Reckonings: A Language You Understand

I am my father’s witness.

He’s come home after spending two weeks in the oncology unit. Colon cancer is killing him. There is nothing more the hospital can do. He’s been sent home.

We visit with each other three days a week, just he and I, from noon until 5 o’clock. We’ve recently completed our eighth week together. He’d agree, I am certain, that it has been the best time we have ever spent together.

I read that a son should ask certain questions of his father. This I have done. I usually initiate the conversation, but there was an occasion or two when my dad beat me to the punch. I’ve always regarded my father as my teacher. Now that our time is running out, I must learn to see things as he sees them, from his inside out and, perhaps with just enough gentle prodding, my father will tell me about the stuff he’s never told me before.

My father and I have never been inclined toward casual conversation. We’ve always preferred weighty dialectic of issues, substance. We have a long history of that together.

These eight weeks really comprise our last, albeit extended, substantive exchange, but with one important difference for each of us. For me, it is a matter of kibud av, my last chance to better know the man from whom I have fashioned so much of me. For Dad, it is his time to tie up the loose ends, say what has to be said and what he’s wanted to say. When he speaks to me now, it is with what I’ll call a “sense of mission”.

He has fashioned his own cheshbon ha nefesh, his life’s reckoning. It is, I suppose, roughly comparable to a last will and testament but opened and read only by The Dayan Emet.

“Alan, come back here in the bedroom.” My dad is not feeling well today. To see him lying in his disheveled sickbed is a disturbing sight. I spot his favorite sweater-that he so enjoys having wrapped around his shoulders-crumpled up in a ball by the head board. We jokingly call it his talit.

He wriggles about uncomfortably atop his bedcovers. His head is scrunched up against four pillows, his frighteningly thin legs poke through the ends of the same pajama pants he has worn now for several days. A once robust, barrel-chested man and golden glove pugilist in his youth, my father was someone you’d want to have on your side in a fight.

He grimaced.

“Dad, are you all right?” He seems not to have heard me.

“Pain in your gut, Dad?”

“Some yes.” He tells me it’s been coming more frequently.

“I took a couple of Vicadin.”

“Dad, what kind of pain is it?”

“It feels ‘sore’. You know, how I felt as a kid when I had eaten too many green apples.”

Somehow I was not convinced his grimace reflected a merely “sore” stomach, but I knew what he was doing, he thought, for my sake.

My father looks completely worn out today. We had gone out in the morning to take care of some business. Whenever the two of us were out together, I’d feel like such a kid walking around with a toothy grin and wearing a t-shirt with an arrow and caption that read: “This is my dad!”

Dad has suffered a precipitous decline in his health these last several days. We’re inside now. Even a walk around the block is out of the question.

It is very difficult to leave my father today. As sundown approaches on Erev Shabbos, he becomes contemplative, soulful if you will, as if he had already acquired his neshuma yesaira.

“You know I was thinking back when you were a baby,” he began. “You were born with a club foot. Did you know that?” he asked, his eyes becoming misty.

I’ll miss this tender part of him most.

“No Dad I didn’t,” I managed to choke out those four words. In truth, I had heard it untold times before, but for my father, each time was as if it were the very first.

“And I used to turn your foot and turn your foot, again and again, like this,” he demonstrated painfully and tearfully, twisting his hands in the manner of one trying to connect two rusty garden hoses together. It was enough to emotionally drain both of us.

“What time do you have, Son?” while reaching for the box of tissues on the nightstand.

“4:45.”

“4:45! You better get going. I don’t want you to be late for shul." I gathered my things slowly. “Go home Son. It’s getting late.” I turned to leave.

“Have a great weekend,” I said.

“Alan, thank you and Good Shabbos,” he quickly added. I stopped.

My father taught me an invaluable lesson when, years before, I was a newcomer to the observant community. I’ve never forgotten it. We had been chatting on the phone for about half an hour. I don’t know how many times I responded “Baruch Hashem” to whatever Dad was telling me, but I must have said it one too many times. My father is a man of calm and patient temperament. It takes a lot to annoy him.

“Alan, speak to me in language with which I am familiar!” he said with a firmness that I had experienced only two or three times before. I had never heard my dad say anything in a mean or coarse manner. This instance was no different, and even when angry, my father’s tone never crossed the divide between “firm” and “rude”. I recall his very polite rebuke to this very day.

Suddenly out of nowhere, “Good Shabbos”. Why?

My guess is that the salutary appeal of the approaching Sabbath may have begun to tug at his heart, perhaps a validation of the difficult choice I had made years before to become observant.

It had been a tiring day. He looked sleepy. I covered his feet with a blanket. They were always cold, he complained. I leaned over. Kissing me as he had always done, I felt the familiar stubble of Dad’s unshaven face, but it didn’t bother me this time. I inhaled his scent.

