Grief is typically a taboo topic not unlike mental illness but thankfully because of more platforms, forums, the landscape is changing. My personal history as a grief survivor for four decades afforded me to learn, witness the evolution, and offer some insights.

Grief becomes an instant buzz kill to a conversation, a deafening silence. The moment I mention the title of my memoir, Celebration of Sisters: It Is Never Too Late To Grieve, look at me with blank expressions on their faces and no words. Why? The answer is that individuals are uncomfortable with grief because of lack of knowledge, understanding, and perhaps fortunate enough to not have experienced the devastating loss or losses of a loved one. How sad that employers offer a three-day bereavement leave when often a funeral may not take place for several days waiting for funeral arrangements or family members from out of town to travel. Grief in the workplace is a topic that is now becoming in the forefront of companies hoping to develop compassion and awareness to the needs of grieving employees.

On a recent talk, to a non-grief audience, I presented a few basics on what to do and not do when someone suffers a loss and shared some personal stories.

When my father passed away, a friend called and said, “I’m on my way, tell me what you need?” Rather than ask me what I needed, she took the lead. When we suffer a loss, we are not in the right frame of mind, in a fog unable to process the grave tragedy that changed our lives in an instant. I told her I needed hard candies because of a dry throat from excess talking. In addition, I needed stoppers from the annoyance of the constant scratching noise of the kitchen chairs being pushed in and out. When my friend arrived, we turned the chairs over and placed the felt stoppers on the bottom of the chairs. Several months later, her mother passed away, and I arrived with a bag of hard candies.

I recalled years earlier, a month after my beloved sister Margie died, I sat outside on a bench waiting to pick my daughter up from kindergarten. Two of Margie’s friends stood, whispered and pointed at me. They knew of Margie’s death, never acknowledged it to my family. I went home and cried. In hindsight, I wish I handled the situation differently and had spoken to them.

Individuals are uncomfortable with grief and say things like: “Everything happens for a reason, they’re in a better place, or it’s time to move on.” All are like salt on a wound. What to say is: “I’m sorry for your loss, I wish I had the right words, please know I care, I don’t know how you feel, I remember when (say name) and share a memory. Listen to the grieving person. Don’t chatter on, sometimes quiet, a shoulder to cry on, or a holding a hand is best. Show up, be direct. “I’m bringing over a pizza, tell me what kind your family likes.” Drop off the basics that grieving families cannot think about–toilet paper, paper towels, milk, bread, coffee, and orange juice.

Amongst my bereaved siblings as we support one another, we cannot compare our grief. We unite in our themes, feelings and emotions but cannot compare our timelines or process. Some may need to cry every day, or read every piece of literature, podcast, or research on grief, some may need quiet or go for a walk. Groups may work or not feel right for others. The important message is to not grieve alone, and to have compassion for yourself and others.

​Grief is real. Grief is part of our lives. Let’s open the conversation about grief.

“Grief does not define me; grief is part of me.”
 
This quote solidified the strongest revelation in my grief journey and magnified with the publication of Celebration of Sisters: It Is Never Too Late To Grieve (COS). The deep conversations ensued on opportunities provided to share my story on podcasts, speaking engagements, and author talks, afforded me to learn and grow into the feelings and emotions I kept closed for decades about my grief and the impact on my life. I am grateful to the individuals who allowed my voice to be heard in the hopes to help others in their grief process.

I took the journey after thirty years to grieve my beloved sisters Margie and Jane and went into deep therapy. The daunting process of repeating over and over the horrific details of their deaths, forced me to remember details not necessarily important, but jogged memories. The thought of lost memories haunted me. I shed many tears. For another exercise I looked at photos of Margie and Jane that I had shunned for years. I recalled precious times together. I learned that I will never remember every detail. Does it matter what was Jane’s favorite ice cream flavor or Margie’s favorite color? The clarity and solid memory is the love.


I took on the role of caretaker for decades and placed my needs and grief on the back burner. At age twenty -five, I grieved my sisters but unable to understand grief or how to express my feelings. I learned in grief the emotions are universal, individual journeys are unique, even in families. Communication lines are broken. The instant we lose our loved one our lives change.

I coped by putting up walls around me. Afraid to get too close to someone, I may lose them. I grieved the loss of two sisters, and the trauma of Margie’s illness for twenty years. I felt alone. Writing my memoir and being vocal is like a child who learns to walk, first crawls, stands, takes a few steps, walks, and then runs. There is a community of individuals who speak my language. I am grateful I can reach out when I feel the need.

