When a Companion Takes Their Leave

A piece of art Susana created before returning to the mikvah for the last time. Photo from Susana.

Judaism is a religion of cycles. Our lives turn in familiar circles — the candles we light each Friday night, the Havdalah flame at each week’s end, the holidays that return year after year like visitors who know where the dishes are kept. These rituals are companions in their own right. They lend rhythm to our life and reassurance that while time moves forward and we progress, we are never too far from where we began.

For many years, one of my most personal companions was the mikvah. It arrived in my life when I was young and newly married — a little nervous, a little unsure, clutching a towel and a sense that I was stepping into something ancient and intimate. Over the years, that ritual became part of my monthly private landscape. I returned after giving birth to my first child, my body changed, my heart full. And there were months I returned after disappointment, when fertility treatments failed, when I had cried through an entire cycle only to begin another. Through it all, the mikvah was there.

It didn’t demand anything from me. It simply waited. It was the quiet friend who never asked whether I came in joy or in grief, who held space for whatever I brought. My body changed, my life changed, but this ritual — this companion — remained steady.

Then, in November of 2024, I was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 35. Almost overnight, the patterns that had shaped my adult life collapsed. Treatment began, and with it, my cycle ceased. My quiet companion fell silent. I told myself there were bigger things to worry about — survival, my family, my strength — but I still missed that monthly return. It was more than the loss of a ritual; it was the loss of a rhythm that had tethered me to myself.

When chemotherapy ended, my body began to stir again. My cycle returned, fragile but familiar. It felt like seeing an old friend from across the street — unexpected, comforting, a sign of life. But my doctors, mindful of my genetic risk, advised me to undergo an oophorectomy and hysterectomy to reduce my risk of future cancer. I agreed- it was the right choice. But when the surgeries were over, I knew something profound had ended.

I avoided the mikvah for weeks. I believed I wasn’t ready, but the truth was simpler: I didn’t know how to say goodbye. My companion — the ritual that had accompanied me through marriage, motherhood, and loss — was waiting for one final meeting. I wasn’t sure I could face it.

Eventually, I made an appointment. The rebbetzin who greeted me knew my story. She welcomed me with the tenderness of someone who understands both faith and grief. She had prepared a framework from the Eden Center — a tevillah for women after hysterectomy — to help me mark this moment with intention. It was not an ending, she told me, but a chance to acknowledge what had been, what is, and what will come.

Inside the mikvah, it was quiet — the kind of quiet that feels like listening.

The First Immersion: The Past — Reflection and Acknowledgment

I thought about the long road that had brought me here. From my first cycle to my last, my body had carried me through so much — hope and disappointment, creation and loss. I honored the miracles it had allowed, and forgave the pain it had caused. I whispered the verse:

‎זֵכֶר רַב טוּבְךָ יַבִּיעוּ וְצִדְקָתְךָ יְרַנֵּנוּ — “They will speak of the abundance of Your goodness and sing of Your righteousness.”

It felt like thanking an old friend for years of companionship.

The Second Immersion: The Present — Recognition and Thankfulness

Then I turned to the moment itself. I was here. Alive. Whole in a new way, even with what had been taken. I let myself feel gratitude for the survival that had made this goodbye necessary. I recited,

‎זֶה הַיּוֹם עָשָׂה יְ-הוָה נָגִילָה וְנִשְׂמְחָה בוֹ — “This is the day that God has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

I thought about how a companion can walk beside you only so far before your paths must diverge.

The Third Immersion: The Future — Hopes and Dreams

Finally, I turned toward what comes next. I prayed for health, for joy, for peace in my body and my home. I prayed that I would continue to find holiness, even without this ritual to mark my months. I whispered,

‎יִהְיוּ לְרָצוֹן אִמְרֵי פִי וְהֶגְיוֹן לִבִּי לְפָנֶיךָ יְ-הוָה צוּרִי וְגֹאֲלִי — “May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable before You, God, my Rock and my Redeemer.”

When it was time to leave, I lingered a moment longer. There was sadness, yes, but also calm. I realized that saying goodbye to a companion doesn’t erase their presence. The years we shared remain within me — the steadiness, the reflection, the faith that came with every return.

The mikvah and I no longer meet in the same way. But like any lasting friendship, what it gave me endures: a way to honor the cycles of my life, even the ones that end before we expect them to. Judaism’s rhythm continues, carrying me forward. My companion has taken her leave — but the space she once filled is now my own to carry.

Susana Gershuny is an artist and interior designer whose work has been featured at SFMoMA. Her creative practice centers on Jewish identity, femininity, and the emotional landscape of illness and recovery. Through sculpture and mixed media, Susana explores the intersection of motherhood, memory, and the quiet devastation of personal loss—reflecting her own experience as a young woman navigating breast cancer in her 30s. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, two children, and their dog, Ze’ev.