I am the newsletter editor for our little shul. It's a volunteer job, and like all volunteer jobs, it has its baggage, as well as its delights.
I've always thought that one of the worst parts of the job is compiling the monthly Yahrzeit list--it's an anniversary list of sorts, but of deaths. It lets people know on which night they should light a candle, when to say kaddish. It's a necessary, useful task. But the list I get--though not the one I publish--includes the names of the congregants who need to get the reminder notice from the synagogue. It also includes the relationships of the deceased to those people. And so--as I strip that personal, private information from the list--I am reminded each month of another set of losses. I'll remember how hard S took it when her father passed; I'll notice that H lost two sons on the same day in some distant time, and that they were both in the military. I end up spending too much time thinking about deaths gone by. It's sobering.
But today, I realized that I'm wrong. That's not the worst. Not by a long shot. Because today, I'm compiling the birthday list.
This is my third year editing the newsletter; I've developed some shortcuts. One of those is to pull up the birthday list from that same month the year before, and just add any new members' names, or move a new 18-year-old from the Kids' Birthdays list to the Adults' Birthdays list.
Today? Well, today I had to highlight and delete an entry from the latter list. The name of a man I had great fondness for; a man whose wife I truly adore. A man whose funeral I attended less than two months ago. A man who won't be having a birthday this September. A man whose name will appear on the Yahrzeit list next June or July, where it will make me sigh, but where, maybe, it won't make me cry, because it will be an addition, not a deletion.
I do not like deletions.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Confessions
- I really, seriously, and with absolutely no reservations can state that I could not care less about Michael Jackson. He wasn't an important part of my life, ever. He meant very little to me. I really don't care that much about the deaths of Farrah Fawcett or Billy May (for crying out loud...really?...I should care WHY?) or any of the other celebrities who in no significant way had any real impact on my life. When I hear about certain deaths, I stop for a moment and think, "Oh, that's a loss." And then I move on. With Michael Jackson? Not really sure it's even a loss. It's not that I wished him dead or anything. I just...don't care. Of course, what I think doesn't matter in any real sense. He meant nothing to me, and I meant less than that to him. I moved on long ago.
- Part of the reason for the above is that music has never been important in my life. I know that's alien to many people, but there it is. My life has always been about words. Not music. Not pictures, either--be they on a screen, or in a frame. (If you know me in real life, I've probably told you about how my dreams are rarely visual, how they're almost exclusively spoken/'felt' narratives, sometimes complete with 'he said's and 'she said's. I'm sure there's a neurological explanation for this, but there it is.) Thus, while there are a couple of musicians whose deaths I can see making me hesitate for a few moments--Bruce, for sure; James Taylor; Billy Joel, maybe--none are likely to bring me to tears. But when a writer I love passes? That hurts.
- I'm missing Em something fierce this summer. More than usual. Undoubtedly, this is because she's 'there' already...or getting 'there'...with 'there' being the place in pre-adolescence when you start to separate. She calls less frequently, and when she does, she's not excited to talk to me, not bursting with stories, not feeling like she needs me to know everything that happens to her. Normal. Good, probably. Painful as hell.
- I am well aware of the ways in which I need to be helping N start this own separation process, even at 8 years of age. But there are times when I actively avoid pushing him toward independence, because he's my baby, and I need a baby right now.
- I ought to be working. But instead, I'm confessing. Deadlines and me? Not even really on speaking terms lately.
- Dang, I'm hungry. Time for lunch. Then off to the bookstore, where hopefully there will be no CNN coverage to roll my eyes at.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Too Many Sons and Daughters
My volunteer work at our synagogue this year has shifted from my much-hated role as PTA president to a much-more-fitting role as editor of our monthly newsletter. I enjoy it, on the whole. I like being the one to gather up all the photos from our events; I like hearing about what's coming up next month. I like the lists of birthdays and anniversaries; I like compiling lists of people to thank for all the work they put into this potluck or that dinner dance. I especially like putting the (very) occasional bar or bat mitzvah on the cover. (As I've said, we're a VERY small congregation; the bar mitzvah I'll be attending in the morning is the last one we'll celebrate until May or June of 2010...and will kick off a relative flood of them, five in less than six months, which will include my own Em's special day.)
But each month, there's one part of the job that makes me pause and, usually, sigh: the list of yahrzeits for that month. The list I publish is just a series of names, each after a date on the Roman calendar. Because the yahrzeits themselves are calculated based on the date of death on a Jewish calendar, they change each year, and having a published list of when a specific yahrzeit falls is a huge help, a true mitzvah.
