A November For The Ages By Louise Applebome

By Louise Applebome

November 2024 was a month of profound sadness, disappointment, and loss. 

And then we have to dig down deep to conjure up our toughest survival skills. 

First, there was the U.S. presidential election. 

The results were not a shock. 

The shortened campaign by the replacement candidate made for a Herculean task and then some. 

And the historic proportions of the U.S.A. being able and ready to elect a woman president were daunting. Add to that a woman of color, and the naysayer in me always doubted and feared that this country was not up to the challenge and the task. For me, optimism never surpassed my skepticism. 

Shame on us.

I feel like I cheated a bit in inoculating myself from feelings of devastation, as I learned who the election victor was in midair, flying from Dallas to London. So, I was literally removed from all boots on the ground, including my own. And a two-week trip overseas continued to create a bit of a hermetic and anesthetic seal between reality and my manifestation of it.

It was fairly easy to enter into a news and information “fast” and to insulate myself from the barrage of information that would change nothing, illuminate my inability to affect any change, and teach me nothing of any great truth or consequence. 

And the abstention from following the news did not cast a pall on my travels. I was able to exist in a parallel universe of wonder, exploration, art, and discovery. 

I consider the timing to have been a bit of a miracle. I hadn’t planned the trip with my sights on being away for the election, but the schedule was a most generous gift from the universe. I was so grateful for the fortuitous timing. 

Then, on November 14, I got news of the death of my sole remaining aunt on both my paternal and maternal sides. Carol Gorbach Copeland (born April 7, 1936) died of natural causes. She was 88 years old. 

The cards were stacked against my Aunt Carol from the start. She became an “orphan” at age 17. Both of her parents died within just a few months of one another. Her parents were only in their forties. She was sent to live with my mother, nearly ten years her senior, who had a new baby (me) to take care of, two young sons, and was herself only 26 years old. My mother was very attached to her parents. Their untimely and unexpected deaths informed so much of her emotional health and well-being for the rest of her life until she died in 2017, at the age of 90. My mother really didn’t have the emotional resources and maturity to provide a loving home for her baby sister. Then there was the middle sister, also married and with a young son, who wasn’t really poised to take in her youngest sister, either. 

These had to have been very trying times for the Gorbach sisters. 

Well, the saga played out; Carol “escaped” into an abusive marriage; she quickly had four children of her own, the first when she was only twenty years old. 

After divorcing husband number one, and marrying a third time after widowhood from husband number two, she enjoyed a long and loving marriage with a partner who adored her and with whom she enjoyed life. He survives and misses her. 

And there was another silver lining and lifeline that kept Aunt Carol afloat during the best of times and the worst of times: She was a gifted pianist and could sit down at the keyboard and play anything…without even using sheet music. Her music was where she could turn for solace, sustenance, confidence and to retreat from a cold, cruel world. 

It was her healing art. It healed her heart. 

Plus, she was a born natural entertainer and could win over a room or an auditorium with her enthusiasm, generosity, and joy. 

In fact, during my last phone chat with her a month or so before she died, her cognitive abilities were addled; retrieving words was difficult and frustrating. But once she moved to the piano bench, per my pleading and request, the shackles melted away, her fingers danced across the ivories and she made beautiful music again and again. It was of great comfort to me and to her to be surrounded by all the divine sounds and songs. 

Carol, middle sister Elaine, and Sydel, my mother, all had strong personalities. 

(There were no brothers.)

They shared some traits in common and not others. 

They had different capacities for intimacy and openness and emotional depth. Each grew up with an emphasis on standards, acceptable and responsible behavior, and with an awareness and emphasis on material goods. 

Their parents were immigrants. My maternal grandfather came to this country from what was then probably Ukraine (although borders were fluid in the early 1900s, so maybe he came from Poland).

The parameters and definitions of a life back then can’t be compared to what it is that constitutes life on earth during this twenty-first century.

The death of my Aunt Carol seems to close the book on my mother’s family history in a very defining and final way. May she rest in peace. 

Finally, I only knew Elizabeth Landry Foster for under 15 years, but we were together weekly, sometimes more than once during that time when she came to my yoga classes. Always a bit quirky. Always quick to share her very distinctive and adorable laugh, Liz died on October 9. She was only 69 years old. I was aware that her 15-year course of autoimmune disease had taken a turn for the worse in 2024. But Liz remained hopeful that treatment, a possible liver transplant, cures, and better days were ahead. She didn’t give up after multiple emergency visits to the hospital. And with each new obstacle, she stayed hopeful and positive. Perhaps she was protecting those of us who knew and loved her. Perhaps it was the only way she knew to cope.

When word came of her death in an email from her husband, I  broke down and wept. Liz was a bit eccentric. She was considerate and kind. She had many friends and family members who loved her. She worked hard on the yoga mat and became very skilled in spite of physical roadblocks. Her passing leaves a hole and a rupture in what had been an unbroken arc of relationship, adoration, support, and respect. 

Her absence in class has been palpable. And many other students with whom she practiced yoga are missing her deeply, too.

But I am glad she, too, is finally at peace. 

But it’s a new year…

I’d rather not fall into the morass of loss and grief.

I’d rather not be too maudlin. 

But I certainly don’t want to deny the pain nor brush it under the rug.

It is so much a part of life and always will be. 

And out of grief comes joy. 

There’s always stuff to be worked out. 

Lives are rich. 

And my memories of Aunt Carol on the piano and her big personality, and Liz Foster being the first to come to yoga class and to resume her place in the same corner each week for lo those many years, are symbols of the resilience of human beings and all the potential and goodness out there for the taking, giving and sharing. 

I give thanks for their presence on this earth and in my lifetime.