Just as I turned the knob of the front door, I looked back toward his bedroom. Peeking around the corner to check on me, he waved gently and smiled.

“Avi mori”, my father, my teacher, seemed content in the autumn of his days.

Recent Comments

Thank you so much for your images of what is possible in life. My father died suddenly when I was 10, and I have never had conversations with myself or anyone else about who he really was deep inside, what he believed, what was meaningful to him. All I know is that he loved me very much, but this thought is not quite enough. I think I will begin some conversations with my image of him and I know that this will give me increased discernment, judgment, and wisdom re bringing out the best in others and in myself. He was just kind, gentle, quiet, loving, smart, giving,and methodical. Hopefully I will grow even more in these areas, although I have also just described myself. However, although he was a Cohane, I have no idea re his relationship with Judaism or with G-d. Death is such an intense mystery, and all we can do is identify with the best qualities in those we love, and transcend the negatives, without wearing rose-colored glasses. You have so many crucial memories because of the time you spent with your father in the last days of his life. This is a wonderful model for creating deeper memories with the present people in our lives. I think that many of us need to ask, "Who else is in my life now, with whom I observe a need for a deeper connection? " Life is finished in a blink, and so we must remember that this concept is motivation to stop surface relating whenever possible. thank you again for the impetus to re-connect with others into a deeper path.

Sue posted on 08/06 at 10:40 PM.

Your posting brought tears to me eyes. What an exceptional opportunity for both of you.
Years ago, my eldest daughter died at the age of 6, a victim of familial dysautonomia. I did not have this sort of conversation with her, as you are having with your father; but what I was able to do was sing to her. Her favorite song/zemer was oseh shalom. In our family, we incorporated this melody into our benshen. In this way, and whenever I hear this song, she is again with me.

Rena Rotenberg posted on 08/07 at 07:26 AM.

I am deeply moved by your story. I remember my own father and his illness from cancer. I hope that what I say may yet turn the tide of your father's illness toward healing. You may want to read "The Man Who Cures Cancer", by William Kelley Eidem, about the late Dr. Emanuel Revici. The specific details that Mr. Eidem used to heal himself from cancer may be found at William Kelley Eidem's web page at TheHub.com. If you can, use urine test strips to see if your father is in an alkaline or acid state. A person in a normal state starts out the day slightly acid, below 6.2 pH, and at the day winds up alkaline, slightly above 6.2 or 7 pH. From your description, your father sounds like he is in a catabolic state. Evening Primrose Oil, up to 9,000 mg. divided per day, would be used in a catabolic state. If someone were in an anabolic state, one would use emulsified cod liver oil, two tablespoons per day. One would use these oils along with grated raw garlic, grated raw ginger, and grated raw habanero peppers if one could tolerate them. To ease the pain, one would also take this with either kefir or yogurt for the catabolic, state, or butter if one were in the anabolic state. One would use Ezekiel bread, regular or gluten free, to make this sandwich. I am shortening the advice, please see Mr. Eidems's article on thehub.com, and look up Dr. Revici. I am paraphrasing what I read on these pages. I wish a complete healing to your father, and to all who are in need of it.

M. Krakauer posted on 08/07 at 09:11 AM.

Friday, 08/07/09 common era

Due to the high incidence of cancer in my family, I have been getting a colonoscopy every 5 years for the past 20 years or so. I also have been taking 1 adult aspirin in the morning for 20 years. My M.D. told me that the dosage is safe because it doesn't upset my stomach.

My mom had stomach cancer but outlived her surgeon for over 15 years. Let's hope that quantum leaps in cancer diagnosis and treatment will be made by Jewish M.D.'s, especially in Israel.

Moshe Pupick posted on 08/07 at 02:13 PM.

I understand as I am presently getting chemo and radiation/ be strong / be loving/ and both of you should enjoy each other .HANG ON G>BLESS BOTH OF YOU !!!

mayer posted on 08/07 at 05:23 PM.

You are very blessed with the fact that you have your priorities straight and that you are spending very difficult but priceless time with your father. I lost my mother when I was 16 and my father at 47 and there I would do if I could spend just a little more time with either of them.

Donna Perel posted on 08/09 at 10:53 AM.

Alan,
I wish you strength during this time.
It was tragic when the doctor informed Ernie and I that Ernie had colon cancer. The operation took twelve inches of his colon. Following was chemotherapy. He was gone in six months but from a heart attack. My heart goes out to you and yours during this time of sadness.
Shirley

Shirley Flanagan posted on 08/09 at 08:17 PM.

Dear Alan,

I don't think I have ever read such a deeply moving tribute from an adult son to his dying father. I find it equally ironic that so soon after your father was helping you grieve the loss of your son, Ben, he was helping you grieve his own upcoming death. How lucky in this time of sorrow and loss that you had and understood each other's love.

