June 23rd, 2011: A Gentle Surrender

Jamie and Matthew got the call from Mom's doctor somewhere around 7am: today was the day. They were told Mom's breathing had become labored and to come to the hospital quickly. Then, Dad's doctor, Courtney Snyder, called. My siblings relayed that news to him and Courtney, a man my father actually trained, said that he'd personally prepare Dad with the news. Then they called me. I skipped meditation and showering: time was of the essence. I got dressed quickly but had to take a shit. While crapping, the phone rang again. It was my brother. He was crying. He didn't need to say the words, but stumbled through them anyway: Mom had died.

It was classic comedic irony: Mom shits herself, interrupting our goodbye conversation just a few days earlier; then she dies, interrupting me taking a shit.

I finished dressing, picked up my siblings, and called the funeral home to start the process of executing the funeral I'd planned for Mom according to her wishes. And then, together, we drive over to Albert Einstein Medical Center to have one last visit with Mom. We drove in one car, something we'd not yet done on this trip. I remember that much. But I don't remember how we got to the hospital. I just remember handing over the keys to the valet parking service and then walking inside. And needing to take a deep breath. And Jamie's comment to the “security guards” at the front desk that they needn’t worry about seeing us again. Then we got into the elevator together and rode up to the eighth floor in silence.

There is, literally, nothing you can do to prepare yourself for seeing your parent dead. Nothing. There's no special mantra, prayer or deep breathing technique that will, somehow, reduce the shock of seeing someone you've known for your entire existence laying lifeless in a bed. All you can do is try to breathe and stay in the moment.

Walking down the hall of the 8th floor to her room was like being in a dream. The hall telescoped out to beyond my capacity, a blur of white tiles and beeping medical devices on rollers. As we passed the nurses station, I glanced up and saw a few faces meet mine. And I wondered: how many of these people already knew that Mom was dead? How many knew that we were her children, walking down this hall to see her for the last time? What did they think? Could they understand or were they too desensitized from seeing scenes like this every day, of family traveling from distances near and far to visit their workplace and watch people die?

As we floated in electric silence to the front of Mom's room, her night nurse aid, Mamie, made way for us to enter. Like Kerberos guarding the River Styx, she'd been guarding the threshold. I offered Jamie to go in first. She was the only daughter, she was closest to Mom in her final years and I thought it would be appropriate for her to lead us in. She was already crying on the threshold. But I don't blame her. What awaited us inside was otherworldly.

Mom was laying in bed in nearly the same position we'd left her the night before: arms and feet raised on pillows to help keep her comfortable, leaning slightly to one side. Her mouth was open and so were her eyes. But her skin had already changed color slightly. And it was cool to the touch. If you've never seen a dead body before, there's... there's just no mistaking it: you know right away. There's a look, an energy, and an emptiness around death that is both seen and felt because it creates a silence around it, like a vacuum.

Jamie took Mom's hand and looked into her face and said, "Oh, Mom...  Oh, Mom..." Matthew went around to the other side of the bed and put his hand on her arm and just looked at her, helpless to change the situation. I put my hands on Mom's feet from the end of the bed. They were cool to the touch. And I wept, silently at first and then out loud, for the passing of a woman I admired, respected, loved and, sometimes – in later years - truly despised. And when Jamie had moved away from the bed and sat down in a chair, I moved to where she'd had been on Mom's bed. And I took a deep breath. And I put my hand on Mom's. And I said to myself:

"Do not look away, David. Look into the eyes of your dead Mother. See her. Be here with her now. Do not be afraid. Do not look away from her death. You will regret that. Look upon her and see her as she is now and know that she is gone."

And I tried. But I could not see that she was gone. Instead, the permanence of her life became a powerful illusion even after her death: I continued to see her chest rise and fall as she lay there. I knew it wasn’t happening. I mean, I absolutely knew that my mind was playing tricks on me but the vein there on the left side of her neck... It was beating still, wasn't it? Didn't it move just now? Didn't I just now see that vein pump as it had been pumping the night before? I thought about mentioning what I was seeing but remained silent. Moments later, Jamie said, "It looks like Mom is still breathing," and, relieved, I blurted out, "I know!" grateful that someone else was there with me, dreaming the same lucid dream.

