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When it's Yom Kippur and Your Kids are Fighting

It is Yom Kippur. Day of Atonement. We stand today before G-d, before our loved ones, before ourselves, and we ask for forgiveness for all that we have done wrong this year. All our regrets. All our sins.
This year our boys are 10, 9 and 4. They are old enough to grasp this concept in simple terms. So we have talked about it, explained the meaning of this important day: why we fast, why we go to temple, why we take it all so seriously.
The Book of Life.
That always scares them. It is a scary concept: who shall live, who shall perish…
It was scary for me as a child.
I remember sitting in temple, next to my dad, imagining G-d up high in the clouds with a great big book - literally turning pages and writing names in the Book of Life.

And yet.
They still fight.
The kids.
All day long.
I think we said to them about 9 times today, "You guys, it's Yom Kippur..."
But it doesn't matter. It doesn't register.
And if I am truly honest, I haven't been perfect today myself.
I was grumpy and mean this morning to my husband for no real reason.
I was impatient with my children for fighting so much.
I probably thought some unkind thoughts.

And yet.
I think it is ok.
I believe in a G-d who understands. Who gets it. We are not perfect. We are trying.
We are atoning, but still making mistakes as we go along. It's life, it's messy, loud, complicated life and G-d understands.
Today is not about being perfect. Today is just like every other day, really.
Except we are thinking more about who we are, who we have been, and who we want to be.
And G-d hears us. G-d knows.
We are trying.

Miracles and Light

I have been wanting to write about my father, as we come to the one year mark of the date that we lost him: his yarzheit.

I have been thinking a lot of this time of year in particular and how joyful it is for me in many ways. We are celebrating the birthday of Nicolas, our youngest, who turns 3 on December 11th, just 2 days before my father died one year ago. Nicolas was born in 2009 and December 11th fell on the first night of Channukah that year. We chose the Hebrew name Nissim for Nicolas, which means miracle. The miracle of the oil, which lasted 8 days, is an important part of the Channukah story, and is featured in the acronym of the dreiel: "A great miracle happened here." Nissim fit because Nicolas was born on the first night of Channukah and because we felt we had many miracles in our own lives - being blessed with 3 beautiful boys, and also my father living as long as he had with his cancer - much longer than the doctors had predicted.

December is a happy time for me because I celebrate and remember the birth of Nicolas, and it is also the time that Channukah tends to fall - a holiday that is full of light. Each child in our family has his own menorah, and Ramon and I light a menorah that was given to us when we were married. When we light our four menorahs each night, the boys like to make bets on which candle will sink the fastest. There is a radiance, a brightness in our house as we watch the candles burn down: the reflections on each child's face, the glow in their eyes.

So here we are, and it is that time again, surrounded by light, and joy, and miracles, and deep sadness as we remember and miss my father.

Yet, to be feeling all of these emotions is also much in accordance with my father's life (and of all our lives, really). My father's life was filled with much joy, many miracles, and also much sadness. His children and his work as a doctor and scholar brought him much joy; his strength and perseverance in the face of terminal cancer was nothing short of miraculous.

There was also much sadness in his life, as in all of our lives. He didn't hide his sadness from us. One of his favorite songs, which he shared with us when we were young, was "It's Alright to Cry" from the Free to Be You and Me album. When we visited him in his small Cambridge apartment after my parents were divorced and we lit the Shabbat candles together, he would often cry. Out of happiness that we were together, and sadness that he couldn't be with me and Daniel more often. There was light, there was joy, and there was sadness.

Tomorrow night we will light our menorahs together as a family, and watch the candles melt down - basking in the glow, making our predictions, watching, waiting, wondering. This Channukah, along with the colorful candles of the menorahs, my father's yarzheit candle will burn. Reminding us of it all as it comes together: the loss, the sorrow, the sweetness, and the light.

What Remains

My father's whole life arrived from California yesterday on a giant interstate truck. Boxes and boxes of Cardiology books, letters, files and photographs... It was September 13, 2012, the 9 month anniversary, to the very day, of my father's death. And his whole life arrived. We are keeping everything in a storage room 10 minutes from our house, so that my brother and I can take the time to go though the boxes slowly, carefully. I opened a few things yesterday but found it too emotional - the closest connection I have to my dad now is in those boxes. His very essesnce, his smell, his hopes and dreams - it is all in those boxes. In the short time I spent there yesterday when the movers were unloading, I found a few treasures to bring home: a children's guitar which Lucas spent the entire afternoon holding. A rocking chair that used to be my grandmother's. And legos - old legos from when my brothers were young - which my boys now get to play with.

Today is my father's birthday. He would have been 67. Nicolas and I visited his grave this morning, and I was happy to see that grass had grown over the rectangle where he was buried. We spoke to him a little, and then left because Nicolas thought it was "too windy." Nicolas and my dad are a lot alike. They both love trains and construction sites. They both love laughing and family and being silly. They are both incredibly loving and sweet. It is still amazing to me that my dad is no longer here. I go on with the day to day busy life that we lead, but then something makes me stop and think - my god, he is not here. Seeing other grandfathers with their grandchildren. Reading something that makes me think of him. Just not being able to pick up the phone and call him. Lucas has his Science Fair tomorrow at school. My dad would have been all over that. I miss him. So much.

