Gail is survived by her husband Avi, and her children, Talia, Dana, and Yonatan. 

Avi gave this eulogy below:

"You’re married for forty-five years, and then, one day, in one single moment — it’s all over. How can that be? You ask yourself. Just like that? No warning? No sign? And even when you understand — as they say — that’s life, it still feels impossible. Unbelievable. And certainly not fair.

Gail, my beloved wife, was a remarkable woman. Everyone said so, but I didn’t need to be told — I knew it better than anyone. I truly knew her. A woman of boundless generosity, who always greeted people warmly, who always knew how to offer a compliment exactly when she felt it was needed — even if I thought it was unnecessary, over the top, or sometimes even a bit embarrassing. But she wouldn’t stop. Just last week, when we walked into a restaurant together, she noticed a pretty brooch the hostess was wearing. Right away she complimented her on her good taste, asked where it was from, and wanted to know its story — as if in that moment, nothing else in the world mattered more.

When the COVID-19 pandemic broke out, and since she was a gifted quilt artist, she immediately sat down and sewed masks for everyone on our street. Every couple of weeks she would cook meals for lone soldiers — chicken, chicken with mushrooms in wine, and other delicacies — and then she would insist I label each box precisely with its contents. I, ever impatient, would tease her, saying she was single-handedly going to deplete Jerusalem of chickens, and if she was going that far, she might as well add the recipe to each box too.

After the massacre in Kibbutz Be’eri, she couldn’t just sit idly by. She rallied quilting groups all across America, urging them to volunteer and donate beautiful patchwork quilts — each one a work of art — to every person who had lost their home in the kibbutz.

Gail made Aliyah alone at the age of nineteen, right after the Yom Kippur War. She studied special education at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, worked as a counselor for children with special needs who lived in institutions — and made sure to bring them home for weekends, so they could feel that they, too, had a home and a warm, loving place to spend Shabbat, as she always said. Later, she studied dental hygiene at Hadassah Medical School and was part of Israel’s very first graduating class of dental hygienists.

She was a devoted mother. She raised three children, each one a daily source of pride and joy. A patient, caring, dedicated mother, who always said, “It’ll be alright,” even when I was sure it wouldn’t be. And somehow, things always did work out. She had a rare quality — she didn’t judge people, she almost never got angry, and if she did — it was mostly at herself. Just last week, while she was writing a eulogy for her dear friend Linda, who passed away only two weeks before her, she muttered, “It’s not coming out the way I want it to. I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve run out of words.”

And now — I’ve run out of words too.

Gail was a joyful woman. Intelligent. A quilter at heart and soul. An avid reader, endlessly curious, interested in just about everything — from traveling the world to people she happened to meet by chance. She loved people. Simply — people. She always invited, connected, brought people together — friends and acquaintances, some she knew well and some barely at all.

I don’t think there’s a single family member, friend, or acquaintance of ours — here or abroad — who didn’t stay at our home at least once. Many times, even complete strangers — friends of relatives, friends of friends — came by, and were always welcomed with open arms and the delicious meals she so loved to cook. And when she cooked — it was never just enough. It was abundance, sometimes even too much. Almost always, after the guests had left, grateful and satisfied, she would suddenly remember that salad left in the fridge, or the casserole forgotten in the oven — as if there always had to be a taste of more.

I don’t know where she is now, but I’m certain she’s doing something good, or looking for someone to help.

It’s unbelievable how, after just five days, she’s already missed so deeply. Suddenly I realize I have a million more questions to ask her — questions I’ll never get an answer to. And a million little things left to sort out, that probably never will be. So what do you do? I ask myself. Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe you just learn to live without answers.

How does one really say goodbye to someone who shared your whole life? They say time heals. I’m not so sure. Maybe it just teaches you how to live with the emptiness.

And if there is any small comfort — it’s knowing that her memory remains, that this love doesn’t vanish. It simply stays here, but in a different way."