Officiating My Mother-in-Law's Funeral
Caryl was 102, but a mother is never old enough
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
The call wakes us at 6:30 a.m. Caryl, my mother-in-law, has died in her sleep at the age of 102.5, which sounds more like a thermometer reading than a physical age.
For the past three years, Steve and I FaceTimed with Caryl twice a week—us in Manhattan, her in a nursing home in Florida. Every time she saw her first-born son’s face illuminating her screen, she would seem surprised: “Steve! You look just like me! Same face! But…I’m older.”
We would laugh along with her.
“How old am I?” she would ask.
I would remind her.
“How did I get to be that old?”
Caryl’s short-term memory was gone, but she still knew who we were. Our family nicknamed Caryl “the cat who had more than nine lives.” It seemed like she would go on and on.
***
Jewish people rush to bury their dead, usually within 24 hours—unless the Sabbath interferes. This timeline helps the bereaved avoid “dwelling in the valley of the shadow of death,” as Psalm 23 puts it. Caryl, we know, wanted to be cremated and then buried in her family plot in Queens, where she had reserved a plot.
But before Caryl can be moved to a funeral home, we must obtain a death certificate, signed by a Florida official. And it’s already sundown on the Friday before Christmas weekend. The crematorium is closed for four days.
It’s illegal to use FedEx to transport Caryl’s ashes, so they are mailed to New York by USPS the next Thursday. Her burial is scheduled for that Sunday. I pray that her remains board an early flight with strong tailwinds.
In the meantime, we look for a rabbi to administer the ceremony. The cemetery recommends one; his wife answers the phone. “A mother is never old enough,” she sympathizes.
I’m stunned by this piece of wisdom. I wish I’d heard it 16 years ago, when my own mother died.
The older I get, the more connected I feel to my heritage and traditions. But when the rabbi calls, I’m nervous. I never fast on Yom Kippur; I go to High Holy Day services when a friend invites me to his temple.
“I want to help you in the tower of grief,” the rabbi says. But his price, for a ten-minute service, is steep.
A meditation buddy connects me with the retired rabbi of New York’s largest LGBTQ congregation. It turns out she’s out of town. She offers to see who’s available—but it’s Christmas break for the rabbis, too.
I decide I’ll perform the ceremony myself. I have attended my share of funerals.
An hour before sundown on Friday, Caryl’s ashes arrive. On Sunday, we drive from Manhattan to Queens, home to five million graves and entombments in 29 cemeteries—the most in all five boroughs.
Steve slides the required certified check to a woman in a tiny office, shielded by plexiglass.
“We’re going to do a service first,” he explains.
She nods. “After the grave is filled, you can just leave.”
“Is the cemetery full?” Steve asks—suddenly anxious about our own post-mortem plans.
“No.”
“How much do plots cost?”
“Depends on location.”
Real estate is real estate.
“Maybe I’ll inquire later,” says Steve.
Unlike the overbearing sorrow I felt at my mother’s funeral, I have enough distance to preside with poise—posing as a rabbi and comforting my husband. I want to communicate that when we’re young we feel immortal, but after losing loved ones, we’re confronted with the fragility of life. We promise to give “meaning” to each day but, like broken New Year’s resolutions, this realization is difficult to retain.
Our daughter produces the technology, setting up a tripod and dangling a mic around my neck. When she was young, Caryl—who taught nursery school at a local temple for decades—used to entertain her with her vast repertoire of children’s songs.
It takes 15 chilly minutes for everyone to get settled on FaceTime: Caryl’s relatives log in from New Jersey, Texas, Florida.
Can you hear me?
Unmute yourself!
We can’t see your face!
Can you hear me now?
Sorry I’m late. Has the service started yet?
“Please mute yourselves,” my daughter suggests.
Take One.
Thirty seconds into Steve’s eulogy, his voice breaks. I dab his dripping nose with a tissue and take over.
The penultimate line of my speech: A mother is never old enough. Why don’t I give credit to the rabbi’s wife? As a professor, I counsel my college students against plagiarism. Thou shalt not steal. Yet, I absolve myself. Today, Caryl is never old enough to Steve. Someday, I will not be old enough to my daughter.
“May Caryl’s memory be a blessing,” I conclude. Familiar phrases provide comfort. Steve doesn’t yet know that today’s tears, icicles on his cheeks, will thaw; that, one day, finding a photo of his mother teaching him to ride a bike will make him smile.
I ask for a volunteer to recite kaddish, the thirteenth-century prayer, in Hebrew. A cousin’s husband in Dallas delivers the familiar sing-song rhythms with a cantor’s grace.
Today, the foreign words feel so personal. I am surprised by how these rituals, phrases, and prayers guide us through—and beyond—grief.
We take turns shoveling dirt into Caryl’s grave, which seems shockingly small. That’s when I break down, sobbing uncontrollably. The heaving in my chest feels like a panic attack.
Steve and I huddle with our daughter, arms locked, heads on each other’s shoulders. We mourn for the dead and for our own mortality.
Tearful FaceTimers share amusing memories. She said whatever was on her mind. She always made me feel at home. She made Aunt Joyce’s noodle pudding on every holiday except Passover. A digital shiva, without bagels or babka.
Ushering Steve through his first, intense stage of grief, I am more like a rabbi than I thought I could be. I reassure him that today’s oppressive sadness will abate, bit by bit. But it will also flare up unexpectedly, sparked by the sight of something that reminds him of her.
At a restaurant in Ridgewood, I lead us from kaddish to kiddush. Steve orders eggs, which symbolize the cycle of life. For dessert, chocolate pudding—his mother’s favorite.
Candy Schulman is an award-winning essayist who has just completed a memoir. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Cut, The Forward, AARP, and elsewhere. She is a creative writing professor at The New School and a private writing coach.
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
We carry them with us always in our hearts. Lovely piece.
You and Steve will always feel Caryl’s absence but you will also feel gratitude. My experience losing a child taught me that grief is the price of the deepest love. Thank you for your beautiful essay.