But when I get the list, it has more information than that. Mainly, it has a notation to let the user know who in our congregation "belongs to" the person to be remembered. And, again, because we're such a small congregation, nine times out of ten, I can picture the person who will be standing and reciting the Mourner's Kaddish that week. More often than not, I know them well enough to hug or kiss them when I see them--though, since I've only been at this synagogue for a little over three years, I rarely know the person who has passed. Still, it makes me more than a little melancholy to think, "Oh, A always has such a hard time when it's time for her husband's yahrzeit," or "I remember B talking about his father during Lunch and Learn one week; I wonder how long he's been gone?"
Worst, though, are months like this month, when in addition to the "aunt of"s and the "father of"s and the "grandmother of"s there are an ungodly [unfunny pun intended] number of "daughter of"s and "son of"s. Again, these are people I know well--but not well enough to know when they lost a child, or how it happened, or what sorts of holes it left. It makes me want to cry to think that, sometime in the middle of next month, Rachael and her husband are going to say kaddish for their son, that Trudy is going to say kaddish for a daughter I had no idea she had. I wonder if, for them, it helps or it hurts to have to observe this annual, ritual, mourning. And I try not to image what it would feel like if it were me.
But each month, there's one part of the job that makes me pause and, usually, sigh: the list of yahrzeits for that month. The list I publish is just a series of names, each after a date on the Roman calendar. Because the yahrzeits themselves are calculated based on the date of death on a Jewish calendar, they change each year, and having a published list of when a specific yahrzeit falls is a huge help, a true mitzvah.
But when I get the list, it has more information than that. Mainly, it has a notation to let the user know who in our congregation "belongs to" the person to be remembered. And, again, because we're such a small congregation, nine times out of ten, I can picture the person who will be standing and reciting the Mourner's Kaddish that week. More often than not, I know them well enough to hug or kiss them when I see them--though, since I've only been at this synagogue for a little over three years, I rarely know the person who has passed. Still, it makes me more than a little melancholy to think, "Oh, A always has such a hard time when it's time for her husband's yahrzeit," or "I remember B talking about his father during Lunch and Learn one week; I wonder how long he's been gone?"
Worst, though, are months like this month, when in addition to the "aunt of"s and the "father of"s and the "grandmother of"s there are an ungodly [unfunny pun intended] number of "daughter of"s and "son of"s. Again, these are people I know well--but not well enough to know when they lost a child, or how it happened, or what sorts of holes it left. It makes me want to cry to think that, sometime in the middle of next month, Rachael and her husband are going to say kaddish for their son, that Trudy is going to say kaddish for a daughter I had no idea she had. I wonder if, for them, it helps or it hurts to have to observe this annual, ritual, mourning. And I try not to image what it would feel like if it were me.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
And Yet I Cried
I don't know Vicki Forman, although we have more than one one-degree-of-separation connection. She's been on my mental 'to do' list for some time; a number of people have told me I needed to get to know her, but I've just been too shy to take that first step. One of those people, my friend Kristen, even suggested to Vicki that she and her son, Evan, should join us at a playdate in park we had last Wednesday.
Evan died, unexpectedly, early Thursday morning.
When Kristen told me, I was shocked at how gut-punched I felt. I wanted to come here and wail about how unfair it all is, about how 7-year-old boys shouldn't die, not EVER, about how there have been all too many child deaths of late, about how I can't take it any more, about how much my heart just hurts these days. But it just felt like it was too much about me. This is not about me. This is about a family dealt a blow I don't even like thinking about, much less writing about.
Still, blogging is how I process, and my kind of blogging is inherently selfish. Besides, the idea of writing about anything else--how hot it is, the cute thing N said to me yesterday, our plans for the weekend--seems even more wrong than writing about the pain I'm feeling for a woman and a man and a sister and a little boy I've met only on a computer screen.
So there it is. I may have no right, I may not know these people. And yet...I cried.
Evan died, unexpectedly, early Thursday morning.
When Kristen told me, I was shocked at how gut-punched I felt. I wanted to come here and wail about how unfair it all is, about how 7-year-old boys shouldn't die, not EVER, about how there have been all too many child deaths of late, about how I can't take it any more, about how much my heart just hurts these days. But it just felt like it was too much about me. This is not about me. This is about a family dealt a blow I don't even like thinking about, much less writing about.
Still, blogging is how I process, and my kind of blogging is inherently selfish. Besides, the idea of writing about anything else--how hot it is, the cute thing N said to me yesterday, our plans for the weekend--seems even more wrong than writing about the pain I'm feeling for a woman and a man and a sister and a little boy I've met only on a computer screen.
