Daddy, Please Don't Die

My son asked me not to die. In a quiet voice he looked at me and told me that he didn't want me to. I don't think that I'll ever forget that night. It was December of 2004. We had finished opening Chanukah gifts and lying in his big boy bed. Just a few weeks away from turning four, he looked at me and said please don't die.

The thought of dying without getting a chance to see him grow up was heartbreaking to me. I couldn't imagine not seeing this little boy become a man and couldn't imagine who would teach him how to become one. It was shocking to me because until that point I didn't think that it had ever occurred him that one day his parents would be gone. He was too young to understand death, so why would it ever occur to him to apply it to me.

I know, it was naive and foolish on my part to think so- but that is what I thought. So when it happened it really threw me for a loop. I was glad that it was dark so that he couldn't see me choke up or the tears in my eyes. When I think back on that moment I can see some of it more objectively than I once did because 2004 was a very tough year. It was the year that my own father almost died and I suspect that played a role in how I reacted.

This is all tied in with why I wrote A Father's Blessing. There is a purpose, a rhyme and a reason to all of this. These posts aren't written for self indulgent reasons or sheer sentimentality. They are a living record of my life and those I love. These are fragments of my life, moments in time that are frozen in memory. They're a chronicle that one day I will pass along to the children so that they have something hard and tangible to remember me by. So that they know that their father loved them fiercely and so they see some of the thoughts, ideas, fears and feelings that make me who I am.

And on a selfish level they provide that forum in which I can collect my thoughts and try to understand what it is I think or feel. So that I can take a look back at those moments and smile or frown at the tapestry of life I am creating. The parade of endless images are part of what I use to pay homage to that which deserves the notoriety.

But it would be wrong of me not to include my daughter in this discussion because the dark haired beauty has talked about this too. I remember her screams. Daddy You Died. That was what she said, in her soft voice. I remember holding her while she sobbed on my shoulder and doing my best to calm her down.

That moment has been on my mind more than a few times recently. People who are dear to me have very sick fathers and though they are grown women, mothers of their own children I hear the sadness in their voices. I hear their fear and I feel for them. I don't think that we ever reach a place where we don't want to have our parents in our lives.

*********************

"You made a promise to me and I going to see that you stick to it," is what he said. I looked at him and smiled. He told me that he was serious and I nodded my head. The little boy who asked me not to die is long gone and now a big boy who has the same name has taken his place.

I stare at this boy and see hints of the little boy he was and shows a few signs of the pre-teen he is soon to become. Not long before this boy had asked me not to play basketball with the guys. I understood why he was asking and in truth part of me wanted to stay- but I told him that I couldn't because exercise is too important.

It is not an easy request to turn down. The decision to play isn't done without considering how that impacts him. Basketball is very important to me. It is part of how I maintain my sanity and part of how I fight the battle of the bulge.

When he asked it touched several chords for me. I made him a promise 6 years ago to try my best to stay healthy so that I would be around for as long as possible. So when he talked about keeping promises that is what he was referring to.

Still, between work and school there are limited hours that we can spend together. It is part of why I try hard to find time to take the kids out separately. It doesn't have to be a long time and it doesn't have to be anything special. 

Truth is that sometimes I take them on errands with me because I know that even though it may not be fun stuff it is still time spent together. This parenting thing is a three ring circus that never quits. The thing is that in the circus the clown gets some down time. He doesn't have to worry about juggling all day and night long. The lion tamer comes out of the cage once in a while.

But being a parent, that never stops. I am not complaining I knew that the job was dangerous when I took it. ;)

Goodbye Grandma

In Dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone
As she wheeled her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels alive a-live O!

A-live a-live O! A-live a-live O!
Crying cockles and mussels alive a-live O!

Molly Malone

Yesterday was my grandfather's 96th birthday or should I say that it would have been. Hard to believe that so much time has passed and yet not hard at all. I look at my life today and shake my head in amazement. Four years later grandpa would be shocked to see how much has changed, how much has not and how much will be changing...soon.

Four years ago the dark haired beauty was a toddler who didn't understand death. Now she is pushing 6.5 and has no memories of the man I miss. She recognizes his face in pictures but doesn't know that those blue eyes had a special twinkle and no memory how he would sing Molly Malone...badly.

I don't have to close my eyes to hear him or to remember how he would tell me that he didn't "sing good, but he sang loud."

So much has happened since then. The boy I wrote about in Walking With The Dead is far bigger and understands life in different terms now. In some respects you can blame him for some of this. I have never forgotten when he asked me not to die.

But in some ways this particular post is driven by my grandmother.

I love you grandma

Grandma died this past March. She died the night of my 14th wedding anniversary, so it is only fitting that somehow her children chose the same granite for her headstone that graces my kitchen counters. The next time I make a brisket I might take some of the juice to the cemetery for the sole purpose of spilling it on her stone. Something tells me that she wouldn't mind.

There was a time just a few short years ago when my grandfather told me that my grandmother had a great ass for an old lady. I must have given him a funny look because he smiled and told me that he still saw the girl that he fell in love with. He said that he had never been given a greater gift than being loved by grandma and that just holding her hand made him happy.

I never doubted any of that and I suspect that no one who knew my grandparents did either. They were that couple, the one who had the relationship that you wanted to have. Best friends, lovers, partners and life companions.

When I think about my grandfather's comment it is hard not to smile. It was said with a twinkle in his eye and a giggle like he knew that he was getting away with something. But that is because he was. It was the sort of thing that would have made grandma make a face at him but she still would have smiled. They were married for more than 75 years so she was well accustomed to his comments and habits.

Life never stops moving. Seven years ago I had four grandparents and now I have one.

Related Links:

What I Fear
Do The Dead Walk In Dreams
Beloved Wife
Loss- A Familiar Pain
The Cemetery- Who Is In the Box
Dad, I Didn't Get To say Goodbye
Grandma's Dying & Grandpa Has Cancer
Five Years Later
We Aren't That Family
Mothers Love Their Mommies Too

Beloved Wife

A few days ago I sat on the phone with my grandfather and listened to him talk about my grandmother. Slowly the talk turned to how much he missed her and I felt very badly as I heard him begin to choke up. He misses her terribly and hopes that she recognized how much she meant to him.

