Sukkot And The Fragility Of Our Lives
I was a little worried on Rosh Hashanah. By Yom Kippur, I was anxious enough to wonder out loud what I might look like without hair. The official call came right before Sukkot. I was in the kitchen preparing for the holiday and my husband was putting the finishing touches on our sukkah. It was 10:00 pm and the man who was an old family friend, and who I would soon call my oncologist, called to share the news that I did indeed have cancer and had a year’s worth of chemotherapy and radiation ahead of me. It wasn’t a surprise, but now it was a reality and I finally allowed myself to break down. I had carried the fear with me through the New Year and was now shaking with anger that the cancer that had already invaded my body was now invading my favorite time of year, my favorite holiday.
I love Sukkot. I always have. I love the changing leaves, the cool breezes, the connection to nature and even the sense of fragility we face in the sukkah. This year, the fragility was not theoretical. Instead of mornings in the synagogue with my community and afternoons filled with delicious meals with friends and family, I would spend my Sukkot filled with staging tests, scheduling treatments and comforting my young family.
I wondered to myself if sometimes you need a clear sign to truly understand a holiday. I wondered if a cancer diagnosis on my favorite holiday would ruin the celebration forever?
The fragility of life was unmistakable to me that year. Sitting in the sukkah took on a vivid new meaning. But so did my sense of community. It was clear that I would not go through this experience alone. My family, my friends and the greater community stayed by my side. They provided child care, meals, rides, friendship and perhaps best of all, humor. They built a more solid shelter for me than I could have ever hoped for. The year of my cancer diagnosis I truly understood the fragility of life – and I truly understood the meaning of community. Despite Sukkot not going as planned, I learned its lessons well.
Now, each Sukkot that passes seems to be a celebration of life, not a commemoration of diagnosis. I do understand the fragility of our lives, and instead of bemoaning that fragility, I celebrate the strength I had, and the strength I have developed as a result of my cancer experience. I see Sukkot as a personal triumph and welcome it with open arms every year.