Talking and sharing is still difficult. I pace myself. I inherited from my father the gift of public speaking. Little did I know I too possessed the skill. When you are passionate about a topic, it exudes. Writing became a tool to express myself and go deeper into myself and my grief. One piece I still struggle with is making peace with the regret for not doing the work on grief earlier. I repeat I did the best I could. My head tells me one thing, my heart another and the two do not meet. As an introvert, groups are hard for me. It took me time to embrace what works for me and find tools and resources that fit my needs, a smaller setting, or talking one-on-one.

​Part of the process of therapy focused on restoration, taking care of me. Skating won the prize. On the ice, my meditation, joy, and passion, I turn off- glide across with the breeze in my hair and recall the fondest memories of Margie and Jane–the three of us skating together.

I often wonder if the challenges and tragedies I faced, shaped the woman I am today. Would the shy, insecure, middle sister who preferred backstage, have the guts to speak or perform on the ice in front of a large crowd? Would I serve on the Board of Directors of the COPE Foundation? Would I meet new wonderful new people from the various arenas as I broaden the horizons in my life?

Grief is a part of me. There will be days of tears, there will days of joy, there will be days of sorrow, there will days my heart hurts I can’t breathe, there will days of elation, but the common denomination of all the emotions is love. Margie and Jane are forever beside me and imprinted in my heart.

There is no one like a sister. My sisters are my anchors, competitors, champions, and knew me better than I knew myself. Who do you fight with viciously one minute and hug tightly the next? Who is brutally honest about the dreadful outfit you wore? Who is upfront about the person you date? Who will always show up no matter the circumstance? Who can you sit in silence and understand each other’s thoughts? Our sisters.

When I lost Margie and Jane I struggled with my identity, and realized I am Judy, the middle of three sisters, past, present, and future. The memories of Margie and Jane remain, live on in me, and in the next generations.

When I cleaned out my home downsizing to an apartment, I found a box of thirty-three records still intact. I chuckled to myself as I saw the bright neon labels taped to the right corner of the album with our names identifying ownership of Margie, Judy, or Jane. The eclectic assortment from musicals, rock, sixties, and artist ranging from James Taylor, Diana Ross, KC and the Sunshine Band, Seals and Croft, and Chicago to name a few. I learned Margie and Jane were both Carole King fans locating a duplicate Tapestry album. Their age difference of five years surprised me. We each had a turn style and speakers in our bedroom and a larger sound system in the den that housed primarily the musical collection. Before attending a musical, we listened to the tunes. Sound of Music was one of our favorites. Music, like skating connected me to my sisters, and I learned more about my sisters that I thought I lost.

Margie and Jane were great dancers and for our father’s fiftieth party, Margie insisted on a disco party, typical older sister being the boss. Our father dressed up in a white suit, like John Travolta, and Margie led the group in a dance step, so typical of her vivacious personality. I shielded away and stood in the back, Jane somewhere in the middle. The photo below is from that party.

​The “Sisters” song written by Irving Berlin in 1954, and is best known from the 1954 film, White Christmas. The song is fitting as 1954 is the year my beloved sister Margie was born.

I watch three sisters I skate with, ages seven, five and three, filled with mixed emotions. The three adorable girls bring back precious memories of my sisters and I skating, some of my happiest memories. When the sisters’ songs play, a tear or two falls out of my, down my cheek, the little girls skate an adorable number, practicing for our spring show. I feel a pang in my heart, but smile. Skating is the chord that forever binds me to my beloved sisters Margie and Jane.

My beloved older sister Margie passed away in 1991 after a twenty-year battle with anorexia and bulimia. The tragic illness robbed beautiful Margie of her life, dreams, and me of a cherished sister whom I idolized, my best friend and confidante. A permanent void in my life, a part of me gone. After decades, I want to share the experience, because the illness is receiving more press today. I hope to show compassion not only for those suffering with anorexia, but the siblings whose lives are deeply affected.

At age fourteen, elated when Margie arrived to meet me at the bus from my return from overnight camp. This marked the sixth summer. Margie and I were apart for eight weeks. The second I saw Margie, I witnessed sixteen-year-old Margie, not the same Margie. Her perfect five-foot body figure who wore bikinis, not needing to lose weight, the opposite of me who struggled with weight, thinner. Little did I know, this day marked the beginning of tumultuous, courageous, and heroic, twenty-year battle with anorexia/bulimia Margie fought to the bitter end.