So there it is. I may have no right, I may not know these people. And yet...I cried.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
ADD Blogging
Last night I heard rustling outside the front window, and looked out to see one very large adult raccoon climb up into and then back down out of our tree...followed by SIX still-pretty-small offspring. I know I'm supposed to be horrified and freaked out, but they were so cute! Even Baroy was "aaaawwwww"ing all over the place.
It's 7:30 at night, and I cannot decide what to make for dinner. N didn't eat lunch until almost 3, so I'm OK for another half hour or so. But still. I really need to get a handle on this parenting thing. Apparently, nearly 11 years at this gig hasn't been enough.
I'm listening to The Brief, Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao on my iPod these days. This is how I know a book is totally kick-ass: I make up excuses to go for more than one long walk a day, just so I can listen to more of it. I can't tell you why I'm enjoying this book so much, but I am absolutely swept up in this story, and more than a little sad that I'm on the last disc. I hate when good books end.
It's easy to feed me; I eat anything and everything. It's my two guys who are a pain in the butt when it comes to dinner-making.
My new volunteer gig at my synagogue is putting together the monthly newsletter. To say that I'm already enjoying it more than I did heading up the religious school's PTA is a vast understatement. But there's an odd side to it. We're such an exceptionally small synagogue that I know the names--and, more often then not, the faces, the addresses and phone numbers, the children and/or parents of--every person who is on the lists of birthdays and anniversaries, thank yous and donations, condolences and yahrzeits. I now know who needs to light a candle for his grandmother in three weeks, and I know who gave a generous donation to the sisterhood fund. It all feels a little...voyeuristic, somehow
Speaking of yahrzeits, my first one for my father is fast approaching. In fact, his name was near the top of the yahrzeit list I just finished editing. This year, his yahrzeit falls on August 8 (because, as with all things Jewish, you don't commemorate a death based on the Roman calendar, but on the Jewish lunar-based calendar). This means I will be lighting the candle for him at sundown on August 7...which would have been his 70th birthday. That freaks me out a little, but mostly because it gives the whole thing a much larger significance and import than it's likely to have for me, to be honest.
Maybe I'll just make some fish sticks for N. Baroy and I can fend for ourselves.
It's 7:30 at night, and I cannot decide what to make for dinner. N didn't eat lunch until almost 3, so I'm OK for another half hour or so. But still. I really need to get a handle on this parenting thing. Apparently, nearly 11 years at this gig hasn't been enough.
I'm listening to The Brief, Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao on my iPod these days. This is how I know a book is totally kick-ass: I make up excuses to go for more than one long walk a day, just so I can listen to more of it. I can't tell you why I'm enjoying this book so much, but I am absolutely swept up in this story, and more than a little sad that I'm on the last disc. I hate when good books end.
It's easy to feed me; I eat anything and everything. It's my two guys who are a pain in the butt when it comes to dinner-making.
My new volunteer gig at my synagogue is putting together the monthly newsletter. To say that I'm already enjoying it more than I did heading up the religious school's PTA is a vast understatement. But there's an odd side to it. We're such an exceptionally small synagogue that I know the names--and, more often then not, the faces, the addresses and phone numbers, the children and/or parents of--every person who is on the lists of birthdays and anniversaries, thank yous and donations, condolences and yahrzeits. I now know who needs to light a candle for his grandmother in three weeks, and I know who gave a generous donation to the sisterhood fund. It all feels a little...voyeuristic, somehow
Speaking of yahrzeits, my first one for my father is fast approaching. In fact, his name was near the top of the yahrzeit list I just finished editing. This year, his yahrzeit falls on August 8 (because, as with all things Jewish, you don't commemorate a death based on the Roman calendar, but on the Jewish lunar-based calendar). This means I will be lighting the candle for him at sundown on August 7...which would have been his 70th birthday. That freaks me out a little, but mostly because it gives the whole thing a much larger significance and import than it's likely to have for me, to be honest.
Maybe I'll just make some fish sticks for N. Baroy and I can fend for ourselves.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
A Death in the Cyberfamily
I joined my August '97 birthmonth list in January of 1997, less than two months after I got my positive pregnancy test. To say that it changed my life would be an understatement, considering that my bestest girlfriends--and more than half the people who comment here on any regular basis--come from that very same list. Our babies--or, as we call them, our Auggies--have been cybercousins since the days they were born, many of them to mothers who sent out emails to the list from labor and delivery (or from a birth center, or from their bedroom...). Em has met a number of the Auggies, and knows about many others from stories I tell her as events in their lives unfold.
We've been together for 11 years now, and there are still 60-some of us subscribed, I think. Or something like that.
