Flights of Angels

Jody died on Tuesday morning. Word spread quickly through the Zamir Chorale community. Even though we were expecting the news, it still was a shock to read the email. The funeral would be on Wednesday afternoon.

Later that morning, I got an emergency call from a client’s mother—her 17-year-old son tried to overdose Monday night with a combination of heroin and Valium. He did it at home, which was a good decision, as much as an addict in the throes of relapse can make a good decision, because his parents found him before he lost consciousness and they called 911. I was strangely relieved that he was in the hospital—at least he’s safe. I don’t think he was trying to die. I think he was trying to escape his crippling anxiety. Addiction is such an impulsive disorder—please keep me from feeling pain. I need a way out.

Jody tried to live for as long as she could. She was 56. I was relieved for Jody and her family too—she was safe now, out of pain. It was not her choice to die but she died with dignity and strength, surrounded by love.

Through the rest of the day, I felt alternately hazy and irritable. Why doesn’t that idiot use his turn signal? What is wrong with that cashier? Hurry up! I felt impatient with my clients and short with my friend Susan, who asked for a second opinion on a fabulous apartment. It’s perfect and she took it. She’ll move in September, and although it’s not the same as her being able to go home after the fire, over time she will create a happy Susan space there. And maybe it will become home someday.

And so, the next day, Zamir gathered to say goodbye to Jody. We’re not just a chorus, we’re a community. Josh Jacobson, our director, called a rehearsal before the service so we could run through the two pieces Jody had requested: "Enosh," Louis Lewandowski’s setting of Psalm 103 ("Surely our days are numbered"), and "Adonai Ro’i," Gerald Cohen’s setting of Psalm 23 ("The Lord is my shepherd").

Josh took charge, as Josh does at these times, reminding us that, unlike in a concert, we would need to set aside our emotions while singing, to honor the music and to honor Jody. It was a familiar scene. Not so much the funeral of one of our own, although we mourned for Rick a couple of years back, but having to transcend our emotions to honor the dead. We’ve sung in the Lodz and Warsaw cemeteries, in the shadow of the crematoria at Auschwitz-Birkenau, by the train tracks in Terezin, on the night of September 11, at the United Nations for Holocaust Remembrance Day. I looked around at my friends, my spiritual family, and felt safe and warm, happy and sad, grateful and empty.

I’ve only been to a few funerals in my life, so I don’t have much to go on, but it was beautiful. The singing, yes—standing closely packed, vibrating with the harmonies and overtones, Scott Sokol’s molasses baritone, and knowing Jody, wherever she was, was smiling. But it was much more than the singing.

The eulogies were heartfelt and literate. Her husband, her brother, and close friends spoke of Jody’s passions and accomplishments. They shared anecdotes about her, both funny and touching. I realized, as I gather people do at funerals, that I didn’t really know Jody that well. We were fellow sopranos for 15 years, but outside of Zamir, we didn’t socialize. I learned about her marriage to Mark, only eight years together, about his gentleness and devotion, and how their partnership transformed her. I learned that Jody’s strong and often opinionated nature stemmed in part from her commitment to justice and fairness rather than a compulsion to be right.

I also began thinking about my own death, as I gather people do at funerals. What would my legacy be? Will I have honored my values and taken risks like Jody? Will I have manifest my creativity and found love, even late in life? If I were faced with cancer, would I be so brave and so determined and so . . . evolved as Jody?

Suddenly I felt calm and energized, subtly electrified. It wasn’t a words thing, although if it were, the feelings would translate into clichés such as Carpe diem, Just do it, Life is not a dress rehearsal. Yes. Beginning now, I will live my passion, sing from my heart, and speak my truth even if someone disagrees. I will be feisty and unselfconscious. I will eat less, exercise more, worry less, play more, recycle weekly, and give back in some small way. I will maximize my day, my week, my life.

After the service, I went directly to the office for my 4:30 group of teenage boys, all of whom are in trouble with drugs, alcohol, and the law. Their passion, on the outside at least, is finding the latest and greatest ways to cheat on a drug test. They live in the moment and long to chase that next high. I wanted to shake them and scream, "Wake up! Don’t you realize life is short?" But I didn't.

[SPOILER ALERT!] At the end of Spring Awakening, the musical based on Frank Wedekind's 1891 play about adolescent yearning and self-discovery, young Melchior is in a cemetery, grieving, pondering suicide. Like my client, in that moment, he sees no way out. He opens a razor blade and lifts it to his throat. Then, the ghosts of his two lost friends, Moritz and Wendla, rise from their graves in an eerie white light. Moritz sings:

Those you’ve known and lost still walk behind you.
All alone, their song still seems to find you.
They call you, as if you knew their longing.
They whistle through the lonely wind, the long blue shadows falling. . . .

Melchior listens, weeps, and holds them close. Then he snaps the razor shut, resolved, and sings:

Now they’ll walk on my arm through the distant night,
And I won’t let them stray from my heart.
Through the wind, through the dark, through the winter light,
I will read all their dreams to the stars.
I’ll walk now with them.
I’ll call on their names.
I’ll see their thoughts are known.
Not gone. Not gone.
They walk with their heart.
I’ll never let them go.
You watch me, just watch me, I’m calling.
And one day all will know.

Goodbye, Jody. May you rest in peace and sing with the angels.