Ida
by Ariel & Shya Kane • New Jersey

Excerpted from Working on Yourself Doesn’t Work: The 3 Simple Ideas That Will Instantaneously Transform Your Life.

Ida was no longer breathing. The artery in her neck still pulsed steadily and I leaned in, calmly watching her lips tinge blue. I knew it would only be a few more moments.

Shya’s mother, Ida, had been in and out of the hospital for some time. At age 84 her own doctor had likened her heart to a tire that was old and worn, ready to blow at any time. Max, Shya’s father, had understandably been very upset by that analogy. Although this comparison might have been insensitive, I felt the doctor was trying his best to prepare us all for the inevitable.

For more than 50 years Max and Ida had been working together. When she was 80, Ida still worked two days a week as the bookkeeper at Max’s Dress Company in New York City’s garment district where he made designer dresses, wedding and ball gowns.

The shifts in Ida’s health and mental state are frozen in slide-like time segments of factory life where Shya and I frequently visited them. On one such visit, Ida thoroughly surprised us by asking, “What do you need? If you need money for anything, just let me know and I’ll help you. Just don’t tell Mr. Kane.” She always called Max “Mr. Kane” at the factory, even to us.

The offer for money was quite a shock to Shya. Never in his young or adult life had there been such an offer. When he grew up, money had been very tight and the first clothes he ever owned that were not bought second hand were from money he earned himself at age 15. Spartan spending when buying clothes was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to Ida’s way with money, but I will get to that later.

So, we took Ida up on her offer. With her assistance we were able to purchase our first car. We were very grateful for the help, and we honored her request not to tell Mr. Kane. During some of our weekly visits, Ida would, as usual, chat about business and talk about the different orders they had in house. Quite suddenly she would start talking about a designer that Max hadn’t worked for in ten or fifteen years, thinking the orders were current news. It was as if the needle on an old record player had mysteriously skipped grooves and was back playing a previous song. Time was no longer progressing linearly for Ida. We began to be concerned about her ability to keep the books, as it seemed to be more and more stressful for her. Around this time, she and Shya had a very frank conversation.

The rows of sewing machines hummed and vibrated in the background as we sat in her little office under the fluorescent light. “Mom, I am concerned about something,” he began. “What if you become sick or incapacitated? Who will know about your finances? Does Dad know what stocks you have or where the accounts are held?” The answer was no. Ida had been very secretive over the years, but stock dividend checks came to the house regularly. She would keep rubber bands around the piles of used envelopes because, she said, “You never knew when you might need scrap paper.”

She took a big sheet of pattern paper upon which she drew some grids and as we sat with her, she made a list of assets. It was obvious that much was missing, but it was a start.

Eventually Ida started staying home. She hated giving up the bookkeeping but she was no longer able to make the computations. Before long, it was time for another honest conversation. Oh, these talks could be difficult! How does one bring up with a parent, or anyone for that matter, their mortality, their failing health and diminishing mental capabilities. This is not something most of us are trained to do. Yet, we were now operating as parents, acting in what we hoped was Ida’s best interest as she was rapidly assuming the role of child.

“Mom, we need to sort out your finances,” Shya bravely began on one telephone call. “Where do you keep your stock certificates and records?” She fidgeted and hemmed and hawed but eventually it was determined they were kept at home, in the freezer. This brought to mind funny images such as certificates frozen in blocks of ice and phrases like “cool cash” and “frozen assets.”

A week or two later found us at Ida’s house, where we discovered the freezer was bare. Had she hidden things? Was this a new game, perhaps of hide and seek? But no, Ida appeared guileless. Maybe she only remembered it as in the freezer. It was time to hunt.

Eventually, we found her records, years and years of accumulated financial information, next to the freezer in several old brown shopping bags. Suddenly things began to come clear. Envelopes and rubber bands were not the only things that Ida had collected. There, unbeknownst to her children or even Mr. Kane, Ida had amassed a small fortune. Well, that is not quite true. To be honest, the fortune was more than a small one. Max was shocked. “She still gets upset when I buy Minute Maid Orange Juice instead of a store brand,” was his comment that I remember most.

So a piece of the puzzle had fallen into place and a picture was starting to emerge. Now I knew why she never wanted us to tell Mr. Kane about those previous gifts. She hadn’t wanted him to suspect she had money to spend.

Months later, in the hospital that day, as I sat waiting at her bedside watching her lips grow blue, I knew we were at a passage. The moment was coming, again, and holding Ida’s hand I leaned directly into her line of sight so that my face was positioned close in front of hers. It was important that she knew she was not alone. Here it came, the gasp, the reflexive gripping of my hand as Ida returned from her journey, sucking in a panicked breath as the body, which was not quite ready to relinquish its hold over her, reasserted its need for oxygen.

I had been with Ida for several hours now. She would stop breathing, journey off and then return with the terror of one who is starved for air. Her system was sending the equivalent of alarms and bells and whistles. You are suffocating! it would scream, and she would return with a start, in fear for her life. I felt no fear for her and it showed in my expression and demeanor. So I put my face in her path and it would be the first image she would catch sight of. My calm would then infuse her.