Early today, one of our number was driving a car on a slick road in Texas when she lost control of her car, crossed a grassy median into oncoming traffic, and was hit by an oncoming passenger truck. Her daughter--her Auggie--was killed instantly. (She and her younger child were injured but seem not to be in serious danger, thank goodness.)
I can't untangle the tears for the little girl, who I've known since she was born, and the tears for her mom, and the tears for 'it could have been me, it could have been Em, I can't imagine the pain, I don't want to imagine the pain, I can't stop imagining the pain'. And really, it doesn't matter. This is an event worthy of tears, wherever they come from.
There's been a refrain in the shocked and horrified emails on our list since the news made its way to us, and it brings a fresh batch of sobbing each time I read it:
Rest in peace, Maeve.
We've been together for 11 years now, and there are still 60-some of us subscribed, I think. Or something like that.
Early today, one of our number was driving a car on a slick road in Texas when she lost control of her car, crossed a grassy median into oncoming traffic, and was hit by an oncoming passenger truck. Her daughter--her Auggie--was killed instantly. (She and her younger child were injured but seem not to be in serious danger, thank goodness.)
I can't untangle the tears for the little girl, who I've known since she was born, and the tears for her mom, and the tears for 'it could have been me, it could have been Em, I can't imagine the pain, I don't want to imagine the pain, I can't stop imagining the pain'. And really, it doesn't matter. This is an event worthy of tears, wherever they come from.
There's been a refrain in the shocked and horrified emails on our list since the news made its way to us, and it brings a fresh batch of sobbing each time I read it:
Rest in peace, Maeve.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Freedom of Information
We were talking about my dad last night, my best buds and I. No, I'm not obsessing; in fact, I think that as someone who lost her father less than two months ago, I've spent a remarkably small amount of time talking and/or even thinking about him. Plus, there was actually a fairly direct line to the subject.
Anyway, one of the hubbies, who hadn't heard the whole birth certificate/name story, began asking me some questions. We got onto the subject of Dad's military service, and--being an officer himself--he asked some more questions, to which I was only able to give the vaguest of replies. My dad had told me some very convoluted and seemingly implausible story about his military service, and switching branches during the Korean War, and a records screw-up that led to his being dishonorably discharged from one branch, but honorably discharged from another. This led to a discussion of how it would have been possible for him to be getting VA health benefits, since he didn't seem to fit either of the criteria--retirement after 20 years of service, or a service-related injury.
"You know," I said, finally. "I can't even say for sure what his NAME was; I certainly can't answer any of these questions. And each question leads to several more."
"Well," my friend said, "why not do a Freedom of Information Act request on him?"
Uh. Duh. Apparently, over 20 years in journalism has NOT honed my investigative skills to a razor-sharp edge. Or even to a piss-poor dull edge, since FOIA is equivalent to Journalism 101. Sigh.
And so, this morning, I found myself at the National Personnel Records Center website, where I discovered I didn't even have to jump through any serious hoops. Being the daughter of a deceased serviceman, all I had to do was sign and fax an affidavit to that end and then give some info about my dad (SS#, date of birth, simple stuff like that), after which I was told that the information I requested would be mailed to me.
And that was that. I only requested info from the supposed "first" branch of the service he was in, asking to know about his discharge from that service, and asking for his medical records, especially mental health (which was an option in the menu of choices available to me). We'll see what I get, and when.
But I do have to say, it feels a little...ghoulish. Or something. Like, is it really my business? Why do I care? Why do I want to know? Actually, that's disingenuous. Whether or not it's really my business is a real and legitimate concern, but I know why I want to know...because I hate being not in the know, for one thing. But even more to the point, because at the back of my mind, prodded forward on a regular basis by a number of different people with the same idea, there's a book brewing. A book not about my dad so much as about lies and truth and mental illness. A memoir, perhaps--not of his life, but of his life's impact on my life. Or something less personal and more contemplative. Or something less personal and more scientific. I'm not quite sure. And it may never come to pass. But in the meantime, I'll probably slowly, very slowly, follow a few of these paths towards knowing at least a couple of 'truths' about my father, to see how or even whether they resolve some of the fuzziness--both factual and emotional--I feel when I think about him.
I'll let you know what I find out, if anything...
Anyway, one of the hubbies, who hadn't heard the whole birth certificate/name story, began asking me some questions. We got onto the subject of Dad's military service, and--being an officer himself--he asked some more questions, to which I was only able to give the vaguest of replies. My dad had told me some very convoluted and seemingly implausible story about his military service, and switching branches during the Korean War, and a records screw-up that led to his being dishonorably discharged from one branch, but honorably discharged from another. This led to a discussion of how it would have been possible for him to be getting VA health benefits, since he didn't seem to fit either of the criteria--retirement after 20 years of service, or a service-related injury.