So grandma, if by some chance you are out there, somewhere and you can find some way to let grandpa know, please do it. We all miss you, but he lost the love of his life and that is something a little bit different.

And thank you again for everything, your great grandchildren still talk about your 75th anniversary party and watching you dance with grandpa. For a brief moment they got a glimpse of my grandparents and understood how very active and full of life you were.

Got to go now, it is time for me take off the grandson hat and go be dad again.

"You were the love
for certain of my life
you were simply my beloved wife
I don't know for certain
how I'll live my life
now alone without my beloved wife
my beloved wife

I can't believe
I've lost the very best of me

you were the love
for certain of my life
you were simply my beloved wife
I don't know for certain
how I'll live my life
now alone without my beloved wife
my beloved wife

I can't believe
I've lost the very best of me

you were the love
for certain of my life
for 50 years simply my beloved wife
with another love I'll never lie again
it's you I can't deny
it's you I can't defy
a depth so deep
into my grief
without my beloved soul
I renounce my life
as my right
now alone without my beloved wife
my beloved wife

my beloved wife
my love is gone she suffered long
in hours of pain
my love is gone
now my suffering begins
my love is gone
would it be wrong if I should
surrender all the joy in my life
go with her tonight?

my love is gone she suffered long
in hours of pain
my love is gone
would it be wrong if I should
just turn my face away from the light
go with her tonight?"
Beloved Wife- Natalie Merchant

You "Do" For Family

"When you get an exasperating letter what happens? If you are young, you answer it promptly, instantly--and mail the thing you have written. At forty what do you do? By that time you have found out that a letter written in passion is a mistake in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred."
- Mark Twain, a Biography

"An old, cold letter ....makes you wonder how you could ever have got into such a rage about nothing."
- Mark Twain, a Biography

My paternal grandfather is certainly one of my heroes.  In a month it will be four years since he died and I miss him as much now as I ever have. It is still strange to me that he has already missed out on sharing so many monumental events. It is sometimes hard to hear my daughter say that she doesn't remember him at all.

If you show her his picture she can tell you who he is but nothing more than that. Neither of the kids have a clear understanding of just how much influence he had upon my life and why I hold on so tightly to the memories. That is ok, I don't expect it of them.

Lately I have been thinking about him more frequently. Much of that can be attributed to various events that have taken place, some good and some bad. But all of them enough to merit my wanting to talk to him about it. It would be nice to share some of the good things and to get his advice on the trickier items.

I don't have to close my eyes to hear him tell me that it is not smart to let your temper make decisions for you or that you can't screw an old head on young shoulders. Not hard for me to remember him teaching me how to throw a punch or that putting a roll of quarters in your fist is an effective way to add a little kick to your punch.

Grandpa was a character of the first order and a man who understood that sometimes you "do" for family. It is a lesson that I am passing along to my children. They need to understand that "doing" for your family is something that isn't always an option. Things happen and sometimes you adjust your schedule to take care of your siblings, parents, cousins or uncles.

We have conversations about this, the children and I. We talk about what helping out means and why it doesn't always make sense to throw money at a problem. We talk about how actions are important and what that means.

My daughter says that she is not afraid because she knows that I will protect her. Her big brother corrects her and says that "dad will protect everyone, including his parents and sisters." It leads into a back and forth between the two of them about what I will do and whether I would kill people who want to hurt the family.

For a moment I am silent, grateful that they feel this support. Grateful that they announce that they will do the same for me, but not until I really old, maybe in my fifties.

Sitting alongside them I wonder if I need to say more about it. I don't really like this talk about killing. They are right about one thing, I am the guy who will protect them. Jump in front of the bus, run into a burning building or take a bullet. To quote Superchicken, I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.

Of course I'll do it. Just ask my sisters and then tell you that I have spent the last 39 years looking out for them, whether they wanted it or not. Grandpa and my dad bear some of the responsibility for that. Now I can't help it, it is innate this desire to watch out for them.

But it is hard not to feel a little bit badly about this. She is short of six and he is almost ten and they are aware that there are bad people. Before we go to crowded places we have the conversation about being careful to stay together. I rarely say anything about bad things happening. I just say that I don't want them to get lost, but invariably one of them will mention not wanting bad people to take them.

It is a sad commentary, their awareness. Fortunately they don't walk around exhibiting signs of paranoia or fear. They aren't afraid to go out in public, just cautious about who, when and where. Not such a bad thing.

The telephone rings and I answer. I hear my son say that "dad is angry." My daughter agrees and tries to ask me what is going on. My sister is on the line telling me about a situation she is involved in. I am not angry with her and I am not about to share the story with my kids. It is none of their business and there is no reason for them to be involved.

I give my sister some advice and offer further assistance if she needs it. It surprises me a little bit that the kids picked up on my anger so quickly. I ask them what they saw and they tell me that I did that thing with my eyes. I am not entirely sure what that means, but they say that whenever they see it they know that someone is in trouble.

Smiling at them both I tell them that I wasn't angry, just concerned. They tell me that they think I was angry. I respond and tell them that I try not to make any decisions when I am angry because giving in to your temper can help you make bad choices.

The matter is handled and we move onto other things. Later that night I'll think about it all and wonder if I should have spent more time talking with them again about why it is important to help family. Alone with my thoughts I ponder and consider it.

And just before I slip into unconsciousness I think that this is another one of those grandpa moments. Would have been nice to speak with him about it. Can't say that I would have done anything differently, but that's ok. Sometimes all you want is that friendly ear.

Loss- A Familiar Pain

Many years ago I worked with a woman who had two dogs. I can't tell you much about the dogs. I don't remember names, breeds or much of anything other than she loved them. Loved them so much that when one dog died she had to take time off from work.

I remember being surprised by this. I had grown up with pets who were part of the family. We had dogs, cats, hamsters, mice and birds. Not all at the same time, but they were a constant part of my childhood. I was familiar with loving my pets but not to the extent that this woman did.

I was a 27 year-old newlywed who lived in a modest apartment. She was about four foot nothing in her stockings and couldn't have weighed more than a 100 pounds. A tiny single mother whose child had gone off to college she had no one but her dogs. Or so I think.

So many years have passed it is hard to remember and it is possible that some of the grains of time have become lodged in my eye and consequently have blurred the details.

