It's so hard to say goodbye, Part Two

Sabba's funeral was today. And, as expected, there was drama. But I'll keep that story for tomorrow. For now, since I am exhausted beyond belief, I post the eulogy I gave this morning. (Some of it may be repetitious from the previous post.)

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I’ve known for quite some time that I would need to write something for this day. But every time I would sit down to collect my thoughts during the last week, I’d come up empty. Not because there’s nothing to say. In fact, just the opposite. How do you summarize a life of 85 years in a five minute speech? How is it possible to illustrate to all of you the vibrant life my Sabba lived?

For 18 years of my life, Sabba was the force behind our family, physically and spiritually. In his prime, he was a hefty man, with the strength, body, and energy of an ox. He loved to use his hands- no project was too simple or too complex for him. After he retired, he split his time between helping Miri and David in the hardware store, which he had opened with Savta years ago, and lending a hand at my father’s shop in the city. His helping hand also extended to his grandchildren. Ronnie, Mikey, and Leore can share plenty of stories- they lived much closer to him than we did, and saw him multiple times a week, while us in Staten Island saw him every Shabbat. But on those occasions when we’d get together on Sundays to celebrate Father’s Day or Mother’s Day or the other myriad of holidays that would bring our family together, he would not shy away from asking us about our school work and offer his help with projects. I have a picture of him from years ago- based on my haircut in that picture, I must have been in the 7^th grade- sitting in the dining room of our old house, helping me put together posters for a social studies project. Sabba’s world revolved around his family- he was so proud to have us all so close. Yes, there were ups and downs- and with every family, we had our fair share of drama. But every time something happened between us that seemed to be too much, he would come around and remember- and remind all of us- how important family was and how devastating it would be for something to come between us. Nothing was more important, absolutely nothing.

But his sense of charity didn’t end with his family. Our Sabba was a true baal chesed, a true man of loving-kindness. As far back as I can remember, Sabba would bring back countless number of sets of tefillin from Israel to give to boys of bar-mitzvah age in his shul who couldn’t afford their own. Every evening, right before closing time, he would go to the bakery down the block and buy up all the leftover muffins and cakes and cookies to bring to the shul’s yeshiva the next morning. He cared for them so deeply and sacrificed so much for his shul to thrive and grow. There was no prize or reward or special recognition at the end for all that he gave; he just gave from his heart, and his heart was big.

The last 10 years were completely and utterly different. Unless you’ve experienced it yourself, you can’t even imagine what it’s like to care for a loved one with Alzheimer’s. But little did he know, Sabba made sure we were prepared for what was to come. If not for his immense focus on love and importance of family, we would not have emerged from this closer to each other and to him than we ever were before. For the last 10 years, we were blessed with the opportunity to give back to him in ways no one would have ever imagined. No, the wretched disease was not a blessing and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But out of every misfortune comes adversity, and with adversity comes an opportunity to rise above. And together, we all rose above. My mom, my aunt Miri, and Savta came together to care for Sabba and make him as comfortable as they could from the first chapter right up until his last journey on this earth. They worked so hard, so tirelessly, gave up so much of themselves, to make sure he received the best while constantly being surrounded by those who loved him. If all parents were so lucky… The grandchildren also banded together- taking turns to watch over him when Savta needed a break, making him laugh and teaching him to chant “Lets Go Mets” when the games were on, and simply reducing the stress and pressure whenever we could. Through this experience, what was once a love based on respect and fear of the father of the family turned into pure, unadulterated love and devotion.

We learn that the greatest act of chesed one can do is chesed shel emet- the truest act of kindness is giving to someone who has absolutely no ability to return the kindness. This act is pure, genuine, because there’s no doubt in its intention. We learn about chesed shel emet when we read about the acts of the chevra kadishah, casket pallbearers, and anyone who does something for a person who has passed on. But I believe that it’s possible to do chesed shel emet even with the living. And that’s what Sabba taught us- everything that he gave to others- to his shul, to his community- was pure and innocent, with only the best of intentions, without waiting for anything in return. And the love we freely gave to our Sabba, our beloved Bobosh, was a love we knew we couldn’t get back.