The illness took over Margie, every fiber of our family, never knowing when a crisis would occur, perpetually walking on eggshells. Despite it all Margie pieces of remained able to read me better than anyone else, hearing how I felt by the tone in my voice. Although many times I became angry at her for ruining special occasions for me or because my parents ran to take care of constant crises, I became frustrated when the illness allowed her to function for a while, and became hopeful well Margie coming back to me, only to be disappointed. I felt guilty for not having the capacity to be supportive and moved away to separate myself from the horrible pain and anguish I knew this illness brought to me and the entire family.

Angry at the illness that chipped away a piece of Margie every day. I wanted my old Margie back and couldn’t or wouldn’t accept the newer version, powerless to help Margie.

My life took a backseat. Intellectually I knew Margie needed to be the center focus, And fortunate not to endure Margie’s pain and struggles. No one inquired about my well-being, and we became the targets of gossip, forced to keep secrets because mental illness taboo and not discussed. I shut down and drew inward. In my teens, visiting my sister in a mental institution did not seem real, a harrowing experience, one my peers would ever comprehend, nor did I ever divulge.

I wanted Margie to be remembered for Margie. I did not want Margie to be defined by the illness. Distressed when the Rabbi’s eulogy focused on the eating disorder, not Margie as a person–her vivaciousness’, wide smile, goodness, generosity, helping others, creativity as a poet, intellect, talented guitarist, cheerleader, and figure skater. Yes, she had her flaws, like we all do - her constant chatter embarrassed me, the outbursts, but boy could Margie make me laugh. I envied her beauty, unique style, the famous white go go boots, and the way she applied black eyeliner with precision, and every day when I apply black eyeliner, not as precise as my Margie’s, I think of her. 

Margie, I miss you each day, right Rho, and you say, okay Bren from the Mary Tyler Moore Show, or saying Lipson let’s go, and I jumped to rearrange your room for the one hundredth time. Your legacy lives on in our precious Madelyn named for you who shares your beautiful smile. I will always love you.

Which supports The Massachusetts Eating Disorders and Clinical Research Program,
https://www.massgeneral.org/psychiatry/treatments-and-services/eating-disorders-clinical-and-research-program

In a world of chaos, and worry, deep kindness remains from many people. Simple gestures or words-a smile, please, and thank you go a long way to reduce tension and unite people.

A move out of downtown Boston to the South Shore a year and a half ago, charting a new territory, new explorations, and navigating a new world–hairdresser, nail salon, and at the top of my list - a skating club. I toggle between two clubs–The Bog Skating Club and The Bourne Skating Club. I am astounded by the kindness and welcoming found in both clubs.

The first time I skated, at The Bourne Skating club, the coaches saw a new face and introduced themselves to me. The skaters said, “hi.” I felt the warmth, and a sense of community. The young women chatted with me about their skating, what test or competition they were working on, and I enjoyed hearing about their skating journeys. Beautiful skaters and beautiful people.

I am a slow skater. The rules of a freestyle session designate that the individual taking a lesson has the right of way on the ice. Not quick enough to dodge the young skaters, the lovely skaters apologized to me. I am the one who should apologize to them for getting in their way, not annoyed at the disruption of their precious lesson time. I appreciated their grace and kindness towards an adult skater.

The Bog Skating Club invited my friend and I to skate in their Christmas show. We practiced two to three times a week and became friendly with the individuals who skated in the public sessions and worked at the rink. The caring team encouraged two adult skaters and championed us along the way. The day of the performance, my nerves were off the charts. The woman checking us before we stepped onto the ice provided me with hand warmers, the president of the club asked me many times during the warm-up, “Judy are you okay?”   When I stood waiting to be next to perform, overwhelmed as the gentlemen who runs the Zamboni walked over with two bouquets of flowers, one for me and one for my friend. In addition, the twins who skate at both clubs, present the day of the show, handed me a lovely card and chocolates. Kindness remains.

As I continue to grow and navigate my grief journey and share my story, the walls that had been up for decades came down. People talk to me. The saying goes, “everyone has a story.” Being more open and vulnerable, not closed like a vault, has allowed me to reciprocate. I joined The Compassionate Friends Sibling Grief Book Club, a warm, welcoming group who share our bond of sibling loss, and love of reading.

One of my bereaved sibling friends I met through the group, appreciating my passion for skating, and graciously presented me with a bracelet with a skating charm. I felt touched by her kindness and thoughtfulness. Having both lost sisters, we share a bond despite our age difference, and years of loss.