What I know for certain, what I can say without hesitation is that I thought of her as being old and was quite surprised at how upset she became when her dog died. I understood that it was hard, but I didn't quite get how it required time away from work.

But age and life experience have helped to bridge the gap and I understand things a little bit better now than I did then. Because the truth is that I still miss my old friend.

This past weekend we took the new puppy to see the vet. The same vet that the big lug used to see. As I stood there I remembered when he was just a puppy, far bigger than the new guy, but just as curious. I stood there and remembered how he used to prance around the house and how we'd play together.

And then I remembered how it was at the end. The struggle to walk, the incontinence and other indignities of old age. How hard it was to make the decision to let him go and how the light went out in his eyes in the same room that I was standing in.

As screwy as it may sound, I felt a twang of guilt. I felt sad that he was gone and that I wasn't able to do more for him. He was the best of friends and a trusted confidant who was taken away far too early. And I realize that every time I see a Golden Retriever I look for him.

He's not coming back. There won't be another like him. There will be other dogs and the bond between the new one and I is growing daily. I suppose that I just felt like I needed to put it out there that he hasn't been replaced. His memory lives on with me.

The Cemetery- Who Is In the Box

I woke up a little bit before six and slowly realized that whatever I had been dreaming about had been disturbing. Tried to relax for a moment to see if memory would serve me a few images to digest but got nothing. Nada, ephus, bubkis.

Can't tell you what it was that made me uneasy, won't speculate either. What I can tell you is that grandma's funeral is later today and I am surprised by feeling completely unready for it. Shocked by the feeling of unease and discontent, unprepared for it entirely.

As I move through the house it is a blend of morning rituals. Kids are moving slowly, getting ready for school at a snail's pace. That is no different than any other day. I am supposed to have a conference call at 7 A.M. but it has been canceled today. I shuffle into the bathroom and close the door, a temporary refuge.

I look in the mirror and see dark circles beneath my eyes, lines in my forehead and a very thick beard. As I stand there I realize I am looking for a 12 year old boy or maybe someone a bit younger. It strikes me that I am 30 years too late. The grandson I seek isn't here anymore.

That boy's memories are...still here. And they swirl around inside. They remember going to a cousin's funeral and seeing the casket. They remember being shocked and surprised then and tears. My tears. I cried and I cried hard. They remember the frustration I felt at not being to hold it together like the men I saw around me.

My grandfather put his arm around me. Even today I can still feel it. Can still smell him. And I remember how after the funeral it was just him and I in the car. And I remember how at my grandmother's funeral seven years ago I helped him stand on the somewhat uneven ground of the hillside.

Time and age had blessed him with a cane and legs that weren't so steady. So I stood next to him and when he needed to rest he leaned against me just as I had done years before.

++++++++

Spent time talking with my son about what will happen today. Tried to prepare him for how things would go. Told him the order of things and that he should expect his aunts to cry...hard. Told him that they cry hard at weddings too, it is just how they are. Nothing wrong with it, but he hasn't seen them like that and I didn't want him to be scared.

Told him that grandpa may cry too and that I expect my mother, his grandmother to cry also. And during all this it will be ok if he cries too. He looks up at me and asks, "will you cry dad?"

It is not judgemental, just a question. I purse my lips and consider how to answer. I don't cry easily and if I do it tends to be in private. I tell him that I am not sure and excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I am conflicted.

Grandpa is doing pretty well, all things considered. He told me about how he discovered that grandma was gone. They were lying in bed together hold hands and suddenly he realized that something wasn't right. She didn't cry out or make any sort of noise. Her hand was warm in his, but he could tell something was off. So he called for a nurse. She came in and confirmed what he already knew.

When the mortuary came he made certain he was out of the room. "I can't see her like that. Can't watch them stick her in a box." He and I are sitting in the living room of my parent's house and I am listening to him talk. His voice alternates between strength and weakness.

He grabs onto my wrist and squeezes it, works to compose himself. My daughter is just across the room, entertaining herself. She is singing softly and I remember how she used to hold onto me like that too. How her little hand would grab mine as she would fight to stand up or to try and walk.

Grandma used to love watching her do that and so did I. I can hear my mother and my aunt talking in a different room, but something is off. And then I realize that I am straining to hear grandma talking to her girls, but she is not because she can't.

More images and memories run through my mind. Grandpa looks amazing for 96. No ever guesses his age, they are always about ten years off. I wonder if that will be what it is like for me. There in the silence I try to imagine what it must be like to be him. Born during the first world war he has vague memories of soldiers returning home. Stories about how he would help out one of his uncles by riding along in a horse drawn cart and delivering various things.

The kids are yelling now. My daughter and a nephew are chasing a son through the house. I want to let that go for a minute. They are reacting to the strong emotions that are stirring around them. At the same time I know that grandpa won't last with it, too much noise. I let them make another lap and then ask them to be quieter.

Grandpa looks at me and says that my voice carries quite well and I realize that he was thinking about the little boy that I can't find too.

Moments later my father asks me to help my sisters with something. Chances are that they need me to get something down, too short to reach it on their own.

The kids are almost ready for school. The funeral is in the afternoon so they'll attend a partial day. I share a few more words with them, kiss them and send them out the door. And then words come spilling into my mind, "who is in the box?"

Don't know why I think that, just that I do. The box is my grandmother's coffin. In a short time I will see it and wonder if she is really in it. I'll stare at it and wonder if perhaps she won't suddenly jump out and yell surprise knowing full well that she won't.

Monday night at the hospital she and I are alone in the room. She is partially sedated and for the moment lying quietly in bed. I bend over in a quiet voice say that I love her and that it is ok. The unspoken words lie thick in my throat and I realize that I have just said goodbye.

A short time later I walk down the hallway, press the call button for the elevator. Standing there I know that this is the last time I am going to make this walk.

The kids are at school and the house is quiet. Now it is just me, my iPod, the computer and you, whomever you are reading this. Time to eat breakfast and consider whether I wish to share any words graveside. I am not ready for this, not yet.

But some choices are made for us or so I tell my children. Guess that today I'll have to show them that dad abides by his words too. And so it goes.

Dad, I Didn't Get To say Goodbye

 

Grandma died the night of my 14th wedding anniversary. With the news of her departure a night of nostalgic reminiscing took on new meaning. As is obvious by this post and the prior one I have been thinking about it all and have decided to continue to chronicle my thoughts, feelings and ideas here.

