When the Shamash Burns Out

Trigger warning: This story contains trauma such as illness and death.

On the first night of Hanukkah, my father nearly died. 

We lit the menorah, his pupils dilated, the size of his iris. Attempting to speak, his mouth mobile, but gusts of air followed. We flock to him at full tilt, each one of us probing, “Dad?” I tell him to lift his arms over his head, to repeat after me, “It may rain today.” We say it’s not a stroke, but my Mom dials 911. The hospital staff won’t allow us past the main entrance, and uneasiness clouds above my family’s head. Staff reports he’s tucked safely into an emergency department bed. On the first night of Hanukkah, my father nearly died.

The world was plagued, by thousands of people on ventilators from a deadly virus. Air forcibly cycling through their lungs, they could not breathe alone. The perturbation from the world became uncomfortable. We questioned if my Father had it, the virus everyone speaks of. They biopsied his lung, the doctor said. There are no signs of coronavirus, the nurses chided. On the second night of Hanukkah, my Father was put in the Intensive Care Unit. We lit the second candle with prayers deep in our chest that he would improve after resting, that he would come home in the morning refreshed, and healthy.

As we woke, our eyes were crusty and aching from tears. Today would not be his homecoming. The doctor guarantees no coronavirus, but his brain is inflamed with a life-threatening infection. On the third night of Hanukkah, my Father was intubated. His brain needed to sleep, I thought, that’s all. I remember how assiduous he is with his work, perhaps he needs to press the snooze button on his diligence. With the candles lit, we embrace, willing him to survive.

Hospice, that’s where my Grandmother is on the fourth day of Hanukkah. We are a unit as we shuffle atop the linoleum floor to say our final goodbyes. We wear masks, and the insensitivity of my grandmother revolts me. I acknowledge I’m upset because my life has been knocked down like a string of dominos, one by one, two by two. Through difficulty breathing, Oma says she loved me, her wrinkled and dainty hand in mine. We read to her and fed her ice cream. On the Fourth night of Hanukkah, my Grandmother took her last breath. They say she passed peacefully, we send our gratitude to the universe for that.

My Mother shakes me awake at four in the morning. She’s sobbing as if she’s in agony. I’m haunted by the nightmare that precedes my consciousness, one where my Dad dies alone in a sterile hospital suite. My Mom confesses it isn't my Father she’s grieving for. She shares that she received a call, the procedure she underwent last week was a biopsy. The tumor is malignant. She has cancer and is terrified because her Mother died from the same disease she imagines she’ll die from. On the fifth night of Hanukkah, my Mother found out she had cancer.

Halfway through eight nights, the doctors say my Father is fit to breathe on his own. The MRI indicates the swelling has gone down significantly, and he’s stable and doing wonderfully. The medications have worked, but he needs to be monitored. We all gathered to light the fifth candle on the menorah, with peace in our hearts and the expression of exhaustion plastered on our faces.

Hours roll by with no signs of sleep, all consumed in prayer. Bargaining with God, I’d do anything to keep him with us. On the fifth day of Hanukkah, my Father is able to speak. “Sweetie girl,” he beamed, the nickname I’d been given as a child. 

 He’s back to being the Dad I remember. Relief floods over the gathering of family and friends, all assembled to support our family. 

It’s four in the morning, but I hear footsteps across the hall. My Mom is pacing, back and forth, her hand running through her hair. I assure her that all will be okay and that Dad is going to survive. “What about me,” she exclaims, her eyes wide in panic. Pain twists through my stomach. On the sixth day of Hanukkah, my Mom begs God for mercy.

We video called my Dad today. His voice continues to be raspy from the tube that kept him breathing not long ago. The doctors say he’s being transferred, he’s going to a step down unit, and he no longer is a critical patient. For a moment I experience solace, but it vanishes like steam on the mirror from a scorching shower. My Mother’s health is now at the forefront of my frontal cortex. On the seventh night of Hanukkah, I hug my knees on the shower floor, wailing as if I’m still a little girl who throws tantrums. Her wrinkled dainty hand in mine.

I’m stirring in the car as we drive to pick up my Dad. The outside of the hospital is barren, eerie, and sanitary. He gets pushed out in an ancient wheelchair, one with dents and nicks. We arrive home to the smell of lunch. My Mom is exasperated as she realizes he can’t eat solid foods quite yet. Dad plops onto the couch, lethargic, and closes his eyes. On the seventh day of Hanukkah, my Father comes home.

Upon waking from fourteen hours of shut-eye, my Mom confides in him. My Dad takes the reins and makes a plan. She’s getting chemo, he says. I’d never heard of an itinerary for cancer until my Dad shared his proposal. My Mother’s shoulders sink down, her face no longer taut. We congregate around the menorah, Dad in tow. He sends a prayer out for his Mother. All of us unwind, coil by coil. He lights the eight candles with the shamash, the center and ninth candle of the menorah. We come to understand that our Father is our shamash, he assists all of us in remaining lit. On the final night of Hanukkah, my family falls into a peaceful slumber. Our shamash is here again.