Don't Tell Me I Can't Do It! (9 page)

Gratitude, I’m convinced, is the antidote to suffering. It reframes our perspective on suffering, enriching rather than diminishing our experience of joy, energizing our desire to help others who are likewise suffering and, in so doing, to bring healing to our own little corners of a broken world. Because of my experiences as a Holocaust survivor, people sometimes expect me to be an ambassador of suffering, but I always recoil at
that thought. That’s not who I am. Wherever I go, I try to bring the light of hope with me—to show others that suffering doesn’t have to be the defining facet of our lives, no matter what breed of hell destiny sees fit for us to endure. I want those around me to look at my life and see that, when viewed through the lens of gratitude, pain and hardship can be the gateway to new life.

R
ight on time. The familiar crush of the wagon wheels on the ground below signaled their approach. Standing on a box to peer through the little, narrow opening that was our room’s only window, I could see two ghostly figures trudging down the alley, dragging the weight of their cargo behind them.

Every day I looked upon this same ghastly tableau: inmate undertakers, barely alive themselves, part of a caravan of corpses passing beneath my window. The bodies they collected—mere skeletons with dried-out skin—were piled on top of the wagon along with the trash, heaped about like the refuse they were, hands
dangling here, legs protruding there. It was an infestation of death. Yet I watched, spellbound by the dark entertainment.

“Will I be next?” I wondered. “Maybe tomorrow it will be my body tossed upon the wagon.” I don’t remember being afraid. Even at seven years old, my thoughts were matter-of-fact. I was detached. I still am. I remember deciding that I would die in a pretty way, not like the ugly corpses scattered across the ground. When it was my time, I would pose with a smile and a pretty posture so that I could stand out, even in death.

I don’t mean to sound morbid. I’ve never been overly preoccupied with or unduly fascinated by death. In the camps, death was simply all around us. You couldn’t go anywhere without being reminded of its brutal imminence. The corpses that littered the streets, children and adults alike, elicited a highly palpable awareness of one’s own mortality, with the reality that tomorrow was promised to none of us. What made it even worse, of course, was the way the intervening days left so little to live for. My family was fortunate. We were never separated during our time in the camps. So many families fared far, far worse. You
could see the desolation in those people’s eyes. They might still be breathing, but they were already dead inside.

Make no mistake, though. I’ve never been suicidal, because nothing I’ve experienced in life—before, during, or since the war—has convinced me that death is the preferable estate. On the contrary, I cherish my time in this world as a precious gift, something to be savored and celebrated. Each day that I wake up is a new allowance, an exhilarating new bequest teeming with challenges to be faced and opportunities to be realized. Perhaps it’s because of all those hollow faces I was forced to witness in the camps that I’m so keenly aware of how death comes for everyone eventually, but not everyone truly lives before it does.

I won’t be one of those people. I didn’t let death intimidate me then, and I won’t let it intimidate me now.

That’s not to say that I’ve never feared death. I knew that kind of fear quite well as a young Israeli soldier fresh out of boot camp, running night maneuvers with
my detachment along the Lebanese border. Though women were spared the perils of the front line, we were regularly called upon to serve as border guards, keeping the enemy at arm’s length. I remember having to take shelter close to the ground on many occasions, something that stirred memories of the creepy-crawlies I had encountered as a little girl during those long nights hiding from the Nazis. We could hear noises in the dark but often couldn’t tell whether it was friend or foe approaching. It was not an experience for the faint of heart, and I confess that I was truly petrified.

I suppressed my fear with an overpowering sense of duty. My pride and patriotism would never countenance the idea of failing to live up to the role my country had summoned me to perform just because I was scared of the dark. “Here I am! Yes, sir!” A dutiful, reliable soldier guarding our homes and our families— that was how I saw myself.

I faced my fear, stared down my mortality, and defied the forces that threatened to cut my life short. I never went out at night thinking, “Maybe I’ll die tonight, and that would be okay with me.” But I did go out resigned to see my assignment through, because
failure was not an option. “I don’t want to die tonight,” I’d tell myself, “but if death is out there waiting for me, so be it!” Each time my peers and I returned safely from a maneuver, I treasured our time together and felt profoundly grateful for the chance to live another day.

It was probably during that season that I began to develop the vital optimism that has become the refrain of my life:
Live life today. The past is gone. The future might never be.

This is the perspective I try to bring to my therapy sessions with broken, world-weary clients. Over and over I’ve watched people catch this “seize the day” attitude—people who seem overwhelmed by sorrow, tragedy, and abuse but who suddenly realize how they’ve been passively perpetuating their suffering by letting it defeat them and hold them down. Once I’m able to persuade them that it’s time for a change, I can inspire them to join me in the here and now as I impart my knowledge, spirit, passion, and appreciation for life with all of its twists and turns. I view myself as an instructor, coach, mentor, and preacher.