Jamie's phone rang, the same, obnoxiously loud ring she refuses to alter. She glanced at its screen. "It's Aunt Gert," she said.

"Not now," I said and she put the call through to her voicemail. Jamie rarely listens to me, but in this moment — a moment of raw, emotional human-ness — both my siblings followed my lead. "No phone calls right now," I said. "I think we should take a few minutes to sit here with Mom and just... be with her." And so it was.

I opened the curtains that had been drawn to keep the light from Mom's eyes. Light from the morning entered the room. The view out of the window started with the heliport and extended clear across the Eastern half of Philadelphia and over to New Jersey. We sat silently around Mom. We looked at her. I picked up her limp arm, found her hand from under the sheet and put my own in it. Her fingers were turning a shade of blue I can't describe. I continued to see Mom breathing. After a while, I made my way back to another chair. We shifted uncomfortably. Occasionally, someone spoke, a memory here, an off-color joke there. We cried. But we were together, Mom's three children, still there, surrounding her in bed, for one last time.

A nurse came in to remove a few tubes from Mom; I asked her to please save that for after we'd left. I don't think any of us could have beared to watch a person we didn't know manipulate Mom's body in order to disconnect her from the various devices and tubes.

Sometime later, I couldn't tell you how long, Mom's oncologist, Dr. Leighton, came into the room, followed by Marv, Dad's business partner for nearly twenty years. And they both expressed their sympathy. I shook their hands. Crying, I thanked Dr. Leighton for all he'd done to help Mom to survive for as long as she had. He shook his head, saddened, and called her a remarkable fighter. Marv asked if there was anything he could do. Jamie said, "We admitted Dad to Jeannes Hospital a day ago. Go visit him. He could use all the help he can get right now..."

There was a pause and we all looked at Marv. He stumbled out that his schedule was, you know, kinda tight on this particular day and that, well, he'd really need to spend the entire day at Einstein Medical Center and, you know, we'd just need to see, wouldn't we...

When the two doctors left, I drifted down to the nurses station and, over the beeps and boops of the machines there, asked them to please call Goldstein's Funeral Home to begin the process of claiming Mom's body for her final journey. They said they would, of course and offered condolences, respectful to not make much eye contact.

I walked back to Mom's room but didn't sit. "I'm going to say goodbye to Mom, now," I told Jamie and Matthew. "I don't need to see her again. In fact, I don't really want to see her again at the funeral in her casket. I'd just prefer to say goodbye now and leave it at that. And I just wanted to let you know in case you felt the same way..." They both nodded in agreement. This would be our last time seeing Mom. I walked to the left side of her bed, put my hand on hers and leaned over to kiss her forehead. It was cool under my lips.

"Goodbye, Mom," I half stammered, half swallowed. I'd started crying again, quietly this time. And then, looking at her face one last time, I took a breath, turned my back on her and — one foot in front of the other — walked from her room, a gentle surrender into the chaos of whatever came next.

June 27th, 2011: Old Friends

Last night as the Rabbi Rosenbloom led us in Ma'areev services after dinner here at the house, we had a most welcome but unexpected guest.

I got a tap on my shoulder from Jamie who pointed into the dining room. And there, almost hiding behind an archway so that he wouldn't be seen so easily, stood Charles Davidson, my old cantor from Adath Jeshurun, and one of the men I truly loved as a young boy for his talent, his heart and his dedication to Judaism and music. Charles had taken an interest in me when I was a boy as I could sing, I could read Hebrew, I could chant from the Torah and, for a while, because I'd considered becoming a cantor or rabbi myself. He was, in some ways, an unofficial mentor although I doubt he ever knew it then.

And when I turned to see him, I smiled broadly and blew him a kiss. I was, truly, overjoyed. I mean I really love this man and I haven't seen him since he retired as a cantor from our synagogue and teacher at the Jewish Theological Seminary well over ten years ago. I was so happy that he'd come to join us davining that I instinctively turned back to my prayerbook and closed my eyes.  I heard his voice,  that deep and wonderful voice, the same one I remember from my youth, and I was, suddenly, transported through time...