Little speckles of kindness, reciprocate greater rewards, endure friendships and relationships from unknown places.

I reflect on the past year, many changes, and challenges in the world, I witness the strain on my daughters and son-in laws raising children trying to juggle family, work, and anxious about national and world events that never entered my radar when raising my two daughters.

Fortunate at age sixty-seven to be afforded opportunities I never could have imagined or dreamed–to be called an author, speaker, figure skater, besides my proudest roles as mother and grandmother aka “Nini.” I find myself conflicted with the roles and the changing times, staying true to myself, needing to embrace the speed of technology, and seems like time is racing by and I want it to slow down.

Never a fan of technology, not wired for technology, struggle with the nuances of technology, I prefer interpersonal communication. What happened to a human conversation or a telephone call?  I can’t feel the pulse of friends through a text or email. In their voice or in person I hear or see their true feelings and see the emotions in their eyes.

The subject of my memoir is grief, a difficult topic for folks to talk about. If individuals meet me in person, hear me speak, then they understand, and many can relate on some level and share, contemplate on their own sister or sibling relationships. Another avenue I feel comfortable to communicate is through writing, a blog, a newsletter, an essay. I am leery posting about myself, being the center focus, a private person. The need to step out of my comfort zone, and readers wanting to know about me. The process is slow, developing, learning a new skill with encouragement and support of many. Charting a fresh course, defining a new me, exciting, exhilarating, daunting, and empowering. The old question, what do I want to be when I grow up? A time to grow and learn.

I hope over the Christmas break to pause and rethink my goals, personally and professionally, not resolutions. I hope to develop a system to plan better, schedule into an unscheduled life. Give myself grace and loosen up the expectations. Make a system of some checks and balances and now that COVID has exited our lives explore more traveling.

To all have been with since the journey began in 2011 my deepest gratitude. For those prior, those whom I met in recent years, you are all a gift. I would not be where I am today. Family, friends, colleagues, you collectively shape who I am today.

Wishing you and yours Happy Holidays and I hope the New Year will bring everyone peace, and time to enjoy precious gifts from them, and compassion for others.

For the first time in twelve years, November will be void of the Celebration of Sisters skating event to honor the lives and memories of my beloved sisters Margie and Jane. The month of their birthdays and the anniversary of Jane’s death. How do I feel this month? Good question. The answer is I don’t know.

I fear I have been so busy as no time to think or allow myself which may be good or fall back into the old pattern of suppressing my emotions. Because of a broken foot, grandchildren, speaking engagements, I would not have had the time required to produce Celebration of Sisters. Thankfully, the event had mushroomed into something that required a year’s work of preparation. I am grateful for the beautiful memories and am thinking of bringing back in a few years to celebrate my seventieth birthday.

To channel my focus, I am attending skating camp the first few days of November. I think inwardly my body is feeling the emotions. I am tired and my stomach is telling me I am missing Margie and Jane. I am being pulled in too many directions to have time to remember the birthdays that are around the corner.

In some ways I can’t wrap my head around the years. Jane will be gone for forty-two years on November seventh. She lived for twenty-two years. Next year the two will celebrate milestone birthdays–sixty-five and seventy. I am getting ahead of myself.

As I look at my grandchildren, I see pieces of Margie and Jane. What they are missing watching these three dolls and my lack of sharing them with my sisters. Writing this, the tears are streaming down my cheeks.

Jane and I shared a room until I was fourteen. I wish we didn’t move and went into our own silos. The closeness I felt knowing she was sleeping in the bed next to me always comforting, and I took the role of big sister seriously. Our relationship faltered because of our opposite personalities, but the immense sisterly love shone through. Unfortunately, we never had the chance to develop a bond as adults. Jane would have been a great nursery schoolteacher. I wish she believed in herself.

Margie suffered with her demons but had immense courage. Despite it all she could always read me and knew me better than I knew myself. Smart as a whip she could have done anything she wanted to, but the illness robbed her of the opportunities. We had our moments too, as sisters do, but always came back to one another closer than ever.

I remember the three of us getting dressed up to go into downtown Boston into Stella’s an Italian restaurant in North End. Looking at the pictures, I must laugh. They bundled us up with puffy winter coats, not wearing tights, but lacey white ankle socks and black patent leather shoes. Weren’t our legs freezing? I don’t recall.

​Our birthday parties celebrated in our basement with a long, rectangular table. The birthday girl at the head of the table, eating cake and the Hoodsie with the small wooden spoon all smiles surrounded by friends. On November sixth and November eighth to wish Jane and Margie a Happy Birthday, I will eat a cupcake and Hoodsie, and look at the old photos. There will be a hole in my heart, but know my sisters are forever beside me.