Chicago has always played a big role in my life. It is where my grandmother and many other families were born and raised. I have teased most of the family about our great inability to find a decent pizza or steak in the Windy City so I thought that the song above kind of fit the tone. And of course I have to include Sweet Home Chicago if for no other reason than it lightens my mood and makes me smile.

This morning I told the children about grandma and received the expected responses from them. My daughter kind of shrugged her shoulders. The dark haired beauty is 5.5 and death is still a bit foreign to her. She understands that grandma is gone, but the weight and the import of the moment aren't the same for her. When she heard she smiled, hugged and kissed me.

Two comments for future reference. 1) Again this is partially indicative of her age. She doesn't completely understand. 2) She understands that I am upset and set out to console me. This made me both happy and scared. She understands me far too well. I am going to have to remember this as she continues to ply her charms upon me to get what she wants.

But I digress, somewhat intentionally. Her older brother is in many ways a clone of me. Still waters run deep. When we are happy we are ecstatic and when we are truly sad we are...sad.

Upon hearing the news he burst into tears and shouted that he didn't get to say goodbye. And that was heart breaking in itself. He understands what it means to die. He knows that it means that the spirit has left the body and there is no more communication face-to-face.

I didn't tell him that she is in a better place or that he is going to get to see her one day. I rarely say things like that even though I may believe them to be true, or at least think that it is possible. I didn't because I want him to think about some of these things and come up with answers that work for him.

Spiritual matters are very personal. It has always been important to me that my children receive a Jewish upbringing and education. And I want them to live their lives that way, but at the same time I want them to ask questions of themselves. I want them to figure out what they think and what they believe.

My job is to mentor, teach, guide and whenever necessary direct. And believe me there are things that I make clear are black and white. I may give them room for their own thought, but there is only so much play in that rope. Most of this is just training in how to pick a part a situation and find the truth of the matter.

So when the big guy asks me why she died without having a chance to say goodbye I tell him the truth, that could happen at any time to any of us. I also work on reassuring him that his immediate family is filled with healthy people who are highly unlikely to die. Thus far I think that it has worked.

But still, he is nervous about his great grandfather as well as his grandparents. Not to mention his question of myself as to whether I think I might die soon. I tell him that soon is a very broad term and that I can be specific. I run through the ages of my grandparents and remind him that we have excellent genes. It is not uncommon for us to live into our nineties.

And then I talk about science and medical advancements and how we have access to things that the great grandparents don't. He nods his head and I see that the logic of the argument is working. He get's it, he is calming down, but I know that he'll go to school with a stew of emotions boiling beneath the surface.

I have about 2.5 hours until I see him again. We'll see what other questions he has or does not have. In the interim I am off to my parent's home. There is work to be done and I am taking on as much as I can. It is an interesting role I find myself in; Father/son/grandson/brother.

Time to wear to my many hats- see you later,

Back With More Bad News

My grandmother died a short time ago. It wasn't unexpected but it happened a little bit faster than I had anticipated. And now I am sitting at the computer, trying to process it all. I don't think that it has sunk in yet, not completely.

The call came a few minutes after midnight, I didn't have to look at the caller ID to know that it was bad news, what else do you hear about late at night or early in the morning. Twenty years ago if the phone rang then it would have been a girl friend or friend with benefits. Twenty years ago it might have been one of the boys looking for a ride home or a shoulder to cry on.

Those days are gone and I have come to dread those late night calls because they almost always mean that someone is gone.

My grandmother is gone. The woman who used to take my sisters and I on long walks is here no longer. The woman who had more energy than anyone I ever met has finally run out and the world is a sadder place for it.

Across town my mother, aunt and a sister are sitting with my grandfather, who after 75 years of marriage is now a widower. My heart breaks for him more than anyone.

They met when they were 11 and spent the next 85 years together, a lifetime. It is not a tragic loss, she lived a long and full life. But my grandfather's world just collapsed into a million pieces. And there is nothing that I can offer to fix that other than soft words of encouragement.

And will I offer those. I will do all that I can to help. Every thought, idea, trick I can come up with will be his, but I know that in the end it will fall short and for that I am sorry.

Sometimes words are simply inadequate or perhaps the shortcoming lie in the person who wishes to be wordsmith. At the moment I don't know what to say or rather I don't like what I am saying so I keep deleting and rewriting.

It is not my way, at least not on the blog. Here in my corner of cyberspace the words flow like water down a rocky stream. Here is where I would give you a better description of the woman my grandmother was and why she was so deserving of our love.

But the words fail me. I cannot translate that which I see in my head to paper. So in a few moments I will shut down the computer. In the morning I will resume my role as father and I will have to tell my children that grandma has gone. I need some time to think about what I want to say so for now this will be it.

I'll share more thoughts and ideas about grandma later, for now let me say that I loved her very much and I will miss her more. We aren't given that many grandmothers and now I have none. The world is indeed a darker place.

Grandma's Dying & Grandpa Has Cancer

Grandma's Dying & Grandpa Has Cancer. That should be the name of some sort of country music song shouldn't it. Really, I can see Tim McGraw doing it. He has more than a few songs that I like but this isn't a song title, it is my life.

How is that for drama. Not bad, huh. If you are among the 17 long time readers than none of this is that much of a surprise. My life is just like your life, filled with a tapestry of good and bad. Stories about those we he have lost and those we haven't are scattered through it. Some of them make you smile and some of them make you cry.

This morning as the kids got ready to head off to school I told them that my grandmother had fallen and needed to go the hospital. They looked at me and said, "again?" I smiled and told them that she had fallen again and was besieged with a thousand questions about how and why it happened. It was a bittersweet moment.

What I didn't tell them was that she broke her hip and that due to her age and heart condition surgery is highly unlikely. I didn't tell them that their aunt, my little sister, looked to her big brother for guidance on whether she should get on a plane because grandma is dying. I didn't tell them that my mother, their grandmother asked me to help do some research on hospice and other end of life issues. I didn't tell them about my visit with my grandparents on Sunday.

Because, I was there. Not when she fell but several hours before. I sat with her and my grandfather and chewed the fat. I intentionally went without the kids. It was a chance for me to focus on being a grandson and not a father. Both are important, but had the kids been there it would have been difficult to focus on the grandparents the way that I wanted to.