But it turns out he still had a little more to give. This past Saturday night, when we all thought the end was near, Andrew and I were driving up furiously from Washington, to hopefully get the chance to see him one last time. On the phone with my mom, I asked her to ask Sabba to wait for me, even though we were still 4 hours away and death seemed imminent. Miraculously, when we pulled up to the hospice at 1am, he was there, sleeping peacefully. Indeed, he had waited. As I walked into his room, I slid next to his bedside, gently bent over to kiss his forehead, and thanked him for waiting and that it was ok to go. There was no need for him to suffer any longer.

Life and death are so difficult to explain, to justify, to come to terms with. But if I'm positive about one thing, I'm positive about this: our Sabba has a one-way ticket to a seat near the Almighty. I'm no expert on these things, but he's suffered far too long and far too much for anything less. He lived a good life, with his family always around him. He was a man of chesed, loving-kindness and charity, always thinking about helping others, and always had family in the forefront. And I'm positive he will be rewarded for all of that in the World to Come.

It's so hard to say goodbye, Part One

Have you ever stared at death in the face and wish he'd just get it over with? I did this weekend.

After a long drawn-out battle with Alzheimer's, my grandfather passed away this evening. We've kinda known for the last two months that this day was on its way- he was taken to the hospital two months ago because he was having trouble breathing, but then they discovered that his colon wasn't working any longer. So after six weeks of drama in the hospital, my mom and aunt decided it was time to move him to a hospice, make him as comfortable as possible, and let him go. That wretched disease took away almost everything mental and physical about him- in his prime, he was a hefty man, with the strength and body of an ox; this past week, he was just a shadow of himself. And after the trauma he went thru during the first few weeks in the hospital, what was left of him mentally just retreated away, inside, where no one could penetrate.

On Friday evening, we thought it was the end. I called my mom to wish her a shabbat shalom, and she told me that she was running out to the hospice because he was in heart distress. I secretly walked around all shabbat with my cell phone, justifying that with the fact that I could not go 25 hours being in this limbo of not-knowing. But, no phone call came, and Saba lasted another night. We had already planned on driving up to NY on Saturday night for a wedding on Sunday- we planned to return Sunday night but packed for a week, in case we needed to stay. As we were running out of the apartment, I called my mom, who said that he's gonna go any minute, but I told her to tell him to wait for me. And indeed, he waited.

He waited long enough for us to pull up to the hospice in Queens at 12:45am. As I walked into his room, I slid next to his bedside, and saw my grandfather sleeping and breathing heavily. I gently bent over to kiss his forehead, thanked him for waiting for me, and that it was ok to go. I pleaded with him- told him we would all be ok and we'd take care of Savta, and that there was no need for him to suffer any longer.

But it turns out he did me one better- he waited until today, so that there wouldn't be sadness on my sister's anniversary, which was on Sunday. Always thinking about his family, that guy.

Life and death are so difficult to explain, to justify, to come to terms with. But if I'm positive about one thing, I'm positive about this: my grandfather has a one-way ticket to a seat near the Almighty. I'm no expert on these things, and certainly may be professing blasphemy at the moment, but he's suffered far too long and far too much for anything less. He lived a good life, for the most part. He was a man of chesed, loving-kindness and charity, always thinking about helping others, and always had family in the forefront. And I'm positive he will be rewarded for all of that in the World to Come.

We got back to DC Sunday evening. We brought up the suitcases we packed the night before, but just left them lying on the floor of our bedroom, somehow knowing that the time would come soon for us to pack up the car and make the drive north once again. And tomorrow, we'll be on the road again.

I feel myself fortunate to have grown up with all four of my grandparents. We saw our grandparents every single weekend until it was time to move out of the house and move away. Most are not as fortunate, and I feel blessed because of it. Grandparents have so much to give and so much to share with their grandchildren. I would never give up those years for anything.

