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.

Mother's Milk

I recently weaned my 14 month old baby - the one who is most likely my last baby -and as I sit here, warm compress on my swollen and painful boob, and reflect, I feel both sadness and liberation. For one thing, I got to enjoy an iced coffee (regular, not decaf) this afternoon. Such liberation means I no longer have to think about what I consume and when; this is definitely a treat. On the other hand, I miss the closeness. I miss our quiet time nursing in the morning together -- admittedly, so often my attempt to extend the time I could remain in my warm bed with him snuggled up next to me half sleeping, half sucking. The minute I'd hear him stir in his crib in the morning, I'd bring him right in with us - and usually get at least a good 15 or 20 minutes more of cozy bed time before having to get up and start the day. Now that I am not nursing, we need to find a new morning routine together. It's been a slow start.

Weaning a 14 month old baby is easy in that he hardly remembers what he is missing. He is too busy, too distracted with the world and all of the playthings around him to notice the change. Ocassionally he will nuzzle into me and I will think, Maybe he remembers... but then in a minute he's on to something new he's found on the floor, and it's over. He drinks milk zealously from a sippy cup, shouting "Mah Mah Mah!" which means both "milk" and "more" - it's hard to differentiate at this point. And I am pretty certain, having weaned my first son at this same age almost six years ago, that this baby also will have no memory of nursing.


But that is OK, because I do, and I will.