this. You invite people to your house and they have to do the cooking?” And I would say, “Yes,” and thank my guests for their largesse and company. It was the highlight of our week. Thank you for everyone who did it and everyone who signed up in expectation of doing it. We felt and feel the love.

Thank you for all your prayers and visits. I just want to say that I once heard a shiur at Beth Jacob about how G-d keeps on sending angels in our days. Just that the angels are people like you who do good works. By not just cooking food for us but sitting and joining in meals with us, you lifted our spirits and spread loving kindness. G-d is in control. If I were in control, Daniel would not have died. I miss him. I need him. I can never repay everyone for your loving support (you know who you are). I hope I can learn from your example how to go into the fire with a friend, stay there when everything is burning up, and work to make that blaze a purifying burning bush. Daniel was not going to die. He was determined to live. The night before he died, I thought he still had six months to live. I started crying and said “I don’t know what I will do without you.” He answered, “I don’t know what I would do without you.” He was telling me that he had no intention of dying. When things looked really bleak, Daniel did not give in. I remember when recounting how bleak everything looked and how our one hope was fading, Daniel responded, “What can we do? We just have to take the next step.” Even in that time, Daniel placed his faith in G-d—we couldn’t call the shots—we just had to take the next step.

As many of you know, Daniel became acutely sensitive to others as he became more ill. Frieda had given me a whole lot of tapes to watch with Daniel on Downtown Abbey. Daniel could not watch the show even though he loved the series when he was well. He felt acutely the putdowns and the class struggle. He could not take the jibes, the slights, the hurts inflicted by master and servants in the intrigue. It was a job for me to find something to distract him that would not hurt him. Going to the Beverly Hills Library, I would bring home nine movies and find that all the movies had something distressing in them. We rented one movie, about a group of orphans in Nepal that learned mountaineering and climbed a mountain. The orphans never reached the summit. What the movie celebrated is the attempt. These orphans benefited by the attempt. Through their struggle, they bonded together and learned to love each other. That experience strengthened them. We loved that movie. You should take it out. Daniel and I didn’t succeed in our struggle. We never got him well. In the struggle, we learned how wonderful our friends, family and community are. I am grateful for your coming tonight. I feel that you already did more than your share by coming to the funeral or the name change and Tehilim session or our house or providing food for us. My Rabbis and friends and family encouraged me to have this memorial service. And in memorial of my husband, I want to say to each one of you, I love you. Thank you for being there for us and now for me. I hope we will only join together for smachot in the future.