"You know," I said, finally. "I can't even say for sure what his NAME was; I certainly can't answer any of these questions. And each question leads to several more."
"Well," my friend said, "why not do a Freedom of Information Act request on him?"
Uh. Duh. Apparently, over 20 years in journalism has NOT honed my investigative skills to a razor-sharp edge. Or even to a piss-poor dull edge, since FOIA is equivalent to Journalism 101. Sigh.
And so, this morning, I found myself at the National Personnel Records Center website, where I discovered I didn't even have to jump through any serious hoops. Being the daughter of a deceased serviceman, all I had to do was sign and fax an affidavit to that end and then give some info about my dad (SS#, date of birth, simple stuff like that), after which I was told that the information I requested would be mailed to me.
And that was that. I only requested info from the supposed "first" branch of the service he was in, asking to know about his discharge from that service, and asking for his medical records, especially mental health (which was an option in the menu of choices available to me). We'll see what I get, and when.
But I do have to say, it feels a little...ghoulish. Or something. Like, is it really my business? Why do I care? Why do I want to know? Actually, that's disingenuous. Whether or not it's really my business is a real and legitimate concern, but I know why I want to know...because I hate being not in the know, for one thing. But even more to the point, because at the back of my mind, prodded forward on a regular basis by a number of different people with the same idea, there's a book brewing. A book not about my dad so much as about lies and truth and mental illness. A memoir, perhaps--not of his life, but of his life's impact on my life. Or something less personal and more contemplative. Or something less personal and more scientific. I'm not quite sure. And it may never come to pass. But in the meantime, I'll probably slowly, very slowly, follow a few of these paths towards knowing at least a couple of 'truths' about my father, to see how or even whether they resolve some of the fuzziness--both factual and emotional--I feel when I think about him.
I'll let you know what I find out, if anything...
Saturday, July 28, 2007
It's too early to be coherent
The Funeral That Wasn't wasn't as bad as I'd worried it might be, though it certainly didn't start off auspiciously. (Five hours on the road--more than a full hour in dead-stoped traffic--for a three-hour trip resulted in us being nearly an hour late for the memorial, and arriving way after everyone else. You know. Two of his three daughters, late to his memorial. Freud woulda had a field day, no?)
It was very casual, but still, people spoke. I spoke, briefly. One of my aunts spoke. Dad's girlfriend's son, who organized the event, spoke. Even Em summoned up the nerve to say a little something (about the backwards dinner we had last year when we visited with Dad and his girlfriend). She was so nervous about the whole speaking-at-a-funeral thing, and worried about it all morning, despite my telling her MANY times she didn't have to say a word if she didn't want to. But she was so pleased with herself afterwards for doing it.
We left after a few hours of drinking (yes, caipirinhas) and talking, but went back after nightfall, to scatter the ashes, and that was...kind of profound. And yes, that was, again, much to my surprise. Also much to my surprise, Em and my nephew both really wanted to play an active role in the ash-speading. And so they did.
I can't really think of what else to say. I'm staring at the screen, sort of in overload. I slept remarkably well the night before the memorial, considering how nervous I was (very) and how overtired I was (very). But last night? All the voices of my past haunted my sleep. I've been up since 5 am (i.e., 2 am in my Cali-entrained brain) and just could not go back to sleep. There are too many memories, even just from yesterday. Little bits and pieces keep popping into my head...a funny anecdote from yesterday reminding me of a slight from two decades ago, one voice leading to another voice leading to another voice leading to some kind of brief, sharp pang of hurt or regret.
Clearly, I need either some very strong coffee or some even stronger psychopharmaceuticals. Probably the latter.
I will say that my very favorite part was the tumbler of scotch--his signature, but by no means only, drink--that Dad's girlfriend's Irish family put on a table in the center of the circle of chairs. Definitely gave me the "Dad is among us" feeling. I told them I thought he would have laughed until he cried over that touch.
My sister and I have planned our own version of a memorial service for Monday: We're going to take Em and my nephew into Manhattan to do a "post-divorce Sunday with Dad" tour. In other words, we're going to the museums of our childhood, the places that, in the early-to-mid-1970s would be almost embarrassingly packed each Sunday with dads trying to figure out what to do with their kids on Visitation Day. My Dad was very much among them. Now, of course, I realize that in large part that weekly museum tour was due to the fact that we couldn't spend much time at his apartment, where he was living with the woman who would be my stepmonster...but nevermind that right now. And see what I mean about those ghosts from the past?