There was time I was invited to lead Friday night Shabbat services in the main sanctuary, something rarely, if ever, allowed for a 16-year-old boy; there were the frequent Shaharit services where I was invited to chant from the Torah for morning minyan; the many additional mornings when, as a Torah teacher, I'd assist as one of my own students to chant from the torah; the singing with Jamie in the synagogue youth chorale, where Charles would accompany us on the piano as we sang traditional and modern Jewish songs, some of which he'd composed himself; the high honor of being asked to read The Ten Commandments in the main sanctuary, one of the only times during the year when the entire congregation must rise as you recite the central laws of the Jewish people.

And then there was the one year, on some special occasion I can't remember, when I was called to read from the Torah in the main sanctuary. On that morning, I was accidentally pointed to the wrong place in the ancient text to begin my chanting. I couldn't find my way and panicked. As a result, I stumbled through my portion disastrously - a very great embarrassment before the assembled congregants - and left the sanctuary barely able to contain my tears, finally breaking down in the foyer, outside. Before even a minute had passed, I felt a hand on my shoulder. When I turned around, there was Cantor Davidson. He had actually left the services to come out to the foyer to check on me.

"I'm sorry, David," he said. "You were sharing several verses with the reader before you, something we do from time to time, and the Gabbais forgot to reset where your portion was to begin. It wasn't your fault. Don't be upset, it's OK." He hugged me, smiled and walked back into the schul.

When we embraced again — this time for shiva in the living room of my parents' home as Rabbi finished Ma'areev — I looked into his face. He looked older but the same, really. Time is a funny thing sometimes, isn't it? We kissed each other on the cheek.  I told him that I loved him, that I missed him and that it was nice to see him. He spent some time consoling my father. His own wife died of Lewy Body disease, so he was no stranger to Dad's condition.

Old friends are like a healing salve applied to a fresh wound, they ease your pain, lift your spirits and remind you of who you truly are.

July 21st, 2010 - The Talk

I called Mom and Dad as I was driving home earlier this week. Now that I'm back in Los Angeles and across the country from them, I try to call at least once a day for my own peace of mind as well as theirs: I want them to know that I'm still here for them, but I also choose to be invested in their lives, despite the distance.

And that evening, as I drove home, something wonderful happened: Dad picked up the phone and was crystal clear, absolutely clear in a way I'd not heard him in a many months — he was speaking loudly enough so that I could hear him, he was speaking in full sentences, and... he was making sense. To suddenly and unexpectedly have my Dad back, to be able to clearly hold a conversation with him… Well, it was profoundly moving to the point of tears since that rarely happens any more.

That's the good news.

The bad news is that what he discussed with me was heart-breaking. He told me that he and Mom had fought the previous night, after eating dinner with friends. "She yelled and screamed at me for about fifteen minutes; then, she said the thing I've been waiting for her to say, afraid that she would say..."

"What was that, Dad?" I asked.

"She told me that I was the reason that she has cancer. She said I caused it, that she's sick because of me." I felt pain, a deep pain in my gut. The pulse in my neck seemed like a rock concert. My depth perception did that weird thing you see in the movies where the camera is pulled away from the subject while it simultaneously zooms in. The traffic around me morphed into something more like a video game than real life. I took a breath and spoke what was in my heart:

"I'm so sorry, Dad."

"It's not your fault, babe."

"I know it’s not, Dad, but…  Mom sometimes takes out her anger on you and me and others, but: that wasn't nice, it wasn't appropriate and it wasn't true, Dad. You're not to blame for Mom having cancer. And she's not to blame for you having Lewy Body Disease. I’m very upset with her for what she said. I want to say something to her.”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t,” Dad said. I was rendered speechless for ten seconds. My Dad actually asked if I was still on the line. After all of the things he’d asked me to say to Mom during my six-week visit home — that she should consider therapy, that she needed to have some support group, that she needed to face her fears about Dad’s dying and her own mortality — to have him now request that I not say anything was surprising. And upsetting.

“Well… to be honest, I don’t know if I should have asked for your approval, Dad. Something needs to be said to Mom. That’s not OK what she said to you...” But Dad again requested otherwise and, as he was of clear mind, I told him that I would honor his request. I didn’t want to, but I gave my word, told him that I loved him and we ended the call. When I hung up, I remember thinking that all I wanted was to dishonor Dad's request and find some excuse to talk about what had happened with my Mom. I got my excuse the next morning.

