The Quality of Tears

Thu 14 Sept 2017

When I went to the opticians recently, a lady looked into my eyes and told me that she thought i didn't have high enough quality tears.

I guess sometimes quantity trumps quality.

Over the summer, grief to some extent took a back seat as I was somewhat preoccupied by my left foot.

In particular, due to a combination of my naive attempt to make myself feel better by going on a morning run and our council's failure to keep our roads free of pot holes, I had to cope with a very swollen ankle and an undisplaced fracture of the fibula.

So navigating the world whilst hobbling about in a large black plastic boot took up much of my mental and emotional energy.

As did being on holiday. 

Taking the kids round the jaw dropping sights of the Colliseum and the Vatican City in Rome in 38 degree heat was not something we would have done with Shani. 

Staying out late in the cafes and shopping streets of Sorrento would also have been difficult. 

We probably would not have gone swimming in the surprisingly warm sea in Hove for hours if Shani was sitting and playing on the beach. 

We'd have done other things. 

We'd have done sandcastles, paddling, story reading, toys, princesses, Barbies, cuddles, tantrums.

In fact, not having Shani around has meant that we've been suddenly and unceremoniously wrenched out of the whole world of small children. 

We no longer have play dates with little people, no more glorious school plays with cute children singing songs and trying to dance, and very few kids parties to go to anymore.

Within a few short months Tammy had completely finished primary school, and so now we only have secondary schools to attend - big, important institutions with hundreds and hundreds of children and a dozen or more teachers for each child to get to know. 

Of course, we already had Joel in big school and Tammy was always going to get there this year, but we loved being involved in Shani's, littler, school - 

watching her learning to read English and Hebrew, 

talking about the sedra each week and looking at the picture she drew, 

exhilaration at being 'star of the week', 

going to school plays, 
hearing her sing mo'atzur at Hanukkah and mah nishtana at Pesach,

and the magnificent achievement that was her sports day. 

But instead of five more years of primary school childhood we have none. 

Last week Shani would have started Year 2.

It was tough.

We had lovely messages from parents in her class that they'd been thinking of us. 

Shani's class have kept her teddies on display. 
They talk about their friend Shani to each other and to new members of their class. 

They don't want to let her go any more than we do. 

Shani's school have been incredible.

Her teachers appeared on the first night of shiva mourning and covered us in love and support and wise words, reassuring us that Shani's classmates were being cared for and that they wanted us to remain part of the wider school family.

They presented an award at the end of last term to a girl in the school that has been trying to get on with her life despite suffering from multiple broken limbs as a result of brittle bones disease.

She was presented with the Shani Berman Award for Determination - a tribute both to her and to Shani's constant desire to just get on with life despite everything that it threw at her.

Her Headmistress wrote a piece for the school magazine that I've included in this blog and which sums up the wonderful love that the school had and still has for Shani.

Shani loved her school.

They looked after and nurtured her but let her get on with life, have fun, laugh, be joyous, make some lovely friends that we miss very much, and blossom into a magnificent little girl with a magic heart.

And for that we will always be grateful.

As Shani's headmistress wisely said in a recent letter to us, 'may your memories ease your pain and help you to smile through your tears.'