It was very casual, but still, people spoke. I spoke, briefly. One of my aunts spoke. Dad's girlfriend's son, who organized the event, spoke. Even Em summoned up the nerve to say a little something (about the backwards dinner we had last year when we visited with Dad and his girlfriend). She was so nervous about the whole speaking-at-a-funeral thing, and worried about it all morning, despite my telling her MANY times she didn't have to say a word if she didn't want to. But she was so pleased with herself afterwards for doing it.
We left after a few hours of drinking (yes, caipirinhas) and talking, but went back after nightfall, to scatter the ashes, and that was...kind of profound. And yes, that was, again, much to my surprise. Also much to my surprise, Em and my nephew both really wanted to play an active role in the ash-speading. And so they did.
I can't really think of what else to say. I'm staring at the screen, sort of in overload. I slept remarkably well the night before the memorial, considering how nervous I was (very) and how overtired I was (very). But last night? All the voices of my past haunted my sleep. I've been up since 5 am (i.e., 2 am in my Cali-entrained brain) and just could not go back to sleep. There are too many memories, even just from yesterday. Little bits and pieces keep popping into my head...a funny anecdote from yesterday reminding me of a slight from two decades ago, one voice leading to another voice leading to another voice leading to some kind of brief, sharp pang of hurt or regret.
Clearly, I need either some very strong coffee or some even stronger psychopharmaceuticals. Probably the latter.
I will say that my very favorite part was the tumbler of scotch--his signature, but by no means only, drink--that Dad's girlfriend's Irish family put on a table in the center of the circle of chairs. Definitely gave me the "Dad is among us" feeling. I told them I thought he would have laughed until he cried over that touch.
My sister and I have planned our own version of a memorial service for Monday: We're going to take Em and my nephew into Manhattan to do a "post-divorce Sunday with Dad" tour. In other words, we're going to the museums of our childhood, the places that, in the early-to-mid-1970s would be almost embarrassingly packed each Sunday with dads trying to figure out what to do with their kids on Visitation Day. My Dad was very much among them. Now, of course, I realize that in large part that weekly museum tour was due to the fact that we couldn't spend much time at his apartment, where he was living with the woman who would be my stepmonster...but nevermind that right now. And see what I mean about those ghosts from the past?
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Caipirinhas. Good for what ails ya.
If there was one thing my Dad knew, it was booze. And his drink? Caipirinhas, an artifact of the dozen or more years he spent living at least part-time in Brazil, during his import-export phase. (He claimed he was importing and exporting textiles and sneakers and such, but considering the number of times he made side-trips to Colombia...I'm just sayin'. He lived a fairly colorful life, even for someone with bipolar disorder.)
And so tonight, right before heading out to our not-to-be-missed Sunday Music in the Park, I ran to the supermarket where, much to my surprise, they actually sold cachaca (pronounced ca-sha-sa), the main ingredient in caipirinhas. I bought a bunch of limes, and came home to whip up a big old batch of the stuff.
Once I had all my homegirls gathered round--including yet another guest-starring appearance from my beloved Po herself--we raised our glasses to my Dad, and wished him happy trails. For the first time since I'd gotten the news, I felt like I was doing something right...something appropriate to the occasion. Dad totally would have approved. Hell, Dad totally would have finshed off the pitcher before anyone else could have thought about pouring seconds...and then launched into hours of hysterical, off-color jokes and bald-faced lies, each one of which he would have claimed was a "totally true story, I swear."
Cheers, Dad. L'chaim.
And so tonight, right before heading out to our not-to-be-missed Sunday Music in the Park, I ran to the supermarket where, much to my surprise, they actually sold cachaca (pronounced ca-sha-sa), the main ingredient in caipirinhas. I bought a bunch of limes, and came home to whip up a big old batch of the stuff.
Once I had all my homegirls gathered round--including yet another guest-starring appearance from my beloved Po herself--we raised our glasses to my Dad, and wished him happy trails. For the first time since I'd gotten the news, I felt like I was doing something right...something appropriate to the occasion. Dad totally would have approved. Hell, Dad totally would have finshed off the pitcher before anyone else could have thought about pouring seconds...and then launched into hours of hysterical, off-color jokes and bald-faced lies, each one of which he would have claimed was a "totally true story, I swear."
Cheers, Dad. L'chaim.
The Non-Funeral
[First, thanks for all the condolences and comments, both public and private. I'll reply one of these days, I promise.]
So, the funeral. Well, here's the thing. There isn't going to be one.
I think I mentioned, back on my old blog when Dad was first diagnosed, that he was talking about being cremated. I think I also mentioned that I found that somewhat of an, um, interesting choice from a man who escaped Nazi Germany in the late 1930's. ("So, what?" I asked him soon after his diagnosis, when he had made his choice clear. "This is your way of saying, 'Haha, Hitler, you couldn't burn me, so I'll do it myself'?")