On the way out the door to bike to work (and, yes: some of us do bike to work in Los Angeles), I called Mom to say a quick hello. She was at the doctor’s receiving one of her infusions. I hadn’t remembered that she’d had an appointment. And, since Mom is constitutionally incapable of not picking up her phone when it rings, she answered, sounding tired and weak. This caught me off-guard. But not as much as her almost immediately asking me, “So what did you and Dad talk about last night?”

Here was my excuse. If Dad was upset, I could just tell him that Mom had asked me a direct question and that I’d given her a direct answer. Only… I stalled. I told Mom that I'd just called to say "hi" and that we’d have to talk later since I was heading into work. Which was only partially true. The full truth is that I stalled because I was angry. Really angry. Beyond angry, actually. I was incredulous and fuming and I wanted to read Mom the riot act and say, "Are you fucking KIDDING me? You're blaming your husband because you have cancer? You're screaming at someone who is physically and emotionally defenseless? Fuck you. I don't CARE if you have cancer. Go fuck yourself for saying shit like that to my Dad."

Only saying shit like that to my Mom wasn't going to help. Not at that moment. I wasn’t prepared to have a difficult and emotional conversation while she was in such a weakened state and in a hospital, receiving an infusion of drugs. I needed to cool off, to take some time to think and strategize. Which I did. For about four days. And during that time I thought: would Mom really have told Dad that he was to blame for her cancer? Possibly. Would there be another side to the story that Dad hadn’t mentioned to me? Possibly. Would Mom be upset if I asked her about the incident? Probably.

And so it came to pass that later that week — when we both found the time to chat — that I told Mom how Dad had related their having a fight earlier in the week.

“We absolutely did,” she said.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I asked. 

“Well, Dad was being very difficult after dinner. He wouldn’t do what I politely asked him to do and I got very angry with him. And resentful.” I waited for her to continue. She didn’t.

“What was it that you were asking him to do?”

“Basic things. Not sitting in a chair and falling asleep all day, not putting his hands in his food when eating… But he was just being disagreeable and I can’t take it anymore. I got angry and let him know that I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Did you say anything to Dad that you regret,” I asked, giving her the opportunity to say more.

“No.” I waited for her to continue speaking, but she didn't.

Now lookit: Mom's stubborn, impatient and often navigates life by fear and anxiety, but she's no idiot. She probably already knew the rest of the story that Dad had told me. So, I took a deep breath and asked the $64,000 question. Actually, it was a statement, not a question, although - to my credit - I made it into a question at the very last moment in my own retarded awkwardness by raising my voice at the end of the statement like when a two-year-old asks for a cookie:

“Well...Dad told me that you blamed your having cancer on him?” Mom didn't hesitate for a moment.

“That’s absolutely correct. He’s the reason that I have cancer. All of the years that I’ve been taking care of him and dealing with his illness have made me ill. That’s how I feel. That’s just how I feel. That’s the truth.”

I began stumbling out a response as waves of anger rolled over me.

“Mom, I know that - deep down - you probably don’t feel that...” I stopped myself and re-calculated. “Here’s what I think, Mom: I don’t think that Dad caused your cancer anymore than you caused his Lewy Body Disease. And I think you know that. And I think that maybe... you let your very understandable feelings and frustrations get the best of you in this case."

I waited for a response. There was none. So I continued.

"Mom, Dad's disease makes him sleep almost instantly, he falls over, he needs constant supervision and can't even get himself dressed, undressed or bathed without help. Do you think that maybe you're expecting too much from him right now?"

"I don't think so…"

"Mom…?"

"I don't know." And now the part I'd prepared before hand.

"I don't blame you for getting upset at Dad, Mom, I got upset at Dad while I was home. You saw it yourself. It's incredibly challenging and upsetting to be around him. All of us know that, Mom. All of us. You're allowed to be upset and angry and sad and bitter and feel like you want to punch someone. It makes perfect sense."

"Thank you…" I heard some sniffles on the other end of the line. A chink in the armor had appeared. I made a plea.

"But Mom, you can't say things like that to Dad. It's not fair to him and it's not true. And you know that. And I know that you know that. So, please: if you get upset, maybe… maybe just walk away for a minute until you can cool off? Call me and vent to me, instead. I'm here for you. We all are."

