On two separate occasions when we were planning to travel to the States to visit my parents, Ariel specifically asked my wife to stay. The first time this happened we were traveling to spend Pesach with my parents. My wife and I had a serious three-way discussion with Ariel trying to figure out what his request was all about. We tried to empower him by emphasizing that he was quite capable of being alone, and also reminded him that he would be together with his girlfriend most of the time he was home. But Ariel said on more than one occasion during this conversation that he did not want to be home alone and that he wanted an adult around, not just a sibling. In retrospect, this was a call for help: “Do not leave me alone, I am thinking of hurting myself – I am contemplating suicide.”
I missed this message, and it pains me till this day. My trauma therapist tried to calm me down, arguing that I was not a mind reader and that it was incumbent upon Ariel to share his feelings. But I know I could have and should have asked Ariel directly about the possibility of suicide in a way that encouraged honest conversation. Instead, because I wanted to enjoy some time together with my wife, I tried to convince Ariel that he would be okay alone. As a social work educator, I have always encouraged my students to go beyond the spoken word and to hear the meta-communication. But I was a husband who wanted to have a vacation with his wife and not an empathetic social worker. Do I know for a fact that Ariel would be alive today if I only had heard his clarion call not to be left alone? Definitely not. Nonetheless, the regret that I did not listen better and missed the meta-communication – the elephant in the room – is something that I will live with for the rest of my life.
My wife was decidedly more ambivalent, but decided to join me on the trip. In the end, Ariel did fine on his own with his girlfriend, and enjoyed having the home to himself.
A year and a half later, we were once again preparing for a trip abroad, this time to Florida to celebrate my father’s 90th birthday- and again Ariel asked his mother not to travel. While my wife felt ambivalent about traveling, this time we did not have a three-way discussion, for two reasons. First, based on the experience of only a year and a half earlier, I felt confident that Ariel would be fine by himself. While this time the girlfriend was no longer in the picture, I felt at peace with my decision because our other son would be home with Ariel five out of the seven nights we were away. Furthermore, I had asked our daughter to be with her brothers for Shabbat dinner, something that she had readily agreed to.
So, I left for the States knowing that Ariel would not be alone for most of the time we were away. My sense of confidence, though, was mistaken – tragically so. Ariel ended his life while we were in Florida. In our lack of awareness, we had neglected to keep dangerous objects away from him.
My mother helped us organize return flights. We notified people that our son had ended his pain (still not using the word suicide), that we were on our way home, and that funeral details would be forthcoming. I knew from the outset that I was not prepared to be secretive about Ariel’s suicide. Nonetheless, it was unbearable putting down on paper that our son was dead.
Much of what happened before the funeral remains a blur, but at my parent’s apartment, I distinctly remember crying while saying goodbye to my father, and saying ‘Daddy,’ a word I had not uttered since I was a little boy. My father later told me that he knew how shattered and helpless I was when he heard me call him by that name.
After a 30-hour nightmarish return to Israel, friends met us at the airport and drove us to our children. I remember my wife racing to hug them, whom our friends had not left alone from the moment Ariel ended his life until we arrived. As my wife ran toward our children, one friend who had been talking to them silently moved past us without saying a word. It was the ultimate act of containment and friendship. She had held our children for hours and at the moment we arrived, she unobtrusively stepped back to let us be with them in privacy.
We decided to hold the funeral at Kiryat Anavim because there we and the rabbi would have total control over the ceremony and its religious content. We wanted to respect Ariel’s dislike for orthodoxy.
After a few hours of restless sleep, I wrote the following eulogy for my son.
“Dear Ariel,
I see you before my eyes a month after you became national judo champion at age 14 watching the bogrim (older teenage group) compete. I was behind you, and you stood with your hands in your pockets with the coolest dude look possible, filled with pride and exuding confidence. That was the communication. As a social work educator, it was so easy for me to teach my social worker students that beneath the surface, there was what I termed – meta-communication. I have been a keen observer of that type of communication for my students and other people, but apparently much less so for my beloved Ariel. For what was simmering beneath the surface was a brain that was working at a speed that no 14-year-old could sustain. How you, dear son, managed to survive, and at times, even flourish, was a testament to your resilience, determination, strength, and willingness to take on your oh-so-noisy brain – but only up to a point.