For background: My grandfather, so what little family history I know goes, had been in a work camp and been released before the death camps really got going. Still, the work camp had given him enough of a glimpse into the future, and he grabbed what family members were willing to take him seriously--my grandmother, my aunt, and my then-six-month-old father--and headed for The Netherlands. Some time later, and I wish I knew the timeline better, they managed to find their way to the U.S., coming in through Ellis Island, where my grandparents decided to change my father's name--originally Chaim, meaning life in Hebrew--to Jack, as in Jack Armstrong, The All-American Boy. Ellis Island officials added a middle name--Israel--which my father jettisoned as soon as he possibly could. It was his contention--and I know I've said this many times in the past--that religion was merely one man's reason to hate another man, and he wanted nothing to do with it. That said, he did have a bar mitzvah, and has asked for his tallis to be given to N, so he must have had some religious upbrining...just not one that he told me about.
OK. So my dad wants to be cremated (a process that is apparently already underway), wants his ashes spread in the yard of the house where he lived with his girlfriend these past few months and where they had spent a lot of time these past several years. Does not want a rabbi, does not want a religious ceremony (see above). We are to have a 'casual' get-together at the house, where we're going to...I'm not sure what, actually. Eat. Talk about him. Hang out together.
So, yeah. That's what's ahead for me this week. No comforting traditions, no ritual to hide behind. Not the way I would personally choose to close out my father's life...but, now that I think about it, it's sort of fitting, since most of the way he lived his life was not how I would personally have chosen to do it, either.
[A completely detached aside: Wow, that post came out a lot more bitter than I had initially intended it to come out. You who are bloggers and do your entries by the seat of your pants, the way I almost always do, may have experienced the same. I was thinking I'd just post a little bit about how so many people seem to think that at least there will be peace and closure at the funeral, but that, in this case, there will be no funeral, and I doubt there will be closure. Instead, it turned into a kind of rambling family history that then morphed into a slam at my dad. How dull. How predictable. Feh.]
So, the funeral. Well, here's the thing. There isn't going to be one.
I think I mentioned, back on my old blog when Dad was first diagnosed, that he was talking about being cremated. I think I also mentioned that I found that somewhat of an, um, interesting choice from a man who escaped Nazi Germany in the late 1930's. ("So, what?" I asked him soon after his diagnosis, when he had made his choice clear. "This is your way of saying, 'Haha, Hitler, you couldn't burn me, so I'll do it myself'?")
For background: My grandfather, so what little family history I know goes, had been in a work camp and been released before the death camps really got going. Still, the work camp had given him enough of a glimpse into the future, and he grabbed what family members were willing to take him seriously--my grandmother, my aunt, and my then-six-month-old father--and headed for The Netherlands. Some time later, and I wish I knew the timeline better, they managed to find their way to the U.S., coming in through Ellis Island, where my grandparents decided to change my father's name--originally Chaim, meaning life in Hebrew--to Jack, as in Jack Armstrong, The All-American Boy. Ellis Island officials added a middle name--Israel--which my father jettisoned as soon as he possibly could. It was his contention--and I know I've said this many times in the past--that religion was merely one man's reason to hate another man, and he wanted nothing to do with it. That said, he did have a bar mitzvah, and has asked for his tallis to be given to N, so he must have had some religious upbrining...just not one that he told me about.
OK. So my dad wants to be cremated (a process that is apparently already underway), wants his ashes spread in the yard of the house where he lived with his girlfriend these past few months and where they had spent a lot of time these past several years. Does not want a rabbi, does not want a religious ceremony (see above). We are to have a 'casual' get-together at the house, where we're going to...I'm not sure what, actually. Eat. Talk about him. Hang out together.
So, yeah. That's what's ahead for me this week. No comforting traditions, no ritual to hide behind. Not the way I would personally choose to close out my father's life...but, now that I think about it, it's sort of fitting, since most of the way he lived his life was not how I would personally have chosen to do it, either.
[A completely detached aside: Wow, that post came out a lot more bitter than I had initially intended it to come out. You who are bloggers and do your entries by the seat of your pants, the way I almost always do, may have experienced the same. I was thinking I'd just post a little bit about how so many people seem to think that at least there will be peace and closure at the funeral, but that, in this case, there will be no funeral, and I doubt there will be closure. Instead, it turned into a kind of rambling family history that then morphed into a slam at my dad. How dull. How predictable. Feh.]