Day of Suck

What should have been a pretty good day ended up sucking royally. A year ago yesterday was the happiest day in my life and we had modest plans to celebrate. But the day didn't start out too great and only got worse as the hours went by; how good can the day be when the spouse is sick and achy all over and doesn't even have the energy to eat dinner? And when your day starts and you're all over the place because you didn't get a chance to go thru your regular morning routine when you got into the office, it takes a while to recover. And that recovery never really happened. So I went thru the day feeling as if I was in a fog and confused and couldn't really concentrate at work despite the fact that we had a major deliverable briefing in the morning with the client. We did end up going to dinner, but then we got home and that was that. AJ collapsed in bed after catching up on some stuff and I stayed awake for no real reason, except waiting around hoping that some important people in my life would remember. But that made me feel even worse so I climbed into bed around 11pm; not even Stewart or Colbert could cheer me up.

So the day finally ended and a new year has begun. Here's to another great year of love and excitement together with AJ and hopefully a more relaxed and special Year 2 milestone.

Yay cheesy!!

Stolen from the lady, Princezz O'Phun:

Copy and post your answers in the comments, and if you post on your site, I'll post my answers:

1. Do you have a tattoo?

2. How old are you?

3. Are you single or taken?

4. Fish?

5. Do you dream in color?

6. Ever seen a corpse?

7. Hipsters or Hillbillies?

8. How did we meet?

9. What's your philosophy on life and death?

10. If you could do anything with me, and have no one know, what would it be?

11. Do you trust the police?

12. Do you like musicals?

13. What is your fondest memory of me?

14. If you could change anything about yourself what would it be?

15. Would you cheat ?

16. What are you wearing?

17. Have you ever peed in a pool?

18. Would you hide evidence for me if I asked you to?

19. If I only had one day to live, what would we do together?

20. Which do you prefer - short or long hair?

21. What's your favorite day of the week?

22. What's your favorite color?

23. If you could bring back anyone that has passed, who would it be?

24. Tell me one interesting/odd fact about you?

25. What was your first impression of me?

26. Have you ever done drugs?

27. Will you post this so I can fill it out for you?

Time

Last night, even before reading this New York Times article, I turned to Andrew and asked, "When is it time to say enough with the name-reading ceremonies, the all-day coverage of memorials, and move on to a different type of remembering?" I didn't mean for the question to be cold and careless; just the opposite. As a Jew, I'm all too familiar with yearly ceremonies and memorializing those who were tragically killed throughout the years. But at what point do we turn to each other and say that we've grieved enough and it's time to do something different on this day? Not forget- never forget!- but just something different.

Far be it for me to suggest what that different would be. I've already written too much about my experiences, and Andrew was right last night when he said that I have a visceral reaction anytime the topic is brought up. I can't deny the fear of reliving, and I'm sure neither can many of those who either lost loved ones, experienced the terror first hand, or experienced any other sort of trauma because of it. And perhaps that's describing most of us.

As much as I want to move on, something pulls me towards reading the commentary and news articles, the first-hand accounts, and staring at all the pictures. But there's gotta be some sort of medium between not being able to let go and letting the day pass like it's any other day. Maybe it's just a function of time.

I'm awe struck by John and Elizabeth Edwards. Much has been written about this already, but why not add a bit more to it- the decision to continue the campaign despite Elizabeth's illness is their's alone and I personally give them a lot of credit for fighting on. But the bottom line, it's not my place to judge whether it's good or bad, except whether it can negatively impact the country if Edwards is elected. But that decision will be made at the ballot box, not on this blog.

But that's not what makes me admire them. Have you looked at a picture of them lately? Is there anything phony about how they look at each other, their chemistry, and their love for each other? There really are no words to describe it, besides for describing it as the epitomy of what love in a marriage should be like. Considering their age and what they've been through together-- the normal trials and tribulations of marriage, not to mention illness, the tragic death of a child, a political campaign-- you know it's nothing superficial. They didn't just get married to justify the googley-eye-ness of what's going on between them. Have you ever seen this between a presidential candidate and his wife?

How can you not admire that? How can you not look at those pictures and wish that regardless of what God throws your way, in 30 years, you too can be looking at your spouse with the same devotion, commitment, and love the same way the Edwards do today?