With pride, we watched you become a Judo champion; touch your fellow students so powerfully when sharing your thoughts at the concentration camp during your high school trip to Poland; make friends at the Mechina (something that had been so difficult for you during high school), and, in that program, work with the children so beautifully that at the final party with hundreds of your fellow classmates, their families and friends, a teacher made a pointed effort to tell your mother and me what a caring person you were. This caring and sensitivity continued when you worked with children at the Battered Women Shelter for your national service. Why at the National Service instead of the Army? The noise, that incessant, insistent noise, would not give you peace after shifts on the ambulance. Instead of being home with us after shifts, the army placed you at the Tzrifin Army base, leaving you alone to process your first encounters with injured people, blood, and death. As the pangs of guilt overwhelm me, I ask myself: Why did not I intervene and insist that your ambulance shifts take place in Jerusalem, your home city, like every other soldier. Why didn’t I call Carmela Menashe ( a radio personality who reports on army-related activities and often serves as an advocate for soldiers) like so many other parents do? The commander told me that you were ranked in the top 6th of your class, and that you could handle it. I saw the post-judo champion in front of me, the strong, smart and sensitive Ariel that I knew, so I did nothing. I missed the meta-communication, again. Hakol yihiye b’seder. (Everything will be okay) That was until you stared at me with piercing, angry eyes when I suggested that you could (should) figure something out and switch with other soldiers or move into another combat unit if the MDA (Magen David Adom) shifts were too hard.
You told me that you were a broken vessel, but I did not hear you. I was judging you, you knew it, and it hurt you. I was not there for you Ariel, when you needed me most and I am so, so sorry.
Dear Ariel, I have been doing teshuvah ever since, trying to listen better, judge less, and ignore the mess in the house. You had sensed my frustration and tried to help me understand what goes on in a noisy brain.
Dear Ariel, it was so easy for me to teach my social work students to start where the client is. But it’s not been so easy for me to be a good father and to listen to you. But you set me straight and I tried so hard to be there for you, not to judge you, to listen and love more. Ariel – I tried so desperately.
It’s so easy to find fault, so easy to blame myself for insisting that Ima come with me to Florida to celebrate Sabba’s 90th birthday. But as Rav Levi said last night – there is no fault. More importantly, dear Ariel – I am not making that mistake, not again, not now – the mistake of making this about me.
I get it now – finally: This is about you – not me – your passion for life, your tenacity to stay with the struggle, to research about Paleo, enzymes, what combination of Cipralex and Seroquel (anti-depressant medications) would work in a way that wouldn’t mess up your stomach, thinking about the possibility of undergoing Cognitive Behaviorial Therapy, but deciding against it, staying in therapy for close to 10 years, trying mindfulness and breathing techniques – you tried. You just got tired. The noisy brain drained you, took the life out of your eyes. When you played cards with Ima and me, they came back – I want them back now – I want those eyes, that smile, that powerful intellect that could defeat anybody in an argument. I want you back.
You used to say that life sucks, that you wanted to die. Life, you said, is a priori wrong because there is no self-determination – you do not get a choice to be born. Here, too, I did not really listen to you. So easy for me to teach my social work students to invite clients to speak, but I really did not invite you at all. I felt a need to teach you, to argue with you and to convince you. I did not engage, I did not listen, I did not empathize.
I am listening now. Because this is about you – not our decision to travel to Florida. I will not fall into the trap of feeling guilty and taking on the guilt, because that would be the ultimate betrayal of you. I’m finally being where the client is, dear Ariel: This has been a 10-year process since that awful day we took you to watch “The Bourne Identity” and this strong champion curled up in his seat with tears streaming down his face – your first anxiety/panic attack –you were so tired, you had had enough of the anxieties, you were an empty vessel who had worked so hard, so very hard – but you were so very tired, tired of being lonely, of being in pain, tired of your irritable bowel syndrome, exhausted from a brain that gave you no rest.
So, I no longer judge, no longer teach, I no longer yearn for a cleaner house – I yearn for you, but I cannot have you. The root word of להתאבד is to lose. I lost you. I miss you. I want you back. I want to hug you one last time. We did not say goodbye. Ima and I would escape to Tel Aviv because I needed a breather from the intensity of your depression and I would look at Ima and gleefully say: We are alone and laugh, hug and kiss. I will never, ever say that again, because I am alone – without you, without you forever.
Even till the end, I kept desperately trying to help you – not with the inner workings of your brain, not trying to assuage the pain that was inconsolable, because I realized I simply couldn’t help you, but by running to get you sardines without bones after working 12-hour days, to be more of a companion for you by playing cards and watching more football with you. The day before you died, I went to four health food stores to find you the right enzymes for your digestion problems. You wrote back, “Abba, look at what I sent you – I do my research, each one is different, this is what I want.” So, then, in what I now know was my last act as your father, I found the product on Amazon and ordered five items at a higher cost so the shipment would be expedited and arrive before I returned to Israel. You wrote back, “Amazing, thank you Abba.”
And I missed the meta communication once again – you sounded so good.
I finally understand you: This was your choice; you have your self-determination. Your fierce mind that would not give you a second of rest enabled you to make a choice; your final choice – to rest and quiet your mind. That choice will haunt me for the rest of my life – but it was your choice. I am listening better these days. I accept your choice even if I do not like it.
I miss you so much, love you so much and wish, will always wish that if that brain of yours could have been a little softer; just a tad quieter, you would have made a different choice.
But that is not the case. You chose. I am in pain, wounded deeply and will be so for the rest of my life. But I accept your decision – you went out on your terms.
Now, you can finally rest peacefully, my son.
I love you: Rest in Peace
May your memory be a blessing