jvalley.org | jewish community news

Jewish Community News

News: February 2007

Nearly two years after the plane crash
Local community member Rachel Michelberg tells how she has coped after her husband was severely injured in a plane crash

One day at a time. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. G-d doesn’t give us more than we can handle. Don’t sweat the small stuff.

By Rachel Michelberg

Before David’s accident, I’d often heard these catch-phrases, possibly even quoted them. Meaningful for some, perhaps – addicts, victims of violent crime, natural disasters. But as a white, upper middle-class Jewish girl from Sunnyvale, this kind of trite, pop psychology held little personal significance. Granted, I’d had my share of challenges in my forty-three years: my parent’s divorce at sixteen, anorexia at nineteen, more than one broken engagement, my mother’s battles with alcoholism (she’s now recovering.) But nothing could have prepared me for the phone call I received on April 19, 2005, four days before Pesach.

David and his business partner Yaron Ekshtein had been in a plane accident. Around 6:30 that evening, en route from Los Angeles to San Jose, a cylinder in the engine of their 1968 Beechcraft Debonair came loose from its crankcase and the cockpit filled with smoke. Yaron, the pilot, was directed to land the plane at the closest airport, but the hood of the airplane flew up, hindering the gliding ability of the plane. With no power, and virtually no visibility, Yaron tried to guide the plane away from some houses, heading toward what he thought was a field. The field was actually a vineyard, and when the landing gear caught in the cabling of the grape vines, the plane made a nose dive. David suffered a severe traumatic brain injury, as well as two shattered vertebrae (miraculously his spinal cord was unaffected), damage to his pancreas and the loss of sight in one eye.

The three hour drive to San Luis Obispo was surreal. Riding in the back seat of a friend’s car, I phoned friends, family and relatives in Europe and Israel, all while fielding calls from doctors in the emergency room where they were trying to keep David alive. Hard to imagine that just an hour earlier I’d been lying on the couch with Hannah, 7, and Joshua, 6, watching Little House on the Prairie and trying to get up the energy to herd them to bed.

How often I have repeated this story in the twenty months since the accident I have no way of knowing. It feels as if my whole life is divided into two parts – before the accident and after. In some ways it is as though there was no reality before, that that time was just an innocent dream. Married to a good, caring man, living in a small, comfortable home in Willow Glen, two kids (one of each!), good friends, family nearby, great joy in my work as a cantorial soloist and opera singer, and enough money to hit the sales at Nordstrom once in a while.
The days and weeks immediately following the accident were surreal. Relatives from Israel and Germany flew in, the phone rang nonstop, meals appeared on my doorstep, offers of help were everywhere.

When the immediacy died down, and the relatives flew home, and the meals stopped arriving, and the wonderful well-meaning people who provided so much support went back to their own lives–as they should–I was left with my new life, as difficult as it had been in the days immediately following the accident, and in some ways more.

More quickly than I had imagined, I was faced with David coming home from rehab. Already maxed out with single parenting, managing the household and overseeing David’s medical care, it became very clear to me that I could not manage caring for him full time.

Making the choice to “put” David into a residential facility was without a doubt the most gut-wrenching decision I’ve ever had to make. He needed full time care; we had two traumatized, school-age children, as well as mounting bills. Yes, I made the vow “in sickness and in health.” But in my heart, I knew I couldn't manage him at home–either physically or mentally. I found myself facing horrifying questions to which I did not know the answer. What was my responsibility to him as my husband, as the father of my children, as a human being? How much should I consider my own needs and capacities? Was I being too selfish or uncaring?

HOW IS DAVID? DOES HE KNOW YOU AND THE KIDS? IS HE AWARE OF HIS SITUATION?

David is not a vegetable. He walks with assistance, eats regular food, and occasionally even cracks jokes. He smiles at the kids, at me. He might remember your name.

But David is incontinent and has recurring seizures. His IQ has gone from 135 to 89. He has trouble initiating speech, which essentially means it’s impossible to have a dialogue with him. He confabulates (makes up) answers to questions, so that it’s difficult to know if his answer is accurate. He often believes that he is going to Tahoe, or night clubbing in the city, and will periodically become belligerent with staff who try to convince him otherwise. He perseverates (gets stuck) on simple activities of daily living, repeating them over and over. His world is very concrete, consisting mainly of what he is experiencing at that moment, like a child. But he is not a child. He is a 46-year old adult man who will most likely require constant care for the rest of his life.

I DON’T KNOW HOW YOU DO IT.

While certainly easier than caring for him at home, admitting David to a residential facility did not “fix” my life. At the beginning, I cried almost constantly. I didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, and yelled at my kids despite my yearly resolution not to. Shock is supposed to be the first of the five stages of grief, but I didn’t have that luxury. After all, I had my children to take care of, bills to pay (too bad I never learned our account passwords.) Endless meetings with a myriad of doctors, lawyers, social workers. Therapy appointments, updating everyone about David’s changing medical condition, keeping his relatives in Germany and Israel in the loop. Worrying about money. How could I possibly deal with my own health, needs, guilt, fear (no, terror) and be there for the kids, let alone parent them?

Friends, family, everyone kept saying, with all good intentions, of course, that I had to take time for myself. But it wasn’t – isn’t - so easy. My children are still extremely traumatized, and deal daily with the stress of having their father disabled, and away from home. And they both have separation anxiety. After all, their dad went to work one day and never came home. Why shouldn’t it happen to their mom, the center of their universe? In a divorce, most people have an ex to share custody, allowing them some time of their own to pursue hobbies, attend a concert or a lecture, or even – yes, I’ll say it – date.

WHAT KEEPS ME SANE?

At the beginning, the support and assistance of friends and family was like a harness, keeping me from falling into a deep crevasse. Now, after a year and a half, the assistance is more sporadic, and usually only offered upon direct request. I understand, everyone has their own lives, children, and families. It’s the natural order of things. New people have befallen tragedy and hard times, and appro-priately, people direct their help and attention towards the most recent hardship. But loneliness – longing for adult companionship often sets in, and at the end of the day, it’s me and my kids.

So I have to find my own joy, relief, respite. I have found it in three ways: therapy, yoga, and music. Therapy allows me a place to voice all of my fears, frustrations and focus on the small victories. Yoga is a tremendous stress release, keeps the “mind chatter” at bay and grants a sense of peace I can carry into all aspects of my life. And music, well – it is simply a gift from G-d.

So yes, I do live one day at a time (once in a while, I allow myself to think a week or two ahead.) The small stuff – like being stuck in traffic or losing an earring – doesn’t bother me anymore (well, most of the time.) Now I understand why life-altering situations like these can make you stronger, if they don’t kill you first. I’ve read Harold Kushner’s “When Bad Things Happen to Good People,” and understand that while G-d didn’t cause David’s accident, G-d might have been involved in giving me the strength to deal with it.

News

Features

JCN Issues

Information

OpenCube Drop Down Menu (www.opencube.com)