“I am an author.”

​I hear myself utter the words and still cannot fathom this is a reality. In my sixties to be given a new career, an opportunity to express on paper what sometimes I cannot articulate or communicate because of an introvert character, is an incredible gift.

When I went to a support group after I lost my father in 2011, the leader of the group encouraged me to share my story and write an article for The Centering Corporation. For decades I kept emotions and feelings dormant. The death of my father forced me to grieve for my beloved sisters Margie and Jane, feelings I suppressed now bubbled to the surface. This mushroomed to being a contributor for The Open To Hope Foundation.

Am I talented at the craft of writing? The answer is no. As a friend who is an esteemed author uses the term, pedestrian. I pursued writing classes and workshops. Urged by many to write a book, I took the plunge in 2018, left employment and devoted time to write. I suffered a concussion and through podcasts located a memoir coach. With the coach, and many editors, as they say a village, many drafts, I secured a wonderful hybrid publisher, WriteLife Publishing, and the rest they say is history.

Countless hours spent reliving the deaths of my sisters, redrafting the arc of the memoir, learning to show not tell, being able to accept criticism to grow, and not take rejection personally and produced Celebration of Sisters: It Is Never Too Late To Grieve which I hope with help others in their grief.

I think of writing as a second passion, my first being skating. When I tackle a new element in skating, it requires patience, practice, and time, not unlike writing. If I waver in my confidence, a wise coach asked, “Why do you skate?” The answer, “For the joy.” The same analogy to writing. To expand, I write to share a story to give back and help others.

I am writing a second book. Originally a memoir, I did not have the emotional capacity to write about a sister with a mental illness so out of a suggestion of a writer friend. I am writing fiction. The transition from memoir to fiction is challenging, and taking yourself out of the equation, specifically out of the character. We write what we know which is the motto for memoir, and somewhat true in fiction, however, to write an interesting fiction story, I had to learn the character is not me, although may have pieces of me.

The process is a learning curve, have shed some tears, and shifted the story from four siblings down to three. I know in my heart it is an important story that must be told. Like my memoir, I have no expectations, but feel it is an important story to be told.

I have found writing is now part of my life, much like skating. If I do not write, I feel like part of me is missing. To write, like skating, is to have discipline, to practice, and do regularly. There are obstacles and life that can interfere, and I am trying to focus on carving out time every day to write to complete the manuscript. I know it will take a village to complete and grateful for all the support and kindness to individuals who are joining me on the journey.

The fall ushers in the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, the holiday that celebrates the creation of the world, reflected in the name, head of the year in Hebrew. Traditional greetings on Rosh Hashanah include, L’Shana Tova tikatevu, which means, may you be inscribed for a good year, or “Shana Tova,” which means a good year.

A new year, a time to pause, reflect, and reset. I reflect on the past year, beaming with all that transpired–the birth of two new grandchildren, honored to be selected as a keynote speaker, settling into a new life south of Boston, and the many opportunities to share Celebration of Sisters, and in doing so, the wonderful people who have entered my life.

This year feels strange not feverously preparing and rehearsing my performance for the Celebration of Sisters annual skating fundraiser. I am filled with gratitude and memories. The publication of the memoir bearing its name provided the right time to move onto the next chapter. The Judy who founded the event in 2011 is not the same Judy of 2023. Twelve years older, wiser, a few more wrinkles, and more to accomplish on herself, in helping others, and honor the memories of Margie and Jane.

Forever will my heart feel a loss, miss my beloved sisters Margie and Jane, wish they were here to witness their sister Judy of today, the evolution, the work, and share the precious grandchildren. Is this really Judy? Is this a dream or real life? Margie and Jane are the anchors that provide me the courage and resilience to be where I am today.

A tradition for Rosh Hashanah and celebrate a sweet New Year comprises dipping an apple into honey. This will be a sweet year. I am now a grandmother of three beautiful grandchildren under four, each special in their own way, two spectacular daughters and son in laws who are growing into wonderful individuals and family units.

The future is bright. With all that I have lost, where there is grief there is love, where there is joy there is love.

My goals for the New Year are for health, happiness, peace, and joy for all. For me relish every moment with family, resume figure skating with vigor now that the broken foot healed, settled down to a regular writing schedule on book number two, engage speaking opportunities to tell my story, an important message so no one is alone with their grief.