Reckoning

Reckoning

   It was the summer of 2008 when my dad and I shared our first, last and only chance to recover the truly unrecoverable, time.

   From an inspiring view of north Lake Shore Drive as seen through the kitchen window of his 29th floor condominium at 1100 N. Lake Shore Drive, my father gave over his life's reckoning.
   An endless stream of sun worshippers strolled east along Chicago’s Division Street twenty-nine floors below my father’s condominium.They chattered excitedly as they neared the warm beaches and cool waters of Oak Street beach. Hundreds of sailboats dotted the canvas of Lake Michigan’s blue waters when, on a clear day, one could see for miles and miles.
The Editor
   "Son please, stop pacing. I'm trying to read.”
Looking the part, I imagined, of a grizzled copy editor trying to meet his deadline, Dad busily reviewed the draft of our previous conversation.
“Done," he burst out, pushing himself away from the table and slapping his knees. “Ready to continue when you are, Son.”
   For several days, you might have never guessed that intestinal
cancer was killing my father. Like a couple of ducks on the pond, we appeared calm but underneath, we were paddling like crazy.
   Urgency pursued us like a thief in the dark. This is my dad. The way back would be lonely. Mistakes made a half century ago don’t seem as egregious as they once did. The truth is Dad did spend too much time at the office when my brother Ron and I were little kids.
(Following my parents' divorce)
   While we would have liked to have seen him more often, we did enjoy many memorable times together. That wasn’t the problem. It was his daily absence in the “growing up” years (that begin over a bowl of cereal or oatmeal and a “see ya later Dad” as you run out to catch the bus with a piece of toast hanging from your mouth.) That’s the stuff we missed.
   Please don't misunderstand.We had a great dad, Ron and I. He just didn’t live with his children unlike the many horrendous dads out there who do.

(One late Friday afternoon ...)
   “Alan, come back here in the bedroom.” Dad does not feel well
today. Lying atop his sickbed with his head scrunched up against four pillows has left his toupee lopsided and disheveled. His frighteningly thin legs poke through the ends of the same pajama pants I have seen him wearing for the past several days.
   “Do you remember when you wrote how afraid you were I was
going to die that morning?” Dad speaks of his impending death
with the dispassion of a man who has squared his account with his
Maker. I could only nod. A lump as big as an avocado seed was stuck in my throat.“Well Son, I wasn’t ready to die right then and, as a matter of fact,” he added forcefully, “the thought never entered my head.”
   I’d always admired but feared my father's toughness who had been trained as a boxer in his teens though he was more of a scrapper, the kind of guy for whom the only rule in street fighting was that there are no rules.
“Dad,” I swallowed hard, “I was so scared when I first saw you
laid out on that gurney.” I had never seen him so sick. He winced. “Dad, are you all right? Dad?” He doesn’t hear very well anymore. “I took two Vicodin.”
“What's it like?” He looked at me as if he hadn’t understood my question. “Your pain, I mean?”
"Sore, you know, how I felt as a kid when I had eaten too many
green apples.”
   That was about as bizarre an answer as I might have ever imagined, but I didn’t believe a word of it. Sure I knew what he was doing, being a dad and all, he thought, for my sake.
“I was thinking back when you were a baby. Did you know you
were born with a club foot?” His eyes glistened.
“No, I didn’t,” I replied untruthfully. I had heard the club foot
story many times, but was never sure whether he had actually forgotten the many times he had told it before or simply thought
it worthy of repetition.
“I used to turn your foot like this, again and again.” He twisted his hands, one clockwise, the other counter-clockwise as one might wring out a wet towel.
“What time do you have, Son?” He reached for the box of tissues on the nightstand.
“4:45,” I exhaled, emotionally drained by Dad’s story.
“4.45! You better get going, Son. It’s getting late.”
“Have a Good Shabbos*”
"Hmm, he hasn’t ever said that before.”
“Dad, uh, enjoy the weekend,” I responded. 
Enjoy the weekend? Dad is dying before my eyes and the best I can come up with is enjoy the weekend!
  I was exhausted. Dad sat up in bed with his back positioned
squarely against the headboard. He had draped the sleeves of his schmatte* sweater over his shoulders and knotted them on his chest like a collegiate tennis player.
   I wrapped his feet loosely. He had been complaining that his toes felt frozen. His whiskers were as they had always been, coarse like forty grade sandpaper, even when he was clean shaven.

My Prescription
   My father lived his life far from shamefulness; you might say he was an old-fashioned moralist. He was even careful not to take too much Vicodin to quiet the cancer related stomach pain that kept him up at night.
“Dad, I’ve a prescription,” I said, tongue in cheek.
“What’s that, Son?”
“Get yourself a book, any will do, a half cup of wine, climb into bed. You’ll be asleep in five minutes.”
“I can’t do that Son. I don’t drink. You know that,” he responded with the fatigue of someone who had borne a burden far too long.
“Dad, this is not drinking. This is a half cup of wine at bedtime.”
“Alan,” Dad sighed, reluctant to tell a story he didn’t relish.
Dad’s dark side? I scooted my chair closer. “Did I ever tell you about the one time I drank?”
Okay Dad you’ve got my attention. I nodded my head from side to side. “Your Mom and I were invited out to a dinner party. Wasn’t the sort of thing we did ordinarily, but we thought to give it a try. I don’t know why I did it Son,” Dad admitted, “but that night I got stupid drunk.”
Stupid drunk? Was this Dad talking?
“And Mom?”
The wrinkles on Dad’s forehead appeared.
“Your Mom, Son, well … let’s just say I had never seen her so angry with me.” Dad’s voice softened. “Do you remember the six steps we had?" I nodded.
“I barely made it up the first step when I collapsed face down on the remaining five.” His face turned red. “Not only that but I woke your brother up.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me why I was going to sleep on the steps, and I had to lie to my own son.”
There was nothing more he needed to say or even could have.
   As a college kid, I would have enjoyed an occasional beer with my dad. Our beer never did happen, but now I knew why.
Baruch Hashem
   Literally, it means Blessed is the Name of G-d. It has many
colloquial meanings of which the most common is Thank G-d. Theologically, when a Jew says Baruch Hashem he means: I’m not worried because G-d runs the world as He sees fit.  

"Alan, did I tell you about the great price I got on some new treatment equipment for room one?” Dad was always on the lookout for a great deal.

Baruch Hashem! Great news Dad. Baruch Hashem. I must have repeated it no fewer than twenty times in a five minute phone call.
Now you really have to work hard to aggravate my father.
I managed.

“Alan, please speak to me in language I understand.”

That is how my father rebuked me when I first set out on the perilous journey of Torah observant Judaism. His words might not seem very harsh to you, but I was ashamed because I forgot what he had once taught me when one evening we watched American track star Bob Beamon break the world record in the long jump at the 1968 Mexico City Summer Olympics.
 
“A patient needle, Son, weaves beautiful fabric from many little stitches sewn together over time.” I don’t know where he got this stuff or if he made it up along the way, but I am thankful for having had such a man as my North Star.
The Kiss
   I was overcome by a special feeling, a hint of finality when Dad kissed me goodbye that late Friday afternoon. I inhaled his scent, approximating a blend of early morning rain forest and a bay leaf.
   Turning the front door knob as quietly as possible, I looked back to catch him peeking from around the corner of the hallway. “Dad,” I called out, Good Shabbos. He smiled.
That tiny moment would remain ours forever. Avi Mori, my father, my teacher, was at peace in the autumn of his days.