You may know the old story about a young boy; his family is Jewish but not religious. Nonetheless, his parents warn him, from an early age, “Whatever you do, don’t marry a non-Jew.”

The boy hears this refrain throughout his youth, though his family doesn’t keep kosher, go to a synagogue, or celebrate Jewish holidays. As he gets older and starts dating, his parents remind him, “Whatever you do, don’t marry a non-Jew.” 

He goes off to college and his parents remind him again, “Whatever you do, don’t marry a non-Jew.” When he brings home a non-Jewish girlfriend, he assures his parents: “If we decide to get married, she’ll convert.”

Indeed, after they graduate from college, the young woman converts to Judaism and they get married.

After the honeymoon, the young man’s parents call to invite the newlyweds over for dinner. Their son replies, “Sorry, Mom and Dad, we can’t eat at your house, we keep kosher now.” In one voice, the parents reply, “We told you not to marry a non-Jew!”

Martha Healy does not sound like a Jewish name but, I can assure you, she was Jewish.

Soon after we married, we went shopping for kitchenware. As vegetarians, we didn’t need separate sets for milchig and fleishig—one for dairy and one for meat—just one set would do. Except for Passover! My mother gave us a set of dishes for the holiday, but we still needed pots, pans, and cooking utensils. Martha insisted we buy an all-stainless-steel set, no plastic or wood handles. Why? Because in conversion class, her teacher explained that all-metal cookware could be made kosher-for-Passover by immersing each item in boiling water. So, we bought an all-stainless-steel set.

When Passover neared, Martha filled the largest pot with water and when it came to a boil, she immersed the all-stainless-steel ladle, used it to pour boiling water over the sides of the pot, and then immersed and boiled all the other pots, pans, and utensils. Boiling stainless steel seemed to me a bit meshugah but, of course, I went along with it.

Passover was Martha’s holiday. Our Seder guests grew year by year. Our dining room held 16, but we couldn’t turn anyone away. So, it was my job to wrangle in 22. I would like to think that what people remembered most was the way I led the Seder, and the special readings I incorporated to supplement the Haggadah. But what people found most memorable was the food. From our not-so-very-big kitchen, following the hard-boiled egg in salt water and gefilte fish with freshly-ground, homemade horse radish, Martha produced your choice of matzah ball soup, vegetarian of course, homemade beet borscht with optional boiled potato and sour cream, and something more exotic, like the Brazilian black-bean soup with slices of fresh oranges she made one year. For the main course, your choice of salmon, nut loaf, or eggplant cutlets, and of course the requisite sides, salads, and desserts. Remarkable to me, she knew her regular recipes by heart and every dish came out of the kitchen on time, a feat I have never been able to accomplish, even for a simple dinner. 

She always wanted to have at least one new thing each year. She would find a recipe she liked, and then she would find two or three similar recipes in her collection of cookbooks. She’d look over all the recipes and then put them away and create a fabulous dish of her own. It was amazing. Passover was Martha’s holiday.

Her kitchen superpowers aside, after a few years of marriage, I found myself getting annoyed by some of Martha’s quirky habits. One, for example, was how she kept her money, not in a wallet or a purse, but in her pockets. When she bought something, she would rummage around in all her pockets to find her money and pay. The paper money was always crumpled up; she’d have to uncrumple the bills and spread them out just to see how much she had. Then, after she paid, she’d take the change—bills and coins—and stuff them back into her pockets, willy nilly. Every now and then she’d buy a wallet and use it for a while, then return to her old ways. After a few years, I realized she wasn’t going to change and I told myself I accepted this, and her other quirky behaviors. 

After a many-decade career as a computer programmer and system analyst, Martha took a post-retirement job grading statewide school exams. What made this job difficult was that you couldn’t use your own grading policy, you had to use the state’s, and you had to apply it consistently. She was so good at it, they put her in charge of a group of graders. But, after a few years at the job, she found she could no longer hold the state’s grading policy in her mind. She had to quit. 

For many years she volunteered at our synagogue’s bingo game where she sold bingo cards. One night, she couldn’t reconcile her cash with the number of bingo cards she sold. She had to ask someone for help. Embarrassed, she decided to quit. 

She came home one day after running some errands in our car. “I was on my way back home,” she said, “and I didn’t recognize where I was. I didn’t know which way to turn.” Another time, she said, “I found myself driving the wrong way on a one-way street.”

Her doctor referred her to a neurologist who administered a series of simple tests: draw the hands on a clock so it shows four o’clock; arrange these triangles so they form a rectangle, repeat a series of simple words. She was distressed because she couldn’t come up with the right answers. After more tests, blood work, and an MRI, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. When the neurologist told her life expectancy after an Alzheimer’s diagnosis was up to twenty years, she said, “I can’t wait that long.” Living with a cognitive impairment that was only going to get worse was more than she wanted to bear. And, whatever quirky behaviors she had, I realized, were going to stay that way; change was no longer possible. That’s when I learned the real meaning of acceptance. 

Over the next five years we had some of our best times together: trips to our old haunts on Cape Cod, our visit to Letchworth State Park—the “Grand Canyon of the East,” our autumn stay in the Thousand Islands where she delighted in collecting brilliantly colored tree leaves, our sons’ weddings …. Sadly, once these occasions passed, she couldn’t remember them. Reminding her about them highlighted her failing memory and only made things worse.

