I dedicate this post to my friend Arnie whose father passed away about two weeks ago. I saw Arnie and his son in shul tonight. Arnie, wonderful families as yours don't just happen. They are the products of generations, linked together in the Jewish people's grand mesorah, stretching from is to was and forward to will be. May your father's neshuma soar to heights from which he'll kvell with naches whilst he oversees his children and his children's children.
Reckoning
It was the summer of 2008 when Dad
and I shared our first, last and only chance to recover the truly unrecoverable,
time.
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 can see for miles and miles.
It was on such a day and 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, that my
father shared his life's reckoning with me.
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 day's conversation.
"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 day's 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 never have guessed that intestinal
For several days, you might never have 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 before 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.
While we would have preferred to see Dad more often following our parents’ divorce, we did visit and enjoyed many memorable times together. That wasn’t the problem. Rather, it was his daily absence in the growing up years-which begin with a fast breakfast, kiss, hug and a “see ya later Dad” as you run 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.
While we would have preferred to see Dad more often following our parents’ divorce, we did visit and enjoyed many memorable times together. That wasn’t the problem. Rather, it was his daily absence in the growing up years-which begin with a fast breakfast, kiss, hug and a “see ya later Dad” as you run 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 he has worn for the past several days.
“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 he has worn 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 pit 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, as a kid, 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 …” 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, Son. I’m alright.”
I’d always admired but feared my father's toughness who, as a kid, 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 …” 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, Son. I’m alright.”
“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 ever have imagined, but I didn’t buy 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.” The lump in my throat grew bigger as he twisted his hands, one
clockwise, the other counter clockwise as though wringing out a wet towel.
“What time do you have,
Son?” He reached for the box of tissues on the nightstand.
“4:45,” I exhaled, drained by his story.
“4:45! You better get going, Son. It’s getting late.” he cautioned.
“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!
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 as tennis players often do.
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 even characterize him as an old-fashioned moralist. Careful not to take too many Vicodin pills (aware, as he well knew, of their addictive nature) to quiet the stomach pain that kept him up at night, he doggedly carried on.
“4:45,” I exhaled, drained by his story.
“4:45! You better get going, Son. It’s getting late.” he cautioned.
“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!
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 as tennis players often do.
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 even characterize him as an old-fashioned moralist. Careful not to take too many Vicodin pills (aware, as he well knew, of their addictive nature) to quiet the stomach pain that kept him up at night, he doggedly carried on.
“Dad,
I’ve a prescription,” I said, tongue in cheek.
“What’s that?”
“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 for far too long.
“Dad, this is not drinking. This is a half cup of wine at bedtime.”
“Alan, did I ever tell you about the one time I drank?” Dad sighed, reluctant but now committed to tell a story he didn’t relish.
Dad’s dark side? I’ve still time. I scooted my chair up closer.
“What’s that?”
“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 for far too long.
“Dad, this is not drinking. This is a half cup of wine at bedtime.”
“Alan, did I ever tell you about the one time I drank?” Dad sighed, reluctant but now committed to tell a story he didn’t relish.
Dad’s dark side? I’ve still time. I scooted my chair up closer.
“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,” he 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.” His 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 as red as a beet. “Not only that but I woke your brother up.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me why I was sleeping on the steps, and I had to lie to my own son.” He looked down at the floor. There was nothing more he needed to say or even could have.
As a college kid, I would have enjoyed an occasional beer with Dad. Our beer never did happen, but at least now I knew why.
Baruch Hashem
Literally, it means Blessed is the Name of G-d. It has many other 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.
Dad often called between patients for a quick chat. “Alan, did I tell you about the low price I got on some new equipment?"
"Baruch Hashem! Great news Dad. Baruch Hashem!” I must have repeated it no fewer than twenty times during a phone call lasting no more than five minutes. Now you 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. His intent, I believe, was not to derail me but to keep me on track, but that did not keep me from the shame I felt for having forgotten, in my zeal to race through the arduous challenges of Jewish observance, what Dad had once taught me.
We were tuned in to see American track star Bob Beamon break the world record in the long jump at the 1968 Mexico City Summer Olympics. “Did you see that Dad? It was like he was running in mid-air.”
“A patient needle, Son, sews many strong stitches over time, never rushing but producing garments that, in the end, will last for many years.” 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 hint of finality when I kissed Dad before leaving for home that late Friday afternoon. I inhaled his scent, an intoxicating 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* was at peace in the autumn of his days.
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.” His 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 as red as a beet. “Not only that but I woke your brother up.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me why I was sleeping on the steps, and I had to lie to my own son.” He looked down at the floor. There was nothing more he needed to say or even could have.
As a college kid, I would have enjoyed an occasional beer with Dad. Our beer never did happen, but at least now I knew why.
Baruch Hashem
Literally, it means Blessed is the Name of G-d. It has many other 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.
Dad often called between patients for a quick chat. “Alan, did I tell you about the low price I got on some new equipment?"
"Baruch Hashem! Great news Dad. Baruch Hashem!” I must have repeated it no fewer than twenty times during a phone call lasting no more than five minutes. Now you 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. His intent, I believe, was not to derail me but to keep me on track, but that did not keep me from the shame I felt for having forgotten, in my zeal to race through the arduous challenges of Jewish observance, what Dad had once taught me.
We were tuned in to see American track star Bob Beamon break the world record in the long jump at the 1968 Mexico City Summer Olympics. “Did you see that Dad? It was like he was running in mid-air.”
“A patient needle, Son, sews many strong stitches over time, never rushing but producing garments that, in the end, will last for many years.” 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 hint of finality when I kissed Dad before leaving for home that late Friday afternoon. I inhaled his scent, an intoxicating 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* was at peace in the autumn of his days.
Alan D. Busch
This story is excerpted from my second book Between 10 and 5 With Dad, Keeping The Fifth Commandment which will be published by Cyberwit Publications. Any questions can be directed to alandbusch@aol.com or alandbusch@gmail.com
_____
avi mori: my father, my teacher
avi mori: my father, my teacher
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