Making Meaning

The pressure was on. 

I had just turned 13 years old, and was weeks away from my Bat Mitzvah where I’d stand in front of my family, friends, and community leading a Shabbat service and reading from the Torah on my own for the very first time. 

I found myself at my synagogue after school –  YET AGAIN – while my mom met with the caterer about the food for my Bat Mitzvah party. My sibling and I were told to wait in the big, echoey synagogue lobby where the sounds of our bickering billowed off of the 15 foot walls and sparsely furnished marble floors. Just as I was about to make another snide remark, the door to the lobby swung open with a loud “swoosh”, and our Rabbi stuck his head inside looking every which way with a distressed expression on his face. He spotted me from across the room and with a sigh of relief said “Oh! Sophie! Come with me”. 

As he waved me over, I hesitantly crossed the room trying to stifle my loud clomping footsteps and considered what was going on – I wasn’t supposed to have a tutoring session then, was I? Had I forgotten about something? I was an incredibly responsible kid and took pride in following the rules, so the idea of dropping the ball on something I was supposed to be doing, while also leaving my younger sibling completely alone and vulnerable, worried me. 

I barely had time to consider the ramifications of this mysterious situation because before I knew it, the Rabbi was yards ahead of me, leading me somewhere deep into the bowels of the synagogue offices. I followed him down darkly lit hallways, through a maze of rooms stuffed with dusty books and toys and stained cushioned chairs – you know the ones – until finally we arrived in a Hebrew School classroom where there were nine people sitting in a circle, mid-service. 

Without explanation or introduction, the Rabbi picked up his prayer book and said to the group “please turn to page 42 for the Mourner’s Kaddish”. 

At that moment, it dawned on me why I was there. 

In Judaism when a loved one dies, we say the Mourner’s Kaddish or blessing twice a day for the year after their death. The unique thing about this particular blessing, unlike many others, is that it can only be said in the presence of community – it can only be said in the presence of a “minyan”, or group of 10 adult Jews. Because I had already turned 13, I “counted” as a Jewish adult even though my official coming of age celebration was still a few weeks away. The Rabbi found me in the lobby and brought me into this intimate service so the mourners there could say this prayer and continue their grieving process. 

Most 13 year olds relish their Bat Mitvah party and being done with the months of intense preparation, but I realized this, here, was actually the whole point. This moment- showing up for others, especially in their time of need – is what being Jewish, being an adult, and being a Jewish adult really means. I understood the gravity of what it means to be a responsible member of a larger community. I felt like I counted, in a big way, for the first time. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was my beginning of helping others make meaning – in this case, make meaning of the loss and grief they were experiencing, just by being present for them. 

–

The first time I felt the gravity of being an adult was when I was 13 counting in a minyan for mourners, and the second time I felt the same gravity was when I was 18 and made the choice to face what would end up being one of the most traumatic experiences of my life which left me as a mourner myself. 

My mom and I were at a farmers market on a beautiful Saturday afternoon while I was in town for spring break my freshman year of college. We were eating a crepe with nutella and strawberries when we got a call from my Grandma: “We’re in an ambulance on our way to the hospital – they think Papa Gerry had a stroke – meet us there”.

As I walked into the emergency room waiting area shortly after, I saw my dad who had gotten there before us flag me down and start to walk me back to the room where the rest of the family was. The only thing he said to me was “they’re pulling the plug” with a shake of his head. 

At that moment as we approached the patient room, I had a decision to make: I could either wait there in the hallway where I wouldn’t have to see my Papa Gerry’s body incapacitated, or I could turn the corner into his room where the rest of my family was and fully face the situation even though it would likely scar me. I turned to my mom and dad for guidance, for permission – should I go in or wait outside? They looked at eachother and looked at me, and to my surprise said “it’s up to you – you have to decide”. 

Part of me knew that as painful as it was, I deserved to experience the full capacity of human emotions available to me. I believe that everything happens for a reason, and my being there physically meant that I was supposed to be there emotionally too for whatever was to come.

I turned the corner and saw something I had never imagined seeing before: my Papa Gerry – tall, athletic, strong – laying intubated in a hospital bed, his body seizing and convulsing every few seconds. The doctor explained that he had had a brain aneurysm that left him completely brain dead, and that even though his body was moving involuntarily he would never wake up. 

They eventually moved him into the ICU where they took him off life support – we all agreed he wouldn’t want to stay living like this. Even though he was brain dead his body was healthy and strong. It was probably going to take a few days for his body to die so my dad, sibling and I went home while my mom and aunt stayed with my Grandma, waiting out the final stretch and promising to call us when it was time to come back and say goodbye.

The next morning I woke up to the news that overnight, my Grandma Suzy had a heart attack from the grief, called “Broken Heart Syndrome”. She had been admitted to the hospital in the middle of the night, my mom and aunt alternating between being with my grandma in the ER and with my grandpa in the ICU. 

At the only moment during the entire time he’d been in the hospital that both of his daughters were out of the room – the moment when the doctors told my mom and aunt that my grandma would survive her heart attack – Papa Gerry died. Even though he was brain dead, even though the doctors expected it to take days, he somehow waited to know that my grandma would be okay and for his daughters to be spared from watching their father flatline.

I later found out that a few weeks before he died, Papa Gerry got diagnosed with a rare but serious lung condition that would have caused him a slow and painful death. He was so afraid of his body giving out on him, of having to give up the things he loved like his daily workouts and squash games, of shrinking away before our eyes eventually becoming wheelchair bound and bed ridden. The fact that he had a massive brain aneurysm days after getting diagnosed – a death that was far less painful for him, albeit painful for the rest of us – and the fact that his body died right when we knew Grandma Suzy would live – to me felt meaningful. 

In the week that followed, my family underwent our own grieving process. We grieved over the loss of my grandfather, all while my grandmother recovered from her heart attack in the exact same ICU room where my grandfather died mere hours earlier. We said the Mourner’s Kaddish – the same prayer my presence in that tiny service all those years ago enabled others to say – surrounded by our loved ones as we tried to make meaning of his death. 

—

I have since realized that my purpose in life is to make meaning. It’s what drives me. 

That’s because meaning leads to understanding, and understanding leads to value. 

My biggest fear in life is to be misunderstood. I’ve felt misunderstood as an introvert, as a mature kid who preferred to hang out with adults instead of my own peers, as an older sibling to a person who was way different than me, and as the spouse of a doctor going through residency.

I’ve discovered that I feel most understood when I’m able to express myself in an authentic way and intentionally articulate who I am. I’m able to express myself authentically and with articulation when I make meaning of myself, my experiences, and my relationships. 

Meaning leads to understanding, and understanding leads to value.  When we make meaning out of our experiences, we access their deeper value. 

The process of meaning making begins with your mindset: Choosing to believe that everything happens for a reason. Buying into that mindset opens you up to see patterns and purpose in your experiences that you otherwise wouldn’t be able to see.

It continues with self-awareness. Zooming out and without judgment noticing patterns, trends, and themes that arise in our experiences. This self-awareness empowers us to take control over our reactions to what we experience, and then create new ones.

Finally, making meaning occurs when we take authentic ownership: Putting words to our patterns, naming them, explaining them to others and claiming them fully. 

When we make meaning, we can express ourselves with intention, articulation, and authenticity.

When we fully express ourselves, we feel understood.

When we feel understood, we feel valued.

And feeling valued enables us to see the inherent value in others.