Some people are surprised, then, to learn that I’m not a daredevil. I don’t invite danger into my life. You won’t
find me hang-gliding, skydiving, or whitewater rafting. Those sorts of things sound too dangerous to me, and I’m not one of those people who feels compelled to experience the “rush” of flirting with death. Life is too precious for me to go taking unnecessary risks. Nevertheless, as in the past, I don’t allow fear to rule me. One might say I’m counterphobic. I take deep breaths and do what has to be done in spite of my fear, compelled by a vision of life that involves far more than the fleeting unpleasantness of immediate circumstances.

That means rolling up my sleeves and going to work when today is difficult. It means mindfully enjoying each fleeting moment when today is going well. It means treasuring my past experiences without dwelling on hurtful memories. It means looking hopefully upon tomorrow even as I’m reminded that tomorrow may never come.

Jumping out of bed, at first I’m unsure whether I’m awake or trapped in a nightmare. It’s early in the morning, and my senses are overwhelmed—explosions, thick
smoke, fire rattling mercilessly everywhere, consuming my universe. I’m back in the war zone of my youth, reliving the ferocity of the bombings. I’m a trapped animal looking for an escape route.

Suddenly, my senses are jolted to the present. This isn’t the camps; this is our home, engulfed in flames. There’s no time to waste if we’re going to survive. I look over to find that Jerry is somehow sleeping through the mayhem.

“Jerry, wake up! Wake up! We have to get out of here!” It seems to take forever for him to climb out of bed. He’s bewildered and clumsy as he searches for his shirt and slippers. “There’s no time for that, Jerry! Hurry, hurry up! It’s time to go!”

Making my exit through the back door of our bedroom, I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m out!

Except Jerry isn’t with me.

Rushing back into the inferno, I find that he’s still sleepy and unaware of the danger. I literally have to drag him out to safety. As we exit, the roof over our bedroom collapses, charring our massive bed to ashes in seconds. (Later I would learn from the fire marshal that, had both of us been in the same deep sleep Jerry
was enjoying in the middle of the night, we would have burned to death. How ironic that would have been— narrowly escaping the Nazi crematorium as a child only to perish as an adult in the furnace of my own American home!)

Our neighbors, roused by the commotion, meet us in the front yard, offering blankets, comfort, and coffee. As we stand watching the fire enveloping and destroying our beautiful home and its precious contents, mental images of all the furniture, dishes, pictures, and other treasured memorabilia Jerry and I had collected over a lifetime pass before my eyes. I begin to comprehend the fierce devastation of having to start all over again, the terrible loss of things I know we can never replace.

Suddenly, the survivor in me kicks in. It’s not we who are burning. Jerry and I are safe, truly safe. It’s just our things that are burning. Just things. We entered the world naked, and one day—thankfully not tonight— we’ll leave the world in kind. All at once I’m overwhelmed with gratitude instead of desolation: I’m so lucky to have the gift of life a bit longer. We’re alive, and that’s all that matters.

I believe I was meant to survive the hell of that early morning conflagration for one very specific reason: to celebrate life and to spread optimism and goodwill in my world a bit longer, until the day death finally catches up with me. Having experienced so many blessings in my life—and having seen so much suffering at the hands of selfish, cruel people—I feel compelled to spend my days promoting others’ longevity and vitality. We are our brothers’ and sisters’ keepers, after all! I believe very strongly in
tikkun olam,
a phrase my people use to describe our shared responsibility for “repairing the world.” We do this by giving back through community service, doing our part to make our world a better place to live. It’s a way of recognizing that life is a gift and a stewardship: We’re accountable for what we choose to do with the time and resources destiny places in front of us. We can choose to squander them, or we can redeem them for the good of ourselves and others. That’s tikkun olam.

At eighty years old, I’m still in the prime of my life, and I remain open to all kinds of new ventures that may come along before I fade away at the ripe old age of one hundred-plus years. I still have plenty of time to spend
repairing my corner of the world, because, for me, age is irrelevant. I can’t and won’t be defined by my age and its prescribed limitations. I certainly don’t intend to let society dictate when, how, or what I should be doing at any stage of my life.
Don’t tell me I can’t do it!

I frequently lecture and facilitate workshops on the psychological aspects of aging, or, more specifically, on the art of aging with gusto. My audiences include young and old alike, and I encourage people at both ends of the spectrum to adopt the attitude that they will live long and live well. At the same time, I like to make sure that the more senior members of the group understand that their limitations are all too frequently self-imposed. Sure, there are some things that become more difficult and more dangerous with age, but I’ve found that most seniors settle for a personal life standard well below what they are capable of achieving. They succumb to the lie that they’re past their usefulness, too old to do anything meaningful for themselves or for others, a burden to be patiently tolerated until death takes its toll. This is self-imposed ageism.