You see, my grandfather turned 96 last week but I was unable to be there. I had some sort of stomach bug so I bugged out but promised my grandpa that I would come as soon as possible. And let's be real at 96 you never know how much time you have left so you do what you can to take advantage of the time when you can.

Last year we helped them celebrate their 75th wedding anniversary and watched them dance one last time. Anyway, my grandmother's health has been declining for a while now and while that is to be expected, the dementia that has accompanied has not been. Maybe we should have anticipated or expected it, but if you knew how strong and energetic my grandmother was you'd understand why it is surprising.

She carried a laundry basket up and down a flight of stairs into her eighties and until a few years ago still exercised regularly. The change may have taken a few years, but the decline is still shocking to us. But to my grandfather it has been heartbreaking.

So in addition to spending time with my grandparents the goal is to give my grandfather a little help. So when grandma asks the same question repeatedly there is someone else to help.

I wasn't upset with the children when they asked why grandma keeps falling. Nor was I upset when my son asked if getting older means that you break frequently and easily. But I was sad because they will never know the grandmother that I know. They won't have a real understanding of who she was and still is.

They weren't there on Sunday when my grandfather held onto my arm and fought back tears about how hard it is to see his girl like this. How he told me again that the worst part of aging is being robbed of the ability to take care of her the way that he wants to. About how he used to give her piggy back rides and listen to her laugh or so many other memories that he shared with me.

I sat and listened and did what I could to make it easier for him. And when my grandmother called me by mother's name I didn't flinch, even though I have a full beard and stand close to a foot taller than she does.

In a short time I am going to leave the office and head over to the hospital to visit grandma. She is sedated and barely awake. It is unclear whether she'll be cognizant of my being there. I don't know if this visit will be the last time I see her. The docs aren't entirely certain, it could go on for a while.

But this is not a long term proposition. Regardless of how long we have Grandma will not be at the seder or at my sister's wedding. And you can say what you will about her being there in spirit, but there still will be an empty seat that should have been hers.

And in the not so distant future I will have to have another discussion with my children about death and what that means. But I'll save that moment for whenever it may come because for now she is still here.

Five Years Later

This is a copy of the post that I submitted as part of the series that Leslee runs on her blog.

“Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone
Susanne the plans they made put an end to you
I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song
I just can’t remember who to send it to
I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain
I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I’d see you again”
Fire and Rain- James Taylor

You can find the back story here.

‘D’, it is March of 2010. We turned 40 last year, but in my head I see you as the 29 year-old you were when you left us. When we lived next to the cemetery I used to visit you on a regular basis. I’d come by almost daily and sit next to your grave. Sometimes I’d tell you stories about what was happening in the world and other times I’d sit there quietly.

Been a while since I have come by but don’t think that I have forgotten you. Don’t think that you aren’t a part of my life, because you are and always will be. I miss you. Miss having you around because you were the kind of friend that everyone needs and deserves. Doesn’t mean that you weren’t a bastard at times because you were, we all are.

But you really were like a brother to me and you don’t find many of those in life. If you are smart when someone like that comes into your life you do your damndest to hold onto them because you only get to go round the carousel so many times.

My kids are getting bigger. They see your picture and they know your name. Sometimes they ask me about you, “dad, that is your friend, the one that died right?” I smile and say “yes.” They know a few stories about you and when they get older I’ll tell them more. More importantly I’ll tell them about some of the things that I learned.

I’ll them about how quickly things can change, how life can spin on a dime and how you have to live and love each day. I’ll tell them to treasure their friends and to remember that there are going to be moments where life makes no sense.

Moments where you don’t have a clue as to what to do or how to get through the day. So all you can do is shrug your shoulders and keep moving forward.

One day I’ll tell them about the guilt I still carry to this day. I’ll tell them about that last summer and a missed opportunity. You came home to L.A. and called with an invitation to dinner. I was jet lagged and exhausted. I had just come back from Israel and felt like I was carrying Masada so I asked if we could do it later. You said ok.

I knew that you were sick. I knew that the illness had spread and that they weren’t sure exactly what was going on. But I was naive and didn’t think that the worst would come. Couldn’t believe that you wouldn’t beat the cancer. You had done it twice before and I just believed that you would again.
I was wrong.

You didn’t die that day. In fact it would be around 10 weeks or so later. But something snapped inside and that changed everything. You had a seizure and afterward you couldn’t carry on a normal conversation. ‘D’ the scientist would yell at me for not including the details in this note, but they aren’t important for this.

We were around for that final hurrah. Your friends and family, we visited you daily and saw it all. We watched you slip away. And then at your funeral, we buried you. Not strangers, not some hired hands who didn’t know or love you. We did.

I know, I have written about this before. But, it changed me. And after I became a father it changed me again because losing a child is our greatest fear, an incomprehensible horror. And I have never forgotten the look on your parent’s face as we shoveled the dirt onto your casket.

But it was among the last things that we could do for you. The last physical act of love that we could show and we did it willingly. I do it again, without thought or hesitation because it was the right thing to do. And that is part of this for me.

The right thing to do. I work so very hard to teach my children to do the right thing. To help give them the tools and ability to make smart choices and to do the right thing. But I know from my own experience that I can’t protect them from everything. I can’t promise that the things that go bump in the night will always be just the house settling.

So I lie about some of those things, some but not all. When they ask me if I am going to die I tell them that we all do but that we aren’t going to die for a long time. And that seems to hold them, so I leave it at that. And on those occasions that it doesn’t we discuss it further until they are comfortable.

I am sorry that you didn’t get the chance to experience this part of life because it is amazing. I am sorry that my children never got to meet you or see another example of true friendship. But as I said before, I did learn much from you and from this.

I have always valued friends and family, but I am less likely to pass on opportunities to spend time together. I do my best to do as I teach my children, to live each day to its fullest. Don’t care if it is a cliche, I know better. Life happens, things change. All we can do is roll with it.

You are not forgotten.

Celebrities Lost in 2009

2009 was a bad year for me but for many celebrities it was far worse.

"Among those who passed: Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Natasha Richardson, Bea Arthur, Dom DeLuise, Karl Malden, David Carradine, Patrick Swayze, John Hughes, Ed McMahon, Walter Cronkite and Don Hewitt.