And then the tears came. Someone had understood. Maybe not entirely, maybe not from her unique perspective, but someone had understood and had told her so. And with that understanding, promises. Promises that she'd try, that she'd work on venting to me instead of at Dad, that she'd attempt to see him for what he was, not for what she desperately wanted him to be. And, even though I knew the effort wouldn't last, I told Mom thank you and that I loved her.

And in that moment… I did. I'd said what I'd needed and even managed to connect deeply with Mom in the process. A huge victory. For both of us.

I pulled up to my apartment as we finished talking. I parked and remained in the car, absent-mindedly watching the traffic stream past my window, metallic blood cells winding their way to another part of the city's growing body. In another minute I'd make my way upstairs, be greeted by two hungry and affectionate cats and settle in for the warm July evening. But, for now, I allowed the rhythm of the city to lull me into a sense of peace before leaving the peace of my car.

September 15th, 2010: Dear Mom...

This is the letter I should send to my mother. I won't. Because while it might make me feel better about saying some of things I want to say, it will only cause her - if my mentioning it on the phone is any indication - more anger and rage, something none of us need right now.

----------------------------

dear mom,

i hope that you'll enjoy the marijuana cookies i sent you and use them every day. that medicine - as all of your children will tell you - seems to be very helpful in keeping you in a good mood and out of pain. and i'm glad you got them in time. finding a way to safely send them to you was important.

as the new year begins and the call to be introspective is strongest, i believe it's time that we face a few difficult facts as a family:

first on dad: dad is dying more quickly now. both physically and cognitively. he requires round-the-clock care and assistance which means hiring someone to be awake and available for the overnight shift at home. this will allow you to get more sleep... which you need. getting up throughout the night in order to supervise dad's frequent urination and wandering is having a negative effect on you. i'll talk to pam about the options. but that's only an intermediate step. when dad's physical condition deteriorates to the point of not being able to move without assistance, we'll need to consider putting him into a nursing home. there, hopefully, he can receive more appropriate care in an environment that's already suitable for wheelchairs and handicapped functionality. but that means we really should start doing research on which potential places would be a suitable fit for the family. ignoring these facts now will simply cause more pain later. the time to start exploring options is now.

lastly on you: now is the time for you to engage in some form of therapy. it's not appropriate for you to continue yelling and screaming at your husband and children, mom. it doesn't help dad, it doesn't help you and it makes your kids feel awkward and sad. so please stop stalling, making excuses and blaming me for bringing up the obvious: you deserve the luxury of having a professional to help you cope with your emotions of grief, pain, sadness and anger. your children love you, we want the best for you but we don't like you constantly yelling at us. 

while you've been very successful at handling some of your cancer recovery on your own, you need some help in dealing with your emotions. and there's nothing wrong with that, so don't blame yourself or feel like you've failed: and as we discussed while i was back east this summer, there's nothing wrong with needing help. everyone needs help. everyone including you. and no amount of yelling at me is ever going to change that.

as i promised on the phone today, i will continue to recommend what i feel is right for you and dad at this time. you don't have to agree with me, but i'll still share it with you and hope that you take some of my recommendations.

love,

david

July 15th, 2010: The Tour de France

Dad's doctor told him today that he'd need to have a walker. Not a cane as he'd hoped, but a walker, a full-on walker. This immediately makes him a visual target. This immediately says to those who see him, "Here is a man who cannot stand on his own. Here is an old man. Here is a man who is dying."


And so, at the age of 67, Dad will now appear more like he's 87.


If I'm honest, I feel this way about him already: we have to dress and undress him, we have to bathe him, we have to help him stand up and sit down, we have to wipe his ass sometimes and we often have to repeat ourselves and explain to him what's going on around him. These are the hallmarks of much older people, not someone in his 60's, not someone who used to be so vital, not... my Dad.


In truth, Dad probably does need a walker. He's just not stable on his legs anymore: in the short period that I was home, he fell four times. Twice he hit the floor and hurt himself, once we caught him before he fell and the fourth time, somehow, he managed to catch himself. A cane - held on one side of the body with only one hand - won't really provide the support that he needs.


