September has long been considered an unlucky month on my mother’s side of my family. I celebrate October 1st each year to give thanks for not having died in September.

Being Jewish automatically brings with it a certain amount of . . . well, tseuris (grief), of course . . . but also superstition; and the “September curse” is my cross (so to speak) to bear. That, and knocking on wood for practically everything.

It all started when I was eight years old. My great-grandmother died while I was sitting by her bed, holding her hand and talking to her, though she wasn’t really responding. Suddenly her hand went limp. I eased my fingers out from under hers, tried unsuccessfully to wake her, and then walked out to the kitchen — where the family was gathered on death watch — and authoritatively announced, “Baba’s dead.”

In unison, they all began assuring me that she must just be asleep; they were so certain I would be traumatized, and wanted to protect me. But I just shook my head and matter-of-factly declared, “No. She’s really dead. I checked.” One of my uncles then went into her room to see if this snippy little eight-year-old knew what she was talking about, and a moment later he returned nodding in confirmation. She had quietly slipped away while holding my hand. It was September.

And three days later, my grandfather — who had been in the hospital following successful gall bladder surgery, and had not yet been told that his mother-in-law had died — had a sudden, completely unexpected heart attack and passed away. It was still September.

Since that time, in September every gas pain is a heart attack, and you can’t convince me otherwise.

*. *. *

But sometimes they really are more than just gas. In 1960, my mother, my sister Merna and I were moving into a new apartment in D.C. There were no cell phones in those days, but luckily the phone company arrived on time to install our new house phone. Almost immediately, it rang — which was rather spooky since no one had our new number yet, except for the “Information” operators, who were very efficient in those days. It was my mother’s younger sister in Rhode Island, calling to tell her that their older sister had passed away in her sleep during an afternoon nap. It was only July, but she had had a heart attack without waiting for September. We thought perhaps the “September curse” had been broken.

Until two months later, when my grandmother succumbed to . . . you guessed it . . . a heart attack. In September.

*. *. *

Three decades passed quickly. Then it was my mother’s turn. The year was 1991. I had spent the summer working overseas in Prague, and had been back home for only about a week when she was rushed to the hospital with chest pains. She had had congestive heart failure for a number of years, so it was not totally unexpected. She spent a few days in the hospital, came home, then returned to the hospital a week or so later. She died on September 18th — which also happened to be my sister’s birthday. Double whammy.

So even being born in September can be unlucky. Merna’s birthday celebrations were never the same after that.

*. *. *

And the September curse nearly took away Merna’s life as well. It was 2017, and she was terminally ill with malignant pleural effusion. It was only her determination to see her beloved Washington Redskins (we do not acknowledge the recent name change) play for at least part of the season that kept her going as long as she did. She barely made it through the month, entering hospice in early October. The doctor gave her an estimated three to ten days; she lasted three weeks. The nurses told me they had never seen such a stubborn patient. But sadly, the Redskins had to finish the season without her.

*. *. *

And the “being born in September curse” applies doubly, this time to my granddaughter Emily. She was born prematurely — at 26 weeks — in September of 1995. Through the twin miracles of medical science and motherly love and determination, she survived, but not without serious medical complications that ultimately took her from us at the age of 26, just over two years ago. That was the hardest loss of all.

*. *. *

So you can see why I hold my breath for 30 days every year at this time. The world lost quite a few souls this past month, as it inevitably does; but I’m happy (and more than a little relieved) to say that my family — what’s left of it — is still intact.

This September we had a hurricane named Helene instead. It blew away more than 100 lives in the southeastern United States. And not one of them was a relative of mine.

There are no guarantees, of course; but perhaps I can breathe a little easier for the next eleven months.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
10/1/24