Authors John Updike, Frank McCourt and Dominick Dunne died, as did blues legend Koko Taylor, Ventures guitarist Bob Bogle, Mary Travers of Peter, Paul & Mary, guitar innovator Les Paul and Adam "DJ AM" Goldstein.

In sports, NFL players Steve McNair and Chris Henry died as did veteran basketball coach Chuck Daly.The politcal world mourned the loss of Sen. Edward Kennedy, and former U.S. Housing Secretary Jack Kemp.

Even celebrity pitch personalities weren't immune as 2009 also saw the passing of Oxiclean pitchman Billy Mays and Gidget, the chihuahua best known for hawking Taco Bell."

It Was Very Good Year- No It Wasn't

I am guilty of blogging while bitter. I am BWB with a dose of angry, cantankerous, curmudgeonly and a dash of STFU.

To paraphrase the dark haired beauty 2009 has been a very, very, very, very, very, very troubling year. Back in the early days of this blog I would have laid out all of the reasons why. I wouldn't have thought twice about displaying all the goods, warts and all.

Back then when I had complete anonymity it was easy to say whatever, do whatever and go on. But it is different now, life is different.

Now, I am beset and besieged on all sides. The castle is under attack and I don't see the white rider on the horizon. There is no calvary coming to the rescue, no hope from the outside. The situation I find myself in is the sort of thing that lends itself to the phrase that heroes are made, not born.

The ambiguity is intentional. I use this place as a refuge but some people aren't entitled to seeing all that goes on behind the scenes. Some people don't deserve to know it all. In that recipe above I forgot to mention that it should include stupid and defiant. Consider that rectified.

Anyhoo, as we are in the midst of the holiday season I find myself casting a dire glare at it all and I don't like what I see. If I were the captain of a ship I'd say that I am in the worst storm I have ever found myself in. That is not melodrama, it is fact.

I cannot think of a time where things were worse. There were some very bad moments, but none of them compare to the extended play version of Jack as the Ancient Mariner. There is a fucking albatross tied to my neck I can't shake the damn thing off.

So much has happened that doubt and questioning have become regular companions. I look in the mirror and see a face that I don't recognize.

He stares back at me and dares me to try to make him go away. He is accompanied by a little nagging voice that whispers in my ear, questions my ability.

This is a test of will and desire.  I accept responsibility for the things that I did that placed me here and I curse that which happened because of the stupidity of others.

**************************

It is funny, as I sit here typing about being the captain of ship I find myself feeling dizzy. Really, the screen is rolling back and forth and I can feel the floor moving beneath me as if the house really were sailing upon the sea.

So I'll continue for a moment with the ship analogy, I'll be the captain, albeit without my Tennile as she is off doing other things.

What will our intrepid captain do? Does he have a plan? The answer is sort of, maybe and I hope so. I am working on a number of projects that may yield some big dividends. I have taken specific actions that I hope will help chart a course that ends in smooth waters and not dashed upon the rocks.

I really don't know if it will work. All I can do is try. This much I know for certain. Three friends died this year. Three 40 year-olds aren't walking the earth any more. They were taken. Their time is done and that is all she wrote.

For better or for worse  I am still here. And I will fight because if there is one thing that I know how to do it is fight. And that is all there is left to say.

We Aren't That Family

Mom called me a few hours ago to relay some news, my uncle died. I asked when and she told me that it happened last Thursday. Being my normal prickly self I asked if the family had used the pony express or pigeons to notify us. After all, he had moved back to Chicago, so maybe, just maybe that would explain the delay in hearing about his passing.

No, he died here in Los Angeles about eight miles from my house. He died at the same hospital as his older brother did, my grandfather. He was 90 and he had leukemia, but I am not sure what the cause of his death was. I don't know a lot of details. The lack of details here are the kind of thing that drives the Shmata Queen crazy.

But I have a good reason. Midway through the call Mom's cell phone cut out. Gone, goodbye, straight to voicemail. The last thing I heard was my nephew yelling for Grandma to say hi.

A nephew that my uncle didn't know. He didn't know because he was estranged from the family. It feels a bit weird to type that out. We're not that family. We're not a family that has secrets. We're not a family that hides things or has weird fights and relationships that go back a thousand years.

At least that is what I thought growing up. Funny how as a kid you just accept things. Or how many things you don't question because they are what you know.

Relations between my uncle and my parents were strained, but I am not sure that any of them really knew why. I can provide some details about what upset my parents. And I can speculate about my uncle, but that is all that it is, speculation. He took those reasons right or wrong with him.

My uncle was a 90 year old gay man. He grew up in a time and place in which his sexuality made life very difficult for him. I give him a break on some things because that had to be hard and unfair. But then again I grew up with his big brother, my grandfather as one of my role models. I knew his sisters well. And I know that he was taught that life isn't fair so you do what you have to do.

It is not always nice and it is not always fair. That is just how it is.

I have a lot of memories of my uncle coming for family events. He used to bring his best friend Phil with him. I thought that it was cool that they got to live together and share a room. I didn't know anything beyond that just that they were best friends.

My uncle was the last of his siblings. And now that he is gone I feel a loss. I can't really say that I miss him. We didn't really talk, haven't seen him since my grandfather died. But I realize now that I liked knowing that he was around. I liked hearing the family stories. He didn't look exactly like grandpa, but there was a resemblance. And of course expressions and gestures.

My uncle has died and with him the last piece of that generation on my father's side. I feel a loss. There are no more witnesses to those stories. No more who lived to see those things. No more tales of my great-grandfather to be told by his children.

For some reason it makes me feel a bit older. A few hours ago I received a note on Facebook. A friend of mine posted a picture of me from my Bar Mitzvah. I remember taking that shot. It was a few minutes before we took a family photo, with my uncle and a bunch of other relatives.

If I look up I can see my reflection in the kitchen window. I swear that it is a bit blurry, so I squint and see the thirteen year-old boy I was metamorph into the 40 year-old man I am now.

It is a different world than it was.

Mothers Love Their Mommies Too

It is Friday afternoon and I am staring at a blank screen. I have my iTunes on shuffle now. A New Game is Playing. It is good music for a football game, not so good for the topic. I click the button and up comes Golden Slumbers and The End  by The Beatles.  It is more appropriate.

"And in the end

The love you take

Is equal to the love you make."

