Tikkun Magazine, March/April 2009 

Sarti

By Abby Caplin

It was the week before Purim that Sarti died. Sarti—the tiny hermit crab we had brought home during Chanukah, an energetic, tough-minded, two-inch-long bundle of moving mouthparts and flirtatious eyeballs in a pearly shell—was no longer with us. Our nine-year-old daughter, Sarah, had just left for the weekend, kissing her "Crabby Boy" farewell and expecting to see him again soon.

We had noticed him slowing down, spending more time in his shell and burrowing into the gravel. But I was not prepared for the shock I felt when I picked him up and noticed a peculiar stillness. Hoping to wake him, I placed him gently near his water dish. Sarti's tiny body, pale and brittle, fell from its shell and broke into several pieces. I stepped back, horrified. How quickly he had died! I called for my husband; I couldn't look at the devastation.

He bravely gathered Sarti together with his shell and placed him into an empty cardboard Fuji film box, cushioning him with Kleenex. "Poor Sarti!" cried our four-year-old, Isaac. We decided to hold the funeral when Sarah returned.

Upon hearing the bad news, Sarah was overcome with shock and grief. I held her as she cried. After a while, she began to wonder. Had we cared for him improperly? Was he sick? How many "crab years" old had he been, anyway?

That night, our family solemnly gathered together in the backyard, dug a hole, and gently lowered the tiny coffin by flashlight. We took turns shoveling teaspoonfuls of dirt into the grave and used a discarded toothbrush as a headstone. In the windy dark, we told Sarti how much he meant to us in the short time that we knew him.

And then came Purim, the Jewish holiday when we recount the story of Esther. During Purim we remember how Haman plotted to kill the Jews, and how Esther concealed her Jewish identity from her husband King Ahashverosh, until she was able to expose the evil Haman. It is a time to laugh off danger, much as a person might enjoy a horror film once the lights have been turned on. Children and adults wear costumes and masks, disguising themselves as creatures of their own desire, temporarily shedding their constricted personae for a taste of unrestricted fantasy and mirthful laughter. But despite the costumes, treats, and carnivals, Sarti's absence remained heavy in our hearts.

The next day we left our synagogue's Purim carnival, carrying hamantashen (a three-cornered holiday pastry) and a boxed lunch of bagels, lox, and cream cheese, which had been prepared as a fundraiser by the synagogue teenagers. As we approached our car, we noticed a shabbily dressed old man on the grass, looking dazed and hungry. We decided that he was homeless and wondered how he would receive our offer of the boxed lunch.

"Excuse me, sir," I inquired with Sarah in hand. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

As he looked up, the man's elderly mask fell away, revealing the face of a twenty-year-old. "No, I haven't," he replied, gratefully accepting the food. As our car pulled away, we waved, and I hoped that the Purim lunch would help ensure his survival.

That night, we drove to a mountaintop to witness miracles in the sky: the Hale-Bopp comet and the partial eclipse of the moon. I felt insignificant and, at the same time, completely connected to the mystery of the Universe. We recited the traditional Hebrew blessing upon witnessing a wonder of nature. Then Sarah turned to me and unexpectedly asked, "Mom, are you sure Sarti died?"

Was I sure Sarti was dead? An image popped into my mind of seeing little crab legs, still and quiet, as Isaac had taken his last look. I had briefly marveled at how my husband had managed to stuff Sarti so neatly back into his little shell before burial. Doubt sent adrenaline coursing through me. Bits of information, long forgotten, began to crowd my brain. I suddenly recalled that hermit crabs must shed their hard exoskeletons in order to grow, and that people can mistakenly believe their pet crabs have died!

Had we made the same mistake? Fear gripped me. Had we buried a living animal? Was it too late?

I confessed my fears to my husband, who wondered at my runaway imagination. He expressed concern at the thought of desecrating the grave of our beloved pet. What would the children think if they looked out the window and saw their mother behaving like a common grave robber? Buried alive! Even if we had done this, how could Sarti have possibly survived being packed in Kleenex and underground for a week?

I couldn't sleep that night. When morning finally arrived, I counted the minutes until everyone left for school or work. Seconds later, I headed for Sarti's grave, a kitchen spoon trembling in my hand.

My heart was pounding. I pushed away the dirt and tore open the soggy Fuji film box, which Sarah had lovingly wrapped and decorated. I gently took his pearly shell into my hand and tapped at it. Incredibly, I thought I detected some movement.

With a few more taps and lots of prayers, "Crabby Boy" peered out, his black beady eyes inquiring about all the commotion. As he pulled his body further out of the shell, I admired his colorful and fresh new physique. He did not notice my tears and relief as he stretched his legs and energetically scuttled across the palm of my hand.

For our family, Sarti and the holiday of Purim will forever be linked. Like Esther's story, Sarti's is about hidden identity, survival, self-revelation, and growth. It is about miracles and salvation. Like Esther's, it is a story in which God's presence is everywhere but never mentioned.

Abby Caplin, MD, practices mind-body medicine in San Francisco, serving women with autoimmune disorders. She leads workshops for patients, physicians, and medical students on meaning in medicine and humanizing health care.

Source Citation

Caplin, Abby. 2009. Sarti. Tikkun 24(2): 18.