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Dad died this morning
There is a God. He was so sick, and so ready to go, and I was so afraid he'd hang on for weeks more in needless torture. This is--accepting and getting past the inevitabilty of it all, knowing that there was no chance for it to go any other way--a good thing.
I got The Call from my sister about half an hour ago. When there's a terminally ill family member and the phone rings at 6:30 am on a Saturday morning, you don't have to ask what's up.
I was up until 2 this morning, waiting for Em and Baroy to get back from some Harry Potter-related festivities and then getting Em into bed. I suppose that I should refrain from making some bad joke about how I now know who dies in the end, huh? Because that would be inappropriate, and it would make you all uncomfortable, and...Yeah, I know. Too late.
I know there are no 'should's in mourning, but I really wish I felt more like crying. Or at all like crying. A man's death--my father's death--really should be worth a few tears. Maybe they'll come later. Maybe they won't. Maybe I'll mourn in other ways, in my own way.
I also wish I knew more about him so that at some point--not right now, because while I'm not crying, I am too raw to do much in the way of 'real writing'--I could do a bloggish eulogy for him, to tell you all a little bit about him. Maybe at some point I'll dredge up some of the less-painful memories of him to talk about. Maybe I'll just let him rest in peace. Time will, I guess, tell.
Sometimes, on Saturdays, I go to my synagogue to attend Shabbat morning services. This is not something I talk a lot about to people. It seems to weird them out, and rightly so, since I spent approximately 41 years being either neutral or outright anti-religious. And I don't talk about it that much here, either, because I'm not quite sure myself what to make of it. But there you have it. I go, and because I'm not yet comfortable with the idea of doing an aliyah, I usually get called up to dress the Torah--I'm becoming an expert Torah-dresser--which is probably making my mother wonder who the hell this person writing is...
But I digress. Let me start again. Sometimes, on Saturdays, I go to my synagogue to attend Shabbat morning services. I go alone, because Saturday services are no place for boisterous 6-year-olds. When we were at services last night--it was the monthly potluck and one of the two Fridays each month we try to attend as a family when and if possible--I said I'd try to be there. But then it got to be so late last night, and I didn't go to bed, and I was thinking I'd probably just sleep in instead. Until, that is, the phone rang this morning with the news. My first really coherent thought after I hung up? Well, that decides it. Someone needs to go say kaddish for my dad, and that one might as well be me.
Like I said, maybe I'll mourn in my own way.
Yit'gadal v'yit'kadash sh'mei raba...
I got The Call from my sister about half an hour ago. When there's a terminally ill family member and the phone rings at 6:30 am on a Saturday morning, you don't have to ask what's up.
I was up until 2 this morning, waiting for Em and Baroy to get back from some Harry Potter-related festivities and then getting Em into bed. I suppose that I should refrain from making some bad joke about how I now know who dies in the end, huh? Because that would be inappropriate, and it would make you all uncomfortable, and...Yeah, I know. Too late.
I know there are no 'should's in mourning, but I really wish I felt more like crying. Or at all like crying. A man's death--my father's death--really should be worth a few tears. Maybe they'll come later. Maybe they won't. Maybe I'll mourn in other ways, in my own way.
I also wish I knew more about him so that at some point--not right now, because while I'm not crying, I am too raw to do much in the way of 'real writing'--I could do a bloggish eulogy for him, to tell you all a little bit about him. Maybe at some point I'll dredge up some of the less-painful memories of him to talk about. Maybe I'll just let him rest in peace. Time will, I guess, tell.
Sometimes, on Saturdays, I go to my synagogue to attend Shabbat morning services. This is not something I talk a lot about to people. It seems to weird them out, and rightly so, since I spent approximately 41 years being either neutral or outright anti-religious. And I don't talk about it that much here, either, because I'm not quite sure myself what to make of it. But there you have it. I go, and because I'm not yet comfortable with the idea of doing an aliyah, I usually get called up to dress the Torah--I'm becoming an expert Torah-dresser--which is probably making my mother wonder who the hell this person writing is...
But I digress. Let me start again. Sometimes, on Saturdays, I go to my synagogue to attend Shabbat morning services. I go alone, because Saturday services are no place for boisterous 6-year-olds. When we were at services last night--it was the monthly potluck and one of the two Fridays each month we try to attend as a family when and if possible--I said I'd try to be there. But then it got to be so late last night, and I didn't go to bed, and I was thinking I'd probably just sleep in instead. Until, that is, the phone rang this morning with the news. My first really coherent thought after I hung up? Well, that decides it. Someone needs to go say kaddish for my dad, and that one might as well be me.
Like I said, maybe I'll mourn in my own way.
Yit'gadal v'yit'kadash sh'mei raba...
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