If You Think You’ll Leave “Someday”

My mother-in-law died this week. I didn’t attend her funeral, but I am honoring her in the way I know how, by telling the truth.

The first time I met her, she was sitting across the large dining room table in Monsey, NY. Her green, twinkling eyes beneath her elegant, short blonde wig pierced through me as she surveyed me intently. At the other end of the table, her husband, my future (now ex) father-in-law, sat with my father, bent over the table, reviewing the proposed dowry. Their hushed voices could barely be heard over our conversation.

They were there to decide if my dowry and I would be suitable for their son. As I grasped onto the edge of the fabric-covered chair, terrified, she somehow managed to put me at ease, attentive, as if I mattered.

As Hasidic custom dictated, I got engaged several days later. I was thrilled to be marrying a smart husband, into a fine family who had excellent yichus, lineage, and a mother-in-law who was kind.

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Several months later, I spent the Passover holiday with my in-laws. I was already married and pregnant. The holiday meals were exquisitely prepared. My mother-in-law had cooked delicacies which ranging from roe(some sort of caviar), cooked with the traditional gefilte fish, to fresh compote, vanilla layered cake, and served them on her finest china.

During the second holiday meal, tensions ran high as my husband’s older brothers started discussing their childhood.

“You never did anything for me.” The older brother’s voice rose. “Were you ever there for us?” The next one continued. I saw her eyes flicker as she turned to her husband, but he waved her off. “They are right.” “And look at this disgusting mess, the food, the house.” “Do you even know what you are doing?”

The insults grew louder and louder and turned into a jumble in my ears. I saw her step away from the table and head toward her bedroom. My heart was pounding. How dare they treat her like this and ignore her pleas for help? I ran over to her room and awkwardly stood next to her, as if I could protect her. After several minutes, she headed back to the table. I followed behind.

Only moments passed before I heard her voice, attempting to be part of the scholarly conversation between the men.

“Tannis Cholim,” I heard her husband mockingly say, using a play of words and calling her a fast for bad dreams instead of a Talmid Chochom, a scholar.

Years later, history would repeat itself when one of the brothers would chase me out of my son’s engagement party, while the other would fraudulently obtain two mortgages on the house my parents gave us for a dowry. My husband would use those exact words when I participated in the scholarly discussion at Shabbat dinner.

---

“When I was little, she used to tell me that once she marries off all the children, she will get divorced.”

My young husband whispered to me later that night. He sounded almost hopeful. I listened, stunned. This was not supposed to happen. I was marrying into a beautiful family. My parents had paid a hefty price for this.

---

A year and a half later, she visited Israel to attend her nephew's wedding. By then, I had two children, a 13-month-old and a two-month-old.

“I can barely talk.” I heard her voice over the phone. “I won’t be able to come to see the children.” She apologized. I left the two babies with my sister and headed to the hotel in the center of Jerusalem, bringing along freshly cooked hot chicken broth.

Her health deteriorated rapidly, and within a few days, she was hospitalized. The doctors were baffled as she displayed erratic symptoms ranging from back pain to growths on her lungs. As her system began to shut down, the doctors ordered a biopsy and, within moments, began to administer huge doses of chemotherapy and radiation, which saved her life.

But she was never the same.

Her recovery took months, and the autoimmune disease stayed with her for life.

She was unable to move from the hospital bed and bemoaned the distance between herself and her youngest children, 11-year-old twin daughters. While she straddled between life and death, her husband went back to New York and never returned.

“He is worried he won’t be able to pay for the hospital, they don’t have health insurance.” My husband matter-of-factly stated. I slight shiver rolled down my spine.

If I get seriously sick, I’ll be left alone, too.

---

The next thirty years were a series of endless health complications. Dialysis, a kidney transplant, hip transplants, new medications, more treatments, more side effects, more complications.

Now she was stuck in her marriage. A sickly woman who had no choice but to stay with her husband. Her illness made any thoughts of independence impossible.

Over the years, she had tried to find financial independence. The bottles of Herbalife, a popular MLM business, stacked in the basement cabinets were a testament to her desire to find independence, but now her illness sapped her of that ability.

Her zest and desire for a better life remained. She would break the rules and get a friend to sneak her sweet treats away from the watchful eyes of her husband and children, and travel whenever possible.

When I enrolled in college, several years before I left my marriage, I expected her to oppose my desire for independence, but instead, she stayed silent, giving me validation I didn’t expect to receive.

She passed away several days ago, in the dwindling hours of Shabbat. I didn’t attend her funeral. I wasn’t invited, and it wouldn’t have been the right place for me, but I read the eulogy posted in the local newspaper. In it, she was praised for the children and scholars she had left behind, for her illustrious lineage, and for her ability to withstand her lifelong suffering.

But few knew the true cost.

Her three-decade battle with a rare autoimmune illness is a tragic illustration of what science already knows: long-term abuse can quite literally get under the skin.

Her story is a cautionary tale to all women. Don’t wait to take the steps to create a better life for yourself, because it may be too late. Our bodies carry the cost of our silence and sacrifice.

I write this not out of judgment, but love and grief. For her, for you, and for every woman who believes that she needs to endure, suffer, and wait. Life and health are never guaranteed. Take the opportunity to create a better life for yourself when you can.

The last time our eyes met was at my oldest son’s engagement party, 10 years ago, several months after I had left my husband.

No words passed between us, but the slight smile on her face and the twinkle in her eye felt like a silent blessing and wrapped me in a hug, giving me the encouragement I needed to stay strong as I ventured on a brave path on my own.