All my best,

Micki

micki posted on 08/10 at 05:29 AM.

Dear Alan, What a beautiful tender story. I couldn't help but think, as I was reading it, how wonderful it must have been to have this kind of relationship with a parent. I was never this fortunate. My parents were priests and nuns at a catholic girls school I always attend. Unfortunately, I had a different mother every year. However, much of what they taught me, with the exception of dogma, has, for better or worse made me who I am today. I like who I am so I guess it wasn't all bad. Again, thank you for sharing these tender moments with me... Your friend Joanna/angel

joanna posted on 08/10 at 05:32 AM.

Alan:

Thanks so much for sharing this beautiful story of your last few days with your Dad...It was both moving and inspiring....it's nice that you could put into perspective his feelings and needs at such an important time in his, and your lives...I remember my Dad's last days also, over 20 years ago...He died of Pancreatic Cancer and the last weeks of his life were very difficult for him and for us....I am thankful that I was able to be by his side the last few days of his life, and even though he was not always conscious and alert, I felt that he knew I was there for him as the end drew near...We spent our last Shabbos together, him lying in bed and me standing over him singing Shabbos songs and bringing the Spirit of Shabbos to him as best I could...Knowing all that he did for me, and the kids, throughout his life, this opportunity to give back a little of the love and generosity that he showered on us, was the least that I could do...My only regret is that he didn't live to see, and enjoy the nachas that my sons, his grandsons, have given me over the years and especially now as young married men....May you have the zchut of seeing your kids grow into the men and women that you hope for and give you that special nachas that only kids can bring...Have a great week and a "Better Tomorrow"....And keep on writing! As always, Reuven

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reuven posted on 08/10 at 05:38 AM.

hi alan,

thanks for sharing this memory - it adds to all the wonderful memories i have of your dad.

by the way - is the part about your having been born with a clubfoot accurate? i ask because i too was born with same - guess we really are related.

bob

dr, r. burack posted on 08/10 at 05:41 AM.

With every stage of life comes certain qualities that enrich us. Perhaps when time is running out we feel the need to express that which we have concealed so that we can elucidate and clarify our thoughts and feelings to those we hold dear. Your father's concern that you make it to shul on time and his wishing you a good shabbos were his affirmation of his respect for your path of observance. Most probably he was silent about his approbation for a long time, but wanted to share it with you when he knew his time left was limited. How wonderful that you could open up to each other about so many issues in the final stage of your father's life. May his memory always be a source of strength and love.

Landtz posted on 08/10 at 10:17 AM.

Alan, thanks for sharing your story with us. May Hashem bless your father with a complete recovery. Where there is life there is always hope.

I lost my dad to congestive heart failure at age 63. It was the day of my aufruf. I sat shiva for 7 days, finishing the morning of my wedding. This event led me to putting on tefillin and saying Kaddish every day and eventually helped lead me towards becoming ba'al tshuvah and reconnecting with the rest of my ba'al tshuvah family.

Dad was an athlete, playing baseball on the U.S. Army team during the Korean War while stationed in Germany. Upon his return to the States he even had a tryout with the Brooklyn Dodgers.

He was athletic and healthy, espousing wheat germ, tofu, and all types of cutting edge health news even back in the 70's.

Today as a doctor I try my best to help people prevent what he went through. He really didn't have to die at age 63.

Your father's illness should be a wake up call to you. Examine your health and find a good practitioner who can advise you in diet, nutrition, and preventative health care for you and your family.

You can write me at (JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address) if you want.

Dr. Reuven Rosenberg posted on 08/10 at 01:36 PM.

Your reflection on your fathers final days is powerful. It offers us ways to see the value in knowing the end is near, and things need to be said. They are gifts we should not miss out on

Nancy

Nancy posted on 08/15 at 01:51 AM.

Alan ... very good, moving article. A very touching piece.

maria gebhart posted on 08/19 at 12:49 AM.

Dear Alan,

Thank you for sharing your experience. Reading your words I cried as I connected with you. My father loves me but it just seems to difficult for him to spend time with me or my older sister and younger brother. The strained relationship that I have with my father sometimes is just too painful so we go for weeks or months without speaking. I love him so passionately, yet I want to learn what you said: "I’ve always regarded my father as my teacher. Now that our time is running out, I must learn to see things as he sees them, from his inside out and, perhaps with just enough gentle prodding, my father will tell me about the stuff he’s never told me before."

For most of us we really don't know how much time we have to spend with our loved ones therefore those times should be spent well.
All I can say to you my friend is thank you for sharing and may the memories of your father bring you joy and strength.

Paul

Paul posted on 08/29 at 08:30 AM.

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