So Dad will get measured for a walker and will receive training on how to use it. When I spoke with him this week he said simply, "It wasn't what I wanted. I wanted a cane. But I guess I need it. So I'll try it." And that's why I so deeply respect my father: because he usually doesn't try to hide or dumb down his his disease. Maybe he came to that mentality because he practiced medicine for thirty years and, for him, dying is as natural as living. I don't know. What I can say is that the man who used to walk around the house naked still does without shame for what his body truly is: a machine. And as Dad's machine slowly fails, he's no more ashamed about his body now than he was thirty years ago.


But maybe I am.


And maybe others will be when they see him struggling. And I'm sure that Mom will be more embarrassed to be with him in public, even more than she already is. What person wants to spend time fighting cancer by spending her days and nights watching her spouse slowly disintegrate before her eyes, both physically and cognitively?


There's no winner. We just keep plodding along. It's like the Tour de France, only worse: the race doesn't end after a month...

July 7th, 2010: A Small & Frail Goodbye

I don’t know how some people cope with pain. Or with separation. Or with sickness. Or with suffering. Or with saying goodbye. Or - God forbid - with all of those things simultaneously. I just don’t know. I mostly just weep when I need to, sometimes out loud. And I did a lot of that today.

I got up and wept. I packed up my clothes up and wept. I watched my Dad eat breakfast and not talk to me because he was too fucking occupied with Good Morning America and wept. I watched Mom make her kreplach and explain the recipe to me and I wept as I scanned the original, written in her handwriting, an unbroken chain of Jewish food being passed down from one generation to another. 

On the one hand, I don't know what the big deal is. I've been home to visit many times before. All I’m doing is going back to my own life, the same as I've done countless times before. All I’m doing is returning to the life I’ve built for myself during the past eighteen years in Los Angeles. All I’m doing is simply going back to what I left six weeks ago. That was part of the deal, so my return is totally expected.

On the other hand, I just don’t WANT to. After eighteen years of living 2500 miles away so that I could form some sense of self without being cramped, micro-managed or judged, I suddenly find myself wanting to stay closer to my parents so that I can help them, be there for them and care for them… and maybe fix a few more things.

But as the day wore on, despite my weeping, I understood that there would be no fixing an unfixable situation: I cannot cure Mom’s cancer, I cannot cure Dad’s Lewy Body Dementia, I can’t even cure the ways in which their relationship is still dysfunctional. All I can do — all any of us can ever do — is to simply help where and when we can: to fix things that can be mended, to be useful, to volunteer, to lead by example, to promote patience and to try to demonstrate a better way. And these are things that I’ve done many times over on this trip. And I'm proud of that in a very deep way because I did so in the face of people who deeply hurt me previously.

This means that the only real metric I have for determining how I feel about this trip is... how I feel about this trip. And how I feel is accomplished.  I helped re-arrange the living room furniture for both Mom and Dad in the likely event that they’ll need more room for navigating; I cleaned out the basement and created a very nice room for any aide that would need to live with Mom and Dad on a more full-time basis; I secured aides for them for the weekends when they go down the shore this summer; I began difficult conversations with Mom and Dad about nursing homes, physical abilities and future needs; I suggested that Mom use her pot brownies when her more toxic medications weren’t working. Then, once she got use to the idea, we both got high together and saw Toy Story 3; I cooked and cleaned for them most evenings; I chauffeured them back and forth to New Jersey no less than four times; I took them out for the occasional fabulous meal; I ran errands for them; I bathed Dad, I wiped his ass, I picked him up when he fell, I dressed and undressed him, and I tucked him into bed most nights; I sat with Mom at the hospital for all of her appointments and exams and infusions; and I tried - whenever possible - to help them talk to one another and act as a kind of facilitator or counselor. Anything I could do to keep a dialogue going between the two of them.

With Mom blaming her cancer on Dad and with Dad unwilling or unable to tell Mom how he feels for fear of reprisal, it was difficult to get them to talk to one another. Mom would want to walk away (and sometimes did) and Dad would shut down and fall asleep, half out of manipulation, half out of sheer emotional fatigue. And yet...