I just finished speaking with my father about my grandmother and my mother. Grandma is slipping away. Slowly pieces are being taken off of the table and it is becoming more evident that slips of the tongue are not exactly accidental anymore.

My mother is tough as is her mom. But tough doesn't prepare you for watching your parents lose their invulnerability. Strength may help you deal with it, but it doesn't really make it easier to watch them become less than they once were.

Grandma is 95, almost 95.5. Her great grandchildren are rooting for her and grandpa to hit 100. Truth is that her children and grandchildren are too, but we're sadly skeptical about this.

When I think of people who love life I always think of grandma. She has always been among the happiest, most optimistic people I know. Until a few years ago you would have described her as a powerhouse of energy. She exercised every day well into her eighties.

That energy has been the stuff of family legend. It makes me sad to say that to her great grandchildren legend will be all that it is. Unfortunately the last few years have seen various parts of her body lose interest in operating as part of a team.

Macular degeneration robbed stole her ability to see bright colors and sunny days.Now she lives in a world of shadow, but I have never heard her complain about that. A few years ago her heart decided that it would refuse to operate at peak condition and that incredibly energy dissipated.

Her daughters and family did ok with those things. No one was happy about it, but it is life. And since grandma wasn't complaining about it we weren't going to either.

But the memory issues and the demential are a different story.

I watch my mother. I watch her reactions to her mother and I see. Most of the time mom is o.k. She is strong. She handles stress well, but there are moments. Those moments that we all feel, the ones in which it is one thing too many. I see the look on her face and wish that I could do more.

It is not easy. We have all been very lucky. Grandma just wasn't sick, not beyond the normal run of the mill stuff. She was just this powerhouse. This is one experience that I had before my mother. When my father had his heart attack I flew cross country not knowing whether he would still be alive when I landed.

I stood at his bedside when he was on a ventilator and watched the machines help keep him alive. I had to face the immediate questions of mortality right there. And I am so thankful that we rolled a seven.

It is not easy for anyone. But it is harder for a child.

I think that within the last three months there have been some dramatic changes with my grandmother. She never used to be nervous, but now she often is. She talks about dying with great regularity. I think she is preparing herself.

This isn't to say that I or anyone else is giving up. I remember a conversation I had with her cardiologist about her.

My parents were back east visiting my sister. Grandma didn't feel well. She got checked out and was admitted to the hospital. The docs gave me the usual medical speak with a strong emphasis that anything could happen. But the bottom line was that they didn't expect the discussion to still be going five years later.

So here we are now. Grandma surprised them all and may do so again. I wouldn't put it past her.

But on my mother's behalf I'll say that I am praying that the dementia doesn't get any worse. Mom will take whatever comes and she'll never give up on grandma. It just won't happen. But there is only so much that can be done and so I am hopeful that whatever comes is as easy as can be for her.

40 Is Too Young to Die

I feel a bit like I was punched in the gut. I logged onto Facebook and read about the death of an old friend. He wasn't someone that I was close to, but we grew up together and shared some good times. If you went through some old photo albums you'd find pictures of he and I.

Forty is too young to die. It is an age that we often hear used as a benchmark for getting older, but it is not old. It is not old by a long shot.

So I am sitting here staring at the keyboard, wondering. I don't know all of the details, but it wasn't an auto accident, a plane crash or any sort of thing like that. Those are tragedies but I find them easier to accept. Easier because you can look at them and say that they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Terminal illnesses, sudden heart attacks and the like defy that sort of explanation, at least for me.

I stare at Facebook and see an entry about his untimely death. A bunch of comments from mutual friends of ours and shared memories. High school isn't a recent experience any more. Every day it grows more distant, but it is not so long ago that I can't remember.

His death marks the passing of old friends this year. Both were 40. Both were contemporaries of mine. Both taken far too early.

Sometimes people have tried to explain these losses to me as being part of a grand plan that I can't understand. I hate those explanations. It is completely unsatisfying and useless to me. Don't tell me that G-d's plan is beautiful and that my mortal mind is incapable of understanding it.

What I understand is that there are kids who are orphaned, husbands and wives who are widowed, siblings who are in pain and parents who are struggling to figure out how the natural order of life has gotten so mucked up.

If you ask if I am upset and angry, I will tell you yes. It bothers me for a host of reasons. But it is what it is. If you ask me why I fight to try and live a life in which I do the things that make me happy and fulfill me it is because of moments like this.

It is not eloquent, but shit happens. Whenever it is that I do die I want to feel like I did my best to live the life I want to live. I'll paraphrase my grandfather OBM, when death comes for me I am going to kick him in the balls, poke him  in the eyes and throw his bony ass out the nearest window.

Grab your loved ones my friends and hold them tight 'cuz you just don't know what tomorrow brings.

What Is The Difference Between A Fool & A Dreamer

“The critical ingredient is getting off your butt and doing something. It's as simple as that. A lot of people have ideas, but there are few who decide to do something about them now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. But today. The true entrepreneur is a doer, not a dreamer.”
Nolan Bushnell

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

Edgar Allan Poe, "Eleonora"

"Some men see things as they are and say 'why'? Others dream things that never were and say 'why not'?"
~ George Bernard Shaw

I think we dream so we don't have to be apart so long.  If we're in each other's dreams, we can play together all night.  ~Bill Watterson, Calvin & Hobbes~

It is no secret that I am a man who lives in both time and space. By that I mean that I am firmly rooted in reality. My feet are on the ground and I know exactly what is happening around me. But I don't always accept things at value.

Place me inside a boxing ring with Mike Tyson or Muhammad Ali in their prime and there shouldn't be any chance of my beating them. It shouldn't matter whether you take the 40 year-old I am today or the 20 year-old I once was, the fight shouldn't be close.

Those who know me best know that I will step into that ring believing with all my heart that I have a chance. It only takes one shot. One moment in time and I can put the champ on his ass. It doesn't matter what the scenario is, I will always believe that I can find a way to succeed.

But that doesn't mean that I don't accept the possibility that I might not or that I am not prepared to deal with it. I do and I am.

The question I ask myself is am I better served by taking a more conservative approach in everything. Am I better served to say that since the chance of success is so minuscule I shouldn't make the attempt.

Certainly there is a school of thought that suggests that it would be far more prudent to do so. Low expectations can be exceeded. It is a way to avoid disappointment.

