Runaway train

Our dear friend Dima and his father, uncle Misha, share a birthday - March 16. We were at their house today celebrating it, as we did last year, and the year before. Uncle Misha was as kind as he always is - he showed little kids how to plant a cucumber and played some ball with them. Aunt Zhenya cooked more food then a Russian army could eat - as she always does. She made the best coffee in the world (as she always does) and shared a recipe with me. Their house was full of people - coming and going, talking and singing, all through the evening. The only person who wasn't there was Dima.

2004 was a leap year, and people say that leap years are unlucky. They could say that again. Before 2004 my life was at its fairy tale stage. I got married and had two wonderful kids. Nobody close to me ever got seriously ill or died. I lost my grandparents when I was very young; I hardly remember when they died. Since then, I was counting my blessings. I guess I knew that this couldn't last forever, but I remember thinking countless times how lucky I was - death was avoiding me.

2004 did not begin well. Our 2-bedroom house was getting too small for our family, and we needed a new one. Buying a house was never an exciting process for my husband; in fact, it took us a year to buy our first house because he resisted every step of the way. This time, it was the same thing all over again, and we were arguing non-stop, which we never do, except when we are in a process of buying a house. Despite constant arguing, we did manage to buy a new house, and were getting ready to move in around mid-June.

At that time I felt somewhat relieved - until mid-June, or June 16 to be exact. I remember very well driving my son to his basketball practice and waiting for him outside this warm summer evening. My cell phone rang, and at the other end my husband pronounced the unthinkable: "Dima just died." Since nobody around me ever died, I did not react at the moment, except hearing the words from a song in my head over and over:

Runaway train, never going back
Wrong way on a one-way track...

Dima was my husband's childhood friend. I only knew him for a few years, but he became my dear friend as well. He was over 6 feet tall - the kindest giant you could ever meet. He was the heart of every company; he was everybody's friend; he could not have an enemy in the world. We did not see each other too often, but whenever we moved, he always came to help. Every time, except that last move that we were about to do.

He was one of my husband's best men at our wedding. We got married at the synagogue, and our chupah was on the 2nd floor, so we had to walk up the beautiful set of stairs to get there. I remember walking up, when my long dress caught my high heel and I would've fallen, if Dima did not jump out to catch me. Now all I have left of him is this memory... and the song.

2004 was going on, bringing more grief. Shortly after Dima's funeral, my dear friend called me from Sweden and told me that her father was diagnosed with cancer. A week after, I called her and told her that my father was diagnosed with cancer.

Again, I did not know how to react. Ever since I remember myself, my father was my best support when my life got sour. I have to say that I wasn't always an optimist, and I did not believe that my life would turn out ok. But my father always believed it, and I could not achieve what I have in my life without his belief. I could always rely on him when my life was tough, but at that moment our roles were reversed - I had to support him, and I didn't know how to do it. I was probably lucky that the reality of his illness never got to me. I remember sitting with my father at the hospital, making silly remarks about everything, and everybody probably thought it was because I felt optimistic. Not at the least. I just never realized how terribly ill my father was, and that was probably a good thing - otherwise I would become hysterical and could not support my father in any way.

By mid-summer the stress of moving, Dima's death, and my father's illness caught up with me. My life became a black hole. I was constantly expecting somebody to die. I was crying non-stop. I did not enjoy my new house; in fact, I remember myself saying that I don't care where we live because everybody will soon be dead.

At that point I had to be put on antidepressants. They were helping me get back to reality, but 2004 was not over yet. On August 22nd, we were spending the night at my parents' house, as we sometimes do. In the middle of the night, the phone rang. My father picked it up, and from the conversation I could figure out that the call was from Israel, and somebody there just died. I have an old uncle who lived there, so I figured out that was him. It was not. When my father finally ended the conversation, he did not want to tell me that the call was really for me. My dear childhood friend just died in a car accident.

Despite my sincere belief that the world would come to an end before the year 2004 would, we all survived it. All of us, except Dima and Marina.

And everything seems cut and dried,
Day and night, earth and sky,
But somehow I just don't believe it...

My husband tells me that I have not recovered from that year. He is probably right - I have my share of problems, and unfortunately, antidepressants don't help. I am still shaking when a phone rings late. I don't deal with death well. Because I was blessed living without it for so long, I have never excepted it as a part of life, and I never will. My friends who left me that year took a part of me with them, and my life will never be the same. Neither will the life of their families, and my heart goes out to them.

It is March 16 of 2008 - another leap year. Please G-d, keep all my loved ones safe so that I don't have to write another essay like this.