There’s the lingering feeling - however wrong it may be - that I could’ve done more. I wish I could have somehow fixed their bad relationship just by being there and being me which, of course, is absurd. I can’t judge this trip by whether or not Mom’s cancer is any better today than it was six weeks ago. Or by whether or not Dad's physical and cognitive abilities have changed. Or by how much better Mom and Dad are treating one another. Because those were never things in my control to begin with. Because after my efforts, after I try to make a difference in the ways which I can… in the end, I must let go and simply allow the universe to work its course.

So I ended as I’d begun — by just doing more of what I’d come to do: I glued foam bumpers on the stairway leading down to the basement so no one would bump their head; I took Dad over to his occupational therapy and spoke with his therapist there about private, at-home lessons to focus on his daily essentials or ADL’s: specifically dressing and undressing himself; and I spoke with Mom about the past six weeks. She was, she said, very grateful for all I’d done. When I’d tried to explain to her the absurdity of wanting to make her cancer go away, she just cried with me and told me how absurd that was. We cried together, but she emphasized how much I got done.

When Dad got home, we sat for a few minutes and talked. I know he knew that today was my last day but his emotions didn’t seem to register that today was any different than any other day. Perhaps, for him, it wasn’t. After all, his life is so structured and managed and manipulated because of his constant need for assistance that today probably wasn’t all that different. But for me it was. And when I tucked him in for his nap, I told him that I loved him and that I’d see him soon, probably in a few months, when I come back home for the Jewish holidays. Even as I said the words “in two months” it just seemed like an eternity to me. But Dad was out within seconds, body twitching and eyes moving beneath his closed lids and so what might have been a teary goodbye was more like any other moment with him while I was at home: simple, brief and somewhat detached. Perhaps it’s better that way, given the fact that I’d just cried hysterically on his chest only a few evenings previously.

But when it was time to leave, I couldn’t really hold it together. I began crying even just to say “thank you” to Frederick, the man from Ghana who is my father’s aide and who clearly likes him a lot and treats him with patience and gentleness. Even to say goodbye to him, I cried. Because I know that - to a large extent - Dad’s day-to-day care is in his hands. Such is modern life: a man I barely know from another country is my Dad’s protector and keeper. And now, he'll be working even more hours so that Mom can really focus on healing the best that she can.

And by the time I got to say goodbye to Mom in the foyer, I leaned over to give her a hug and tell her that I love her and that it was hard for me to go. She was incredibly frail and small in my arms. I felt like a giant stooping down to hug a child. Only it was my Mother. And we cried together, me more than her. She cried too but put on a brave face as she always does. Frederick helped me outside with my bags and I walked to the car with Mom and Tanya. After the car was loaded, I gave Mom one last goodbye.

“Take care of Dad,” I said. I meant it as a favor. I meant it as a deep and personal favor: to please stop bickering and to love him no matter what. And to give him that consideration and care that any devoted husband would want and need from his wife after forty-three years of marriage. She laughed out loud, almost choking on her gum.

“I can’t help but laugh,” she said, “Because I have no choice.” She’d misunderstood me so vastly that I didn’t bother to explain myself. So instead I simply said:

“Take care of yourself too, Mom: that’s the other part of the equation. Take care of Dad but you have to take care of yourself, ok?”

She nodded her head, gave me a hug and walked inside. I got in the car and closed the door. Tanya drove me to the airport and provided me with a packed lunch and some much needed conversation to help me center myself and prepare to fly home.

And now here I am, at 36,000 feet. Outside the window to my left, the sun has gone down and a brilliant stripe of deep red and orange is layered onto the blackness of the earth below me. Lights from the cities we fly over appear like stars on the ground as we over cross them, and above, the sky is an impossible and deep blue. 

In about an hour, we’ll land in Los Angeles and my friend Julie will pick me up and take me to my car in the Palisades where my other friend Chris has kept it for me. One network of friends sees me off; another greets me.

Tonight, I will sleep in my own bed for the first time in six weeks along with my cats. And tomorrow... well, I don’t want to think about tomorrow just now. Or unpacking. Or resuming my life, my responsibilities or my job. Right now, I just want to enjoy these last few minutes of my trip and remind myself not just of what I’ve done, but how I’ve done it: not perfectly, not without losing my patience or temper at points, but with as much honor, humility, kindness and patience as I could give the two people who raised me, fed me and educated me.

I went home to honor my Mother and Father and, by and large, I succeeded.