Eulogy for my father

I can remember back to 2002, at the funeral for my father’s father, my grandfather, Ben Zahler, who died at age 91. My father was devastated, but he told me that he had been trying to prepare himself for this day for some time now. That he had been feeling a gradual sense of loss as his father declined over the last 10 years of his life. And now I stand here, at the funeral for my own dad, feeling much the same way that he did. I have been preparing for this day as I have witnessed with great sorrow my father’s decline over the last 8 years, and most especially in these last 3 years when his debilitation became most dramatic. And yet there is no preparation. There is no way to prepare for the very end.

My dad was one of my first and most cherished teachers. He was a natural – that was his first career – a professor of Mathematics – before becoming a doctor which was his lifelong dream. He was a brilliant man, and to me, he seemed to know everything. I always felt that if I had a question about something – anything – my dad would know the answer. He almost always did. I know I do not seem this way to may own children, and I often wish, when they ask me hard questions, that I could call him and let him explain things to them. He would have been such a wonderful teacher to his grandsons, who have such inquiring minds and such an affinity for his favorite subjects: math and science. In fact, we currently have a children’s chemistry set on our dining room table, complete with test tubes and beakers. Lucas will beg me to do an experiment with him, and when I am busy I long for my father, who would have loved to share this with Lucas, to teach him.

My dad was so thrilled to become a grandfather 7 years ago. Joshua was born in 2004, less than a year after my father’s brain tumor diagnosis, but my dad, still strong and full of life, flew out from California to meet him, with his devoted caregiver Sharri. He wore his “Grandpa” baseball hat proudly and held baby Joshua in his arms. When Lucas was born 18 months later, my father flew out again and spoke at his bris. He spoke about his own father, Benjamin, with whom Lucas shares a middle name. His words were hard for some to understand, but they were about my grandfather’s life and his gentle, loving nature, and they were beautiful.

But back to my father as a teacher… when I was 12 going on 13, my dad tutored me for my Bat Mitzvah and helped instill in me a love and reverence for Judiasm. When I was 15, my dad taught me how to drive – no small task - and a stick shift no less! He shared with me his love of Shakespeare and great works of literature and poetry. He taught me about social justice and the importance of being a good person – mostly by his own example and his dedication to working towards social change. His stories of his involvement in the civil rights movement and marching with Martin Luther King Jr. are some of my favorites.

My dad was a storyteller – he loved telling stories and he had many of them. On long car trips, long before there were DVD systems, ipads and DSs, my dad told me and my brother stories to pass the time. There were many long car trips when we were young because my father lived in Cambridge, MA and my mother lived in New Haven. Some of my father’s stories I remember most vividly were from his residency days at Boston City Hospital. There was one that involved my dad riding in an ambulance as part of a rescue team to a Harvard Square T station, where a man had fallen into the subway tracks and another man had jumped in to save him, and had gotten hit by an incoming subway train. My dad also made up stories for me and my brother. His most famous was “Pisha Pasha (who was me), Cockerspaniel (my brother Daniel) and the Lions in the Backyard” – about a brother and sister who wanted to go out and play BUT THERE WERE LIONS IN THE BACKYARD AND THEY DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.

Well here we are Daddy - there are lions in the backyard and I don’t know what to do. But thankfully, I know that, just as the Pisha Pasha stories always ended with things turning out to be all right, with the scary lions turning out to be friendly and playful after all, I know that some good will come out of this loss, this great tragedy. You have left us an incredibly legacy and given us an amazing gift. We will continue to retell your stories and teach our children the way that you taught us.

December 18, 2011

Letting Go

When is it time to say, "Enough is enough!" Why is it so hard to let go? How can you possibly know what someone would want when he can't sit up and tell you himself? In my heart of hearts, I do not think my dad would want to live this way. He is now getting what the Drs calls recurrent aspiration pneumonia and has been in and out of the hospital due to respiratory distress multiple times this week. The doctors think his condition is due in part to the G-tube he has had for feeding for the past 3 years, and in part due to his weakened state. Based on all of this, the Palliative Care team from the hospital has suggested to us the option to withdraw some of the treatment and just do comfort care. So what to do? What would he want?

I want to remember my dad as the adventurous, loving, funny, brilliant, stubborn man that he was. He loved being a father to all four of us, he loved being a doctor to his patients. He loved reading and would always carry multiple reading materials along with him: newspapers, medical journals (a Kindle would have been perfect for him!) He loved science and teaching his children about science and how things work. He loved trains and was known for spending a day just riding subway trains around New York City. He loved being Jewish and was an active member of his temple. He was committed to Social Justice and marched with MLK during the height of the Civil Rights Movement.
I have been telling my children about my dad for years, as if he is already gone. On a recent trip to visit him, Josh said to me, "I wish I had known Grandpa when he was healthy." I wish this so so much. He would have had so much to share with and teach my 3 - could have answered so many of their tough science questions. He would have gotten so much joy from them, and them from him. I am so sad that they will never know this.

So when I think about letting go, I think I have been letting go slowly, over the years, as we have lost more and more of my dad.
But am I ready to let go? Will I ever be? The answer comes easily: no.