by Dana Asher

an overwhelming sadness

Sandy Pomerantz can understand why people may assume that AIDS doesn't affect Jewish families. While her eldest son, Jeremy, was waging his battle against the disease, two congregants in her synagogue had family members who had lost the fight -- one had buried a brother; the other, a son. Pomerantz, whose husband is rabbi of Temple Beth El in Closter, New Jersey, reached out to both of them. Yet, they never were comfortable acknowledging that it was AIDS that had taken their loved ones, and they were ready to move on.

"When Jeremy was diagnosed, I could see it was impossible not to call it what it was -- nor would I ever have had any intention of doing that," says Pomerantz, owner of an academic software business. One reason Jeremy didn't disclose his diagnosis to his parents as soon as he found out is that he was worried about how the temple commu-nity would respond, fearful that it would be a terrible humiliation to his father. "That was never our concern -- not ever. It had nothing to do with our major goal, which was to keep Jeremy alive and healthy as long as possible." Pomerantz recalls the support she received: When Jeremy returned home from his first hospital stay, the director of New Jersey Buddies came to offer support and coping tools and the group offered family therapy at no charge. Once Jeremy's illness became public knowledge, synagogue members "rose to the occasion," with a massive out-pouring of concern, Pomerantz says. "I believe temple communities want to be there for everyone, but they need direction from the family in terms of its specific needs," she says.

Still, like Benzer, Pomerantz says that having women like herself to talk to would have been comforting. Unfortunately, she couldn't find any. "Were there Jewish support groups available? No. Would that have been helpful? Yes.

"Still, I'm a bottom-line person. Do healing services help? Support groups? Meditation or worship? In the end, if it's not going to put him at my house at the seder table, it's not going to help me," she says. "The loss is always there. It never changes. I had fantasized that it would be easier as time goes on. In some ways, it's harder. The reality of him being gone becomes greater."

Pomerantz's son, Joshua, and daughter-in-law, Marta, were married 31 days after Jeremy's death six years ago at the age of 30. It was one day past the shloshim, the thirty days of mourning, during which the mourners do not take part in any festive events. ("It was as if," Pomerantz recalls, "he was giving us permission to have a festive event.")

The night before the wedding, the family went out for dinner. "I looked around the table and we were still a family of five. And now, with Rebecca married, we're six. But there's still never the right amount of people around the dinner table, and that can never be changed."

For Pomerantz, the empty seat often seems closest during Jewish holidays and life cycle events: the seder table where Jeremy once read from the haggadah and the weddings missing a brother. Two years ago, Rebecca received her rabbinical ordination from Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion. With an eight-year age difference between them, Jeremy was mentor to his younger sister, encouraging her toward her personal goals. When she was accepted to HUC, Jeremy sang a message on Becca's answering machine, his own rendition of "A Blessing on Your Head...mazel tov, mazel tov" from Fiddler on the Roof. As Pomerantz says, there's the sense that her son should be there.

"It's an overwhelming sadness. That's my overriding feeling," she says. "As a mother, you have a special relationship. I spoke to Jeremy every day on the phone. Then one day, the phone calls just stopped. What do you do with that? How do prayer and meditation and outreach fix that? There are programs for the living, but not much there for you after your son dies."