Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Ofra and Pearl

I met my friend, Ofra, on the eve of Yom Kippur, a Friday in 1956.  We had just started our Nursing School education at Tel-Aviv Hadassah Hospital (later to be re-named Ichilov Medical Center).  We both came out of the dormitory at the same time, walking west on Balfour Street towards Alenby Road.  Ofra was a petite girl, dressed in blue cotton short pants and a matching shirt with a white lace tied to the top like a shoelace.  She was wearing the official uniform of the left Zionist Youth organization, a secular group called HaShomer HaZayir.  I remember that I was wearing a Shabbat dress, since it was the Kol-Nidre eve.
When I inquired about her destination, she said “It is Friday eve and there is a program to attend”, and that she was going to the Ken (Nest in Hebrew, the name used for her gathering club).  I mentioned to her that I was heading to the synagogue, for that day was the holiest day of the year.
When we reached Alenby Road, we parted, Ofra walking to the north and I to the south.  That Sunday, in our dormitory, we met again and, then and there, we started to build our life-long friendship that remained tied with strong knots.
Over the course of our fifty-eight year friendship, Ofra served as my sounding board, my confidante, my story teller, my secrets keeper, my mischievous partner and my trusted advisor.  We cried and we laughed together, I held her hand as she gave birth to her first born, and we mourned when her parents and sister passed away.  Throughout the decades, we always made sure to stay in close touch, no matter the physical distance.  We were true friends.
In the early 1970s, after attending and completing a four year course in Tel-Aviv Art School, Ofra devoted her time to her art. She became a well-known artist sculptor, and her bigger than life statues are displayed in Israel and around the world.
My mother, Penina (Pearl), died in November, 1981.  Her death was a quick one from the time she was terminally diagnosed.  I was called by my father to come home.  I left my home and three children behind, arriving in Israel about three weeks prior to her death.  I met her in the hospital, lying in bed; I was unable to recognize my vibrant, energetic mother.  Never before, in my lifetime, could I recall my mother being sick and bed-bound.  For the first time in my life, I could not find words to speak.  I sat silently next to her, until she said she would like to go home.  That same evening we brought her home, and this was the last time I saw her walking.
The following two weeks, her condition deteriorated rapidly.  Had I had the Hospice experience and knowledge I have now, I would have recognized her imminent dying condition.  The home visiting doctor requested, once she went into coma, to transfer her back to the hospital.  She lost consciousness two weeks later on a Sunday.  On Monday morning, I boarded a flight back to New York. I told my father I would keep in touch.
My friend Ofra had planned a trip to the U.S.A. some months before.  But, once I arrived In Israel, Ofra delayed her traveling until we both might travel together.  As usual, we kept a daily contact.
My mother’s condition deteriorated, and her doctor recommended the hospitalization.  Once she was admitted, Ofra and I called the airline and made arrangements to leave the next day.
As we arrived in the airport, we were told El-Al airline was striking and our choice was to leave with Hapag-Lloyd, a German cargo plane, with a stopover in London.  We took it, and away we went.  I remember we held hands the entire trip.  In London, I chose to sit in the large corridor adjoining the waiting room the airline assigned to travelers bound for New York.
Late that day, we arrived. The following day, my mother died; my brother went to Israel; and I stayed in New York. Ofra was a comforting force during the shivah period.  She knew my mother and understood when I told her that her death was beyond my understanding.  In my eyes, my mother was immortal, a person larger than life.
I remember, as a child, I thought my mother was a giant.  Even today, I see her as tall as a six footer, though she hardly reached the five foot mark. She was smart, wise, clever, diligent and very organized.  Ofra used to comment that she was always orderly, and meals were served at the table with all proper utensils.  Of all my friends, my mother loved her as one of the best, regardless of her secular way of life, for my mother was very religious. They spoke the Yiddish language between them.  Ofra was fluent in the language.
Ofra stayed with me in New York about seven or eight weeks, and then she went back to Israel.  I was busy at work, busy at home with my three.  Life then returned to its routine, or did it?  The loss of my mother haunted me, and I was unable to accept the death, her death.
About six or eight months after she died, I dreamed I was sitting in that same large corridor at Heathrow Airport, but, in my dream, I imagined that there was a large revolving door in the area.  In my dream, from behind the door, I saw my mother running towards me.  I stood up and walked to meet her. She came through the revolving door and stood in front of me, her eyes, their usual amber yellow, looking at me.  She wore the same dress she wore for my wedding, but in my dream, it was kelly green, not the dark navy blue as the original.  She did not touch me and she said, “You know, I am not here any longer.”  And then she continued with a few instructions about caring for my father.  I woke up, and I knew my mother was dead, and I would never see her again.
Life returned to the routine:  the marriages of my children, the arrival of grandchildren, the divorce and his death, the move to Manhattan, horizontal career change and just plain getting older.  All through those years, my friendship with Ofra flourished.  We were in constant contact. I visited more frequently as the years went by.  I remember I was once not so eager to tell her a thought I had of no particular importance, and she responded, “If you are not going to tell me the truth, who will?”
Ofra and her husband, Dubi, moved last summer to their new dwelling in Tel-Aviv proper.  At the time of my arrival in October, she was limping, diagnosed with a stress fracture.  The fracture never healed, and my Ofra was diagnosed with a terminal illness.  I visited her whenever she was able to tolerate guests.
When I went back to New York after an over three month stay, I thought and wished for a miracle.  Ofra was still involved in her art, placing monumental permanent statues at Ben Gurion University in the Negev, talking about writing a book about “Sculptures as a Theater.”  My own statue she sculpted, and the added wings were twice the artist’s size and larger than my own size.  Ofra, in my mind, was always alive and vibrant.
When I returned to Israel in May, she was very sick, with only a few grace days.  I was with Ofra as she was dying.  On the evening of June 22, she returned her soul to her Creator.
I returned to New York, and life did not return to the routine.  War and turmoil in Israel, the worries, fear and anxiety are my usual state of mind.  I find myself looking through my phone book for Ofra’s number to call her.
Every night, I go to bed with the hope that Ofra will come in my dream and will tell me, “You know, I am not here any longer.”