See, I knew in my heart that Ida was terrified of dying. I also knew that each trip she was making now was like a trial run and that my presence could melt the fear and ease her passing. And in so doing I received many gifts. I got to see the wonder in her eyes as she returned. Focused on my gaze, love suffused her face. Sometimes, upon her reemergence to consciousness, she would repeat the same sentence over and over. I began to see that many of these were unresolved concerns left over from long ago. Others were stories or events of which she was proud and needed to share.

And I was the vessel, the fortunate recipient of these gifts. Shya was as well, of course, for he was there in the room, but I loved being with Ida this way, so he gave me space.

Clutching my hand, Ida lurched back to this reality. I am so pleased to see you back, my look said. Her look had an intensity. There is something I have to tell you, it replied. As I listened as intently as I knew how, she said, “You have no idea what it is like to be dependent on money and then lose it. I swore I would never become dependent on money again!” There was a pleading in her eyes. Don’t judge me! they entreated.

More pieces of the puzzle gently fell into place. Of course many families go through tight times and have to watch their pennies to make ends meet, but with Ida, conserving money had forever been a supreme priority. When Shya was 13, his older sister, Sandra, got a lump on her neck. “Just a swollen gland,” the doctor said. For six months this “gland” stayed swollen and grew in size, but no more trips to the doctor were scheduled, no second opinions asked for. Doctors cost money, after all. Finally, finally, they went again. But, by now, it was too late. Sandra had spinal cancer and she eventually succumbed to the disease, dying at age 24, seven long years later.

The decision to delay further action on Sandra’s lump had embittered some family members but as I sat with this fragile old lady, holding her hand, I realized that at some moment in time when she was young, Ida had sworn to herself a solemn oath to conserve money, however large a sacrifice it might seem. She had made this promise to herself, never even glimpsing what the future might have in store, and she had paid the ultimate price. “It’s not right for a parent to outlive her children,” she had told me more than once. I smiled down at her a tender smile. I love you. I forgive you. It’s all right; you can rest now.

Soon Ida began to slide in and out of consciousness with more and more ease. Today was not to be the day of her death but it was coming. I could feel it. Ten or so days later, Ida was again living in Intensive Care. She would not be going home again. We sat with her while she drifted in and out of consciousness.

As Ida regained awareness of her surroundings, Shya said, “Hello, Ida. Did you have a nice journey?”

°Oh yes,” she replied with enthusiasm. “It was beautiful!” She remained smiling, her wrinkled old face and sunken eyes beatific. Then her countenance relaxed and she was away again, her gaze still looking at me, but she was not there. Holding her hand, I waited.

By now, Shya was sitting with me and we had our faces pressed side-by-side so she could see us both upon her re-emergence. Sometimes she came back a bit disoriented but always, she was so happy to see us. “Oh, it’s you!” she would exclaim. “I love you so much,” and then she would go only to return again, surprised and delighted to see us once again. “Oh, it’s you, I love you so much!” Each return was new. She was new and so were we.

At one point she became very lucid for a longer stretch of time. Taking Shya’s hand, she gave him the equivalent of a dying sage’s blessing. “You know, I must admit, Shya, that when you were younger, I never thought you would turn out, but you did. I am very proud of you.”

Wow, what a gift! We all cried as Shya and she held hands. Then she drifted away. Upon her return, Ida looked him in the eye and said, “You are going to be very famous some day,” before she left again. Ida was in a rhythm of her own now. Her body was closing itself down bit by bit. Her race was almost run.

Two nights later, she finally slipped away for good. Ida was laid to rest in a beautiful mahogany casket that Rhoda, Shya’s sister, had picked out. On the day of the service, we shared stories about Ida Speiler who got married and became Ida Kane. Ida’s only remaining sibling told a little about Ida’s early life. Ruth, a tiny, almostreplica of her sister, stood and recited some facts of old that were new to us. “Ida was born on Rivington Street near Delancy,” she began. °These streets were on Manhattan’s Lower East side. Things were pretty normal at first and then the depression came. My father lost his job. Everyone was out of work and Ida got a job and supported the whole family. She was thirteen, then.”

I got a rush as if someone had poured ice water over my head. The hairs raised on my arms. Of course. Now this particular puzzle was completed. I imagined a petite child of 13, laboring to feed her siblings and both parents, seven in all. “You have no idea what it is like to be dependent on money and then lose it.” She had said. “I swore I would never become dependent on money again!” Later during the service, I gave my own silent prayer: Oh, Ida, I understand. I am so, so sorry. Things must have hurt really bad. I have such compassion for you. I love you so much. I hope now you can finally rest in peace.

Since 1987, internationally acclaimed authors, seminar leaders, and business consultants Ariel & Shya Kane have acted as guides, leading people through the swamp of the mind into the clarity and brilliance of the moment. To find out more about the Kanes, their evening and weekend seminars in Manhattan and their Transformational Community or to sign up to receive their article of the month, visit: www.TransformationMadeEasy.com.