This past week was the fourth anniversary of the death of my nephew, Adam Zaitz. We can only hope that there is peace and warmth wherever he is, but the sadness left behind is untenable for my sister, Michele, and brother-in-law (like a brother) Ira. It is a pain that is unrelenting for them, and for those of us who dearly love them, a realization that, in truth, there is little my sister, Mindy and I can do to assuage their pain. It has taken me these four years to understand that no matter how close we are to those we love, no matter how much we hurt when they hurt, no matter how much we wish for things to be different, we are, at the end of the day, unable to change anything. That has been a difficult lesson to learn, and many times, I know I have fallen short in my attempts to accept that reality.

The words that always came to me were, “I know, Sweetheart, I know.” But I do NOT know their pain. It is theirs and theirs alone. That is true of us all. We can identify others’ pain, we can feel terrible for it, and we can wish to the heavens it was different, but at the end of the day, we are not omnipotent, and in fact, we are impotent to change the reality of others.

I learned a great deal from the loss of Adam. He used to call me AE, for Aunt Ellyn, and I used to write to him on his email account and call him King Adam. We would meet for lunch and he shared his creativity and view of the world. He was a very smart man, very musical and talented. He was connected to many worlds, and I tried to keep up with his understanding of things beyond my grasp.

When Adam became stricken with Leukemia we entered a medical community we had no interest in entering. Within three weeks we went from assuming Adam would become stable enough to leave the hospital and have outpatient therapy; we watched him fight with all his heart and might, kind to everyone who entered and appreciative of their care and attention; to losing his fight. It was devastating. Mindy had flown up from Florida to support Michele and Ira, and we were with them every day for the three excruciating weeks. We sat in the Intensive Care Waiting Room, blankets to keep us warm from the cold, and from the harsh updates we received. We forced Michele and Ira to have lunch, since we knew they needed their strength, and we held their hand as the life-support machines were removed from their only child.

The most important thing I learned from the incredibly horrific loss of our nephew is that our family was there for each other, in ways big and small. We couldn’t change the outcome, we couldn’t change the path, we couldn’t ameliorate the pain and we still cannot do anything more than love and support them. For someone like me who believes if I try a bit harder I can make a difference, I learned I cannot. Respecting that, remembering Adam, sharing a happy memory, holding their hand a little tighter…

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