It is a subjective question that is highly personal, whether to try or not try that is. What I know about myself is that because I am that dreamer, I can't live a life where I don't take that shot. I can't live a life where I don't try to go beyond Walter Mitty and dream about being the champ.

I can't live a life where I don't try to slay the dragon or climb that mountain. I can't. It is not me. I truly believe that if I did give that part of myself up I would die.

Answering my own question I think that the difference between the fool and a dreamer is that the fool never tries to live their dreams. That doesn't mean that the dreamer can't be the fool either. The dreamer has to know when to shift gears and go a different route.

And therein lies the rub. At what point do you say that you have done all you can do. When do you release the dream and let it float into the ether. That is the question that sometimes plagues me. But then again every dream is different so the answer to that question will vary from time to time.

When my children ask me for my advice on similar matters I can only tell them one thing. That in the end they have to be able to sleep at night feeling like they tried their best. If you can do that, well then you have accomplished something.

Death Takes A Mother From Her Children

I received confirmation today that an old friend died a short time ago. Three young children lost their mother to a disease. Three young children will grow up without a mother. Three young children are left to try to find answers to questions that have no answers.

A mother grieves the loss of her daughter and asks the same unanswerable questions. A husband tries to grieve for his wife while taking care of his grieving children. A brother grieves as well and does what he can to take care of his mother.

The questions remain unanswered because there are no answers for these things.

In a different time and a different place I knew them well. In a different time and a different place we were all friends who had no responsibilities but for ourselves. Life took us all in different directions.

I can't remember if it is 15 or 16 years since we last spoke. I am not who I was back then but clearly they have changed as well, or they had.

All I can do is give the family my sincere condolences and hope that the brother understands that my offer is sincere. If he needs a friendly ear I can offer it.

In the meantime I am going to hug and kiss my children. They may be asleep, but perhaps they'll feel a father's love for them. If I have one short term goal it is to make sure that should anything ever happen to me, they will never question that they were loved.

Soon I'll try to go to bed, but sleep will still be hard to come by. I know too many people who have died.

Did She Die?

Sometimes I despise the sterility of email. The cold and unfeeling manner of text sent via electronics. You can be a master wordsmith and still fail miserably in your attempt to fill your words with warmth, caring and love.

I was on Facebook and I noticed that a friend had posted a photo album in memory of a sibling. As you might have guessed I am not especially close with this person. We are friendly and connected on Facebook because we did. The reason doesn't really matter.

Anyway, many years ago I was friendly with their sibling but we lost touch. It must be 15 years or so since we last spoke. I was more than a little surprised to see this photo album. It didn't offer any explanation about what happened, but it is hard to believe that someone would write in memory of about someone who is alive.

When I saw it I was shocked. They were my age and I was quite anxious to find out what happened. I don't have a telephone number for my friend on Facebook and didn't want to email them just to ask for it. We don't have any mutual friends that I can contact to ask what happened.

I tried running a search but didn't locate any information. But I couldn't just ignore it. So I sent an email and asked what happened. I tried hard to write something appropriate, but I am not sure that such words exist.

It was far more tactful than the headline of this post. And now I find myself wondering what the answer to the question is. What happened and how. It throws me a bit. It is Elul, won't be long before it is time to chant Unataneh Tokef.

So many questions.

She Died- Death Notices Via Facebook

I often write about different the world that my children are growing up is from that which I experienced. But I don't often really stop to think about the affect and impact those changes have upon me. Tonight life decided to remind me that I don't live in a vacuum.

Tonight's lesson came courtesy of Facebook. A little after 11 PM I signed on and learned that my great aunt had died. I didn't receive the new via a direct message or email. Rather I learned because my cousins had changed their statuses to mention her passing and to honor her.

It was a bit surreal and it took a moment to sink in. My aunt was the older sister of my grandmother. She was approximately 18 months or so older, although for the past 25 years or so she tried to insist that she was younger.

I can't really say that she was taken too soon because 97 is a nice long life. But I can say that she was a very special lady. This means that my grandmother is the last member of her family, all of her parents and siblings are gone now.

It is a surreal experience learning about death via Facebook. In some ways it was incredibly impersonal and yet in others it felt a bit more intimate. So many comments poured in from family that even though we weren't together it seemed otherwise.

Because I got the news so late in the evening I haven't any idea as to whether my parents or siblings are aware of this. I rather suspect that my mother will call me early tomorrow to let me know. She'll be shocked to learn that I already heard the news and especially surprised to learn how.

Well, changes impact us all. I'll miss my aunt, she was a special lady and a lot of fun. Baruch Dayan Emet.

And That's The Way It Was- Goodbye Walter Cronkite

I always liked Walter Cronkite. Grew up watching him on the news.

(CNN) -- Walter Cronkite, the CBS anchorman known as "Uncle Walter" for his easygoing, measured delivery and "the most trusted man in America" for his rectitude and gravitas, has died, CBS reported Friday.

Cronkite was 92.

His career spanned much of the 20th century, as well as the first decade of the 21st. The native of St. Joseph, Missouri, broke in as a newspaper journalist while in college, switched over to radio announcing in 1935, joined the United Press wire service by the end of the decade and jumped to CBS and its nascent television news division in 1950. He also made his mark as an Internet contributor in his later years with a handful of columns for the Huffington Post.

He covered World War II's Battle of the Bulge, the Nuremberg trials, several presidential elections, moon landings, the assassination of President John F. Kennedy and the Watergate scandal of President Richard Nixon's administration.

At times he even made news: A 1977 question to then-Egyptian President Anwar Sadat about Sadat's intent to go to Israel -- at the time considered a nonstarter because of the lack of a treaty between the two countries -- received a surprising "yes" from the Egyptian leader.

Soon after, Sadat traveled to Jerusalem, a trip that eventually led to the Camp David Accords, which included a peace deal between Israel and Egypt.

At his height of influence as CBS anchorman, Cronkite's judgment was believed so important it could affect even presidents. In early 1968, after the Tet Offensive, Cronkite traveled to Vietnam and gave a critical editorial calling the Vietnam War "mired in stalemate."

Noting Cronkite's commentary, President Lyndon Johnson reportedly said, "If I've lost Cronkite, I've lost Middle America." Johnson announced he would not seek re-election less than two months later.