Eulogy for Helena

February 23,1923-July 12,2023

Special is a dress I found on a rack for one dollar. Special is an orchid I thought was dead, and finally, during two of my worst years, produced nineteen magenta flowers. Special is to be distinguished by some unusual quality; being in some way superior. When used in a sentence it reads-You are very special.

My grandmother was special. It’s strange, when I think of her I often think of loss, as in the process of losing something: one’s country, a childhood, a six month old son whom I am named after. Sometimes when over at my grandparent’s house, when we were all young, her loss would form a thin film over her face when cooking dinner. She would forget I was there. Eventually she would turn and smile, recognition once again. She would say, Mommala. It is because of and in spite of her loss my grandmother was courageous and strong, the most loyal and without conditions.

We were all on the phone the night before her funeral giving the Rabbi a glimpse of our grandmother. I found out she wrote letters without punctuation and spelled all our names wrong. She pronounced “omelette” “om-i-lit” like it was French. She made our eggs with strawberry jam. When I told my friend this over brunch years ago she said,”That’s gross.” I ate this a week ago, on buttered toast. It is one of my favorite breakfasts and when I eat it I feel safe.

She was giving. My grandma gave parts of herself in stories which travelled through three countries and could be spoken in four languages. She gave us things. You had to be careful when telling her you liked something, like a bracelet or a painting because she would take it off her wrist or down from the wall. For years she has been placing post it notes on all her things in preparation for this moment. She gave me a picture she painted, not my favorite one, and every time I would see her she would ask where it was hung. Oh, it’s above my desk, I would say when really it was in the back of my closet. Then I tell her my favorite painting, one of her many colored poppies, hangs in the bathroom diagonal from the sink. It will follow us to Michigan.

She gave us love.

The biggest gift her and my grandfather gave me was a chance at me. They helped pay for my treatment after first being diagnosed with bipolar. That’s all she wanted for any of us- to be who we are and be happy.

I think about when I first moved back from L.A. and she had me stay with her for over a year. She would sometimes call us “roomies” and she would laugh. She liked to tell people this and how we never had a fight. When she told people she would say “Lizzy” probably spelled “Lize. Once a week, two if it was dire, she would come home with a cart stuffed with fruit because she knew how much I loved fruit. “Pineapple are your favorite” she would say because I would eat so many of those. And cherries, we both loved those. I would have to control myself, saying I will only eat the ones without stems or ones which were pale red. Just a month ago she talked about us having lived together, again. As I lay my head on her shoulder I felt special. My grandma had a way of making us all feel special.

She could be hard to give to, not brushing it off, more like not paying attention to it even there in the first place. But she made you want to give back. She taught us to be giving. She taught us how to love. How to fight and be strong.

My aunt, mother, sister and I were there two days before she died. My mother and aunt held her hands, my sister and I rubbed her legs and feet as we took turns telling her how much we loved her, how amazing she is. Her eyes were closed and every so often her breath would stop. We would watch her chest and wait, asking ourselves, Is she gone? With force her breathing would begin again. As I rubbed her legs, I could already feel her loss but being there while she was dying as she was there when I was born, repeating quietly, “It’s okay to let go,” was special.