My Valiant Friend, Pnina
When Pnina and I first met, we locked horns. We were both strong women with strong opinions. At that time I was the president of our Sisterhood, and she disagreed with some of my ideas. As time went on, we learned to respect and admire each other. Eventually, we became close friends. She was a very genuine person, as was I. I could not abide empty airs, and neither could she. She loved reading, so did I. We were both deep thinkers. We were comfortable with each other and in our own skins. I do not know when we became the close friends that we became. We trusted and confided in each other. What impressed me about Pnina was her great capability to laugh at herself and the circumstances in her life. She was one of the funniest people I knew. Her laughter was like a gurgling brook and so infectious! Her other great attribute was her great kindness and compassion for others. If she cared for you, she did so with all her heart. She has a nephew through marriage, Daniel, who was having problems with his family. She very firmly took him under her wings and made him one of her own brood. She allowed him to grow and spread his wings. She made no difference between him and her four beloved daughters. I remember once Peter called their home and Daniel answered. When Peter asked for Pnina or Menahem, he answered, ‘My folks are out. Would you care to leave a message?’ Peter put down the phone in puzzlement. He wanted to know if his parents were in for a visit. I explained that he felt very secure with Pnina and Menahem and wished that they were truly his ‘folks.’ From being a very unhappy and sullen young man, he turned into a self-assured one. One time Pnina invited us to go to his high school play. He was excellent! I could not believe the amazing change in him! I complimented Menahem, and he replied proudly, ‘I will not take credit for him. He is all Pnina’s hard work.” And so he was. Pnina was also very proud of her four daughters, and rightfully so. She raised them to be kind, stand on their own two feet, and be their own persons. When I look at them, I think, Pnina, you have what to be proud of. They are wonderful young women, one finer than the other. You did a great job, Pnina. I imagine you beaming down at them from heaven. Pnina did not know it, but she had cancer. She was losing weight. She thought it was because she was on a diet. I wish it were, but sadly it was not. She fought it valiantly. Every time I asked her how she was, she made a joke of it. She kept going to chemo and chemo and chemo and chemo and chemo. She was not going to stop fighting. Three of the girls got married. She became a grandma. She babysat. She was proud of her family. In the meantime, she decided she needed to separate from Menahem. I believe she felt she had made all the decisions through the years, and she could not do so anymore. She did not realize it was the cancer speaking and not her. She was battling the cancer, and it was sapping her strength. One day she asked me to make her tebbit, the Iraqi Sabbath chicken. I was so happy to make it for her. Peter drove me to their home. We all sat together chatting amiably. It was before she decided she needed a separation. Afterwards, I offered to cook any dish she desired, but she never asked me again. We would speak on the telephone at length each day. We would go out for lunch occasionally. At first, we went to the Chinese Restaurant down the block from me, then we went to Dim Sum in Flushing. Then we went to a local Italian restaurant that was Peter and my favourite eatery. Peter passed away, and she fretted. She wanted to be there for me. I told her crowds and standing up were not good for her. She had just had some surgery. She eventually accepted, but I think it was her ebbing strength that convinced her. We still went out for lunch. She insisted on helping me walk to her car. She rushed to open the car door for me. I remember thinking, ‘Oh Pnina, my precious, valiant friend, you need my help more than I do yours.’ But I could not say anything, for then I might crush her will to live. I was watching her die, and I felt so helpless in saving her. We did two more outings before she could do no more. The first one was to dim sum in Flushing, followed by tea at the Rose Tea House. At the Tea House, they had low round tables and deeply cushioned armchairs. They served the tea in fine English bone china tea sets. It was exquisite, it was delightful, and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. The ambience was great. The last time we went out was on Chinese New Year two years ago. It was February. It was snowing. She drove to our home, and Kelly drove us to Chinatown, Flushing. There were the Dragons, there were the little red envelopes to feed money into the Dragons’ mouths. There was Pnina, a great, delightful smile on her face, eating chicken feet. She had a great time, my dear friend did. That was the last time we went out. After that, she started to steadily decline. Once when we spoke, she gave a little sob. After that, she spoke to me less and less. Her voice was getting weaker and weaker. I begged her to let me come and see her, but she said the stairs would be too much for me. I told her they would not, that I could rest along the way. She was adamant. I still called her, and she chose if she wanted to answer the telephone or not. Then one day she called to tell me that she ‘was done.’ She had stopped the life-sustaining medication. Dena would come pick me up to visit her. She instructed Dena to let me rest between flights on the landing. Till the end, she thought of others before herself. I was impatient to see her. I did not want to rest between flights of stairs. We entered her apartment, then into her bedroom. She had become emaciated in the time I had not seen her and was the colour of turmeric. Her spirit was strong, though. She wore earrings and rings on her fingers, as if to say, ‘Do not feel sorry for me.’ I understood. ‘You look good,’ I lied. I thought she would prefer that to truth. After a while, she got tired and slept. I never got to say goodbye. She woke up after I left. Menahem took me back home. Along the way, she woke up and asked for him to buy her favourite dish at the Italian restaurant that we used to go to. We went to the restaurant. If she wanted it, maybe there was hope. I asked later if she ate it. She just tasted it. Two days later she was gone. I often think of her. When she could not concentrate on reading, she had the girls pile up the trunk of her car with her books. Then she opened the trunk for me and said, ‘Choose,’ and I did. She was giving me what we both loved, the gift of reading. I think of her in her garden for a barbecue, or our house at the end of Passover, or sitting in our garden on the swing or by the pool. I think of her and her girls during the High Holidays, sitting on the front row. I think of her and her sense of goodness and fairness. I grieve to have lost her so soon after I lost Peter. But she has left me a gift, the gift of good memories of a dear, dear friend. Your Dena told me she talks to you. I talk to you. I talk to Peter. As long as you are in our hearts, I know you are listening and you are watching. Amy told me that you used to go to Barnes & Noble together, and I remembered the time that you very proudly read to me something she had written you. Before Peter passed away, I told him I wished there was a telephone connecting us to all who departed before we did. I was missing my parents. There is not one, but there is our love and our thoughts. I know that is felt. I know you are all looking down at us. I also know that one day in the unknown future, we will meet again. In the meantime, we each have our destiny to fill on this earth. Goodbye, my dear friend. Until we meet again.