It was back at that first neurology appointment when the nurse gave me a questionnaire for caregivers. I didn’t understand; I wasn’t a caregiver. But, as I read through the questions, I had to reexamine how I viewed myself. As my caregiving role expanded, I learned more about the disease. I learned that, for people with dementia, the everyday world is confusing and what they need is reassurance, patience, and understanding. That stuck with me. 

I started going to a monthly caregiver’s support group. At one of those meetings, someone recommended a New York Times article entitled, “The Quiet Rage of Caregivers.” My first reaction was how unnecessary; I didn’t have any “quiet rage”! A week or two later, I read the article. I could see how it might make sense for others, but it didn’t pertain to me.

A few days later, Martha and I were sitting on our living room couch when she started to harangue me about something—I don’t remember what—only that I’d done something wrong; I was to blame, I’d made a mistake, my efforts fell short. I was patient until suddenly I wasn’t. I yelled at her, feeding back all the trying things she’d said to me in the past days, weeks, and months:

“Tell me how this isn’t your house, that we bought together more than 40 years ago! Tell me how you have to find a place to live! Ask me again if you have enough money to pay for a motel room!” I screamed into her face. I stopped to get my breath and then started in again.

“Tell me how you don’t have any money! Tell me how we don’t have a joint checking account! Tell me how you want your own money, in your own checking account but, you won’t go to the bank to open it!” I echoed things she had said to me and threw them back at her. 

I thought I was finished but, moments later, I went back at it again: “Tell me how we’re not married! Tell me how I’m not your husband! Ask who’s paying me to take care of you! Ask me ‘Where’s Sandy,’ and when I say, ‘I’m Sandy,’ laugh at me and say, ‘No, you’re not.’” I went on and on and on, dragging out every last thing she’d said or done that tried my patience.  

Finally, I went into the kitchen to cool off, realizing my rage had come out of the quiet, and feeling like I’d done her a great disservice. She soon followed me into the kitchen, and I expected her to yell at me, countering everything I’d said, point by point, just as she had done in every argument we ever had. But, in the 48 years I’d known her, she never looked so hesitant, so forlorn, so conciliatory. 

She dug into her pants pocket and pulled out a tightly crumpled ball, which she unraveled, painstakingly, revealing a twenty-dollar bill. She spread it out flat with her fingers and handed it to me, so tentatively, so gingerly, to pay me back for something, to ask for forgiveness. She didn’t remember what she had done or said, she didn’t know what she was paying me for; all she knew was that she was so very sorry and this was her offering, to pay me back, to make amends.

I accepted that twenty-dollar bill and put it in my wallet, in a separate section so I wouldn’t spend it. In the coming months, as trying situations arose, that twenty-dollar bill helped me find the extra measure of patience and understanding I needed; that she needed. 

When Passover came, Martha went about her preparations as usual, filling the big pot with water and boiling the pots, pans, and utensils. She couldn’t remember her recipes and got annoyed and frustrated having to consult her cookbook over and over and then, forgetting she’d already put in the salt, put it in again, ruining the dish. Somehow, we managed to pull off that Seder, but it was our last with guests. 

As you have probably figured out, this story does not have a happy ending. 

Martha’s everyday world became ever more confusing and difficult to navigate. When she couldn’t remember how to work the car door, I put red tape on the handle you pulled to open the door, and yellow tape on the handle you pulled to close the door, so I could tell her, “Pull the red handle,” or “Pull the yellow handle.” Sometimes that helped. 

She used to spend whole days reading books. But now, she found it difficult to read as much as a greeting card. 

After a few times holding a fork with the tines in her hand, and using the handle to hold food, we switched to finger foods. 

She was a gifted writer and, though she would never admit it, an award-winning poet. But, at some point, she couldn’t write any more. She’d put a pen to paper, make a few marks, and stall out. She had to ask me to sign documents for her.  

When she could no longer follow the story line and sometimes argued with the characters, we stopped watching movies and TV shows.

She took one bite of food, one sip of water, and that was enough. All day. Then she stopped eating and drinking altogether. Even listening to music became too much. Laying in the hospital bed we had installed in the living room, she’d prop herself up on one arm and reach for something with the other, looking beseechingly at we didn’t know what. Then, exhausted, she’d lay back down. Every five minutes. We gave her medicine to reduce her agitation, to make her more comfortable. Her breathing was at times shallow and rapid, at other times deep and slow. Every inhale and exhale an effort. On Wednesday, October 9, at 1:30 in the afternoon, she exhaled one last time. 

Six months later, Passover came around again. I boiled the stainless steel, just like she always did, even though I still think it’s a little meshugah.

Whenever I tell this story, I make a donation in memory of my wife, Martha Healy. I don’t make a big donation but, as you know, twenty dollars can mean a lot.

 

Sandy Schuman tells stories about songs and songwriters, personal adventures, historical sagas, folk tales, and stories in the Jewish storytelling tradition. He plays his theme song on a Jew’s harp. When you hear him play the guitar, you’ll know why he calls himself a storyteller.