A Very Long Goodbye

2013.04.21 - Staying Alive

2013-05-24T17:28:00.000-07:00

The afternoon I came to say goodbye to my father, I found him in his bed staring blankly into space, mouth agape and waiting to die. He’d been diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia eight years earlier and the disease had run a hard course over that time: his breathing was labored and getting harder; he couldn’t talk, swallow or eat; his attention span was minimal and his ability to communicate was nearly non-existent. Now that he was in hospice, he was drug free for the first time in over a decade, something I was hoping might make him more available.

I pulled up a chair next to his bed and gave him a kiss. He didn’t respond, something to which I’d become accustomed. The only sounds in his room came from the bubbling machine that was pumping oxygen into his nostrils and the semi-regular cries that came from other patients in his wing of the nursing home. The walls were covered in wallpaper that made me recount a trip I’d taken to Columbus, Ohio in 1982 with the middle school orchestra when I’d eaten a lot of potatoes with my host family. On his dresser stood a colorful bouquet of flowers my wife had brought over earlier in the week.

Reflexively, I covered the silence in the room by recounting his grand daughter's 6^th birthday party from earlier in the day. But, after only a few minutes, I began talking slower and slower until I just stopped. I’d been gifted with all of this incredibly precious alone time with my father — a rare treat for a man with such a doting family — and here I was talking about six-year-olds jumping on trampolines and leaping into pits of foam blocks. I chuckled. Sometimes, I feel the universe bumping into me repeatedly. This was one of those times. And in a flash, I realized the reason that I was visiting this particular afternoon: it was to say goodbye. Forever.  I cleared my throat and took a breath. Per his living will, it was Dad’s fourth day with no food or water. I grabbed his hand and looked at his face.

“Dad, I remember when I was younger and I asked you to explain to me how you told your patients — sometimes in front of their families — that they were going to die. And you answered, 'You just do. You don't lie or beat around the bush. Patients and their families should know the truth.' Thank you for teaching me that, Dad. And I want you to know that if you're still holding on to anything, anything at all, that you don't have to anymore. It's OK for you to go now. We'll miss you. I'll miss you, but we're all going to be OK."

 I was choking on my words. I couldn’t help it. There was something there in the back of my throat. I felt it, it was sharp, and it made it incredibly difficult to speak. And, for the briefest of moments, I realized that although my condition was temporary - a result of my emotional state - my Dad’s condition was permanent. No talking at all. Not ever again. So I shared thoughts and memories, hoping that my talking would simply be enough for both of us.

 "You would have loved our wedding, Dad. The ceremony was outside, it was at the height of the Fall, the sunlight was perfect, and you could smell and taste and the air as it rushed in right off the Pacific. We put the Chuppah under three giant sycamore trees. And since you and Mom weren't there to walk me down the aisle, I decided to do something I mentioned to Jamie when we teenagers. Only, I didn't tell anyone in advance, just the soundman. As the wedding party filed in, a sting quartet was playing a lovely song, but then, when it was my turn to enter the congregated, they stopped playing. Instead, the soundman pressed play. And the Bee Gees song Stayin' Alive came over the load speakers and everyone just lost their shit as I danced my way right down the center aisle and up to the chuppah. You should have seen the look on your daughter's face. Jamie nearly shit her pants she was so shocked. Then, the reception and the party: the cocktails were amazing, the food was incredible and I even got to sit in with the band and jam on the piano. The only thing missing was you and Mom."

 "I remember my bar-mitzvah trip to the Middle East. When our plane landed at Ben Gurion airport in Israel, we got ushered onto a bus that drove us across the tarmac to the terminal building. During the short drive, I noticed you were crying. And I'd never seen you cry before. So I began crying too. 'Why are you crying,' I asked you. 'Because I'm so happy,' you said, 'My family is in Israel, and I brought them here.'"

 "And I remember when you took all of us to Disney World in Florida. We were on a shuttle bus from the parking lot and heading into the main gates of the park. And, suddenly, you began singing the Mickey Mouse Club theme song. Loud enough that others could hear you. And I wanted to melt into my seat. But, son-of-a-bitch: everyone else on the bus joined in with you, Dad. You had the entire bus singing along with you. And I went from being embarrassed to being proud of you."

"And I remember one of our first baseball games at Veterans Stadium. You took me to see the Phillies that night because Steve Carlton was pitching and you knew he was my favorite. He actually hit a home run that night which made everyone at The Vet go insane..."

 I didn’t have a plan as I shared these memories and thoughts; I just wanted Dad to know what I was thinking about him. I didn't even know if he could hear what I was saying and I certainly hadn't seen any evidence to support that he did. As the disease progressed and his abilities declined, I'd gotten into the habit of just talking to him and trusting that my message would get through one way or another. More than that didn't really matter. Even if the message was difficult to say. Which, clearly, it now was.

"I don't... I don’t really know if I feel comfortable saying 'goodbye', Dad. So how about I just say 'So long, for now...?' Would that be OK?". And he smiled. He fucking SMILED!

 And because I hadn't seen my Dad communicate so clearly for days, because he was bed-ridden and at the end of his fourth day without food or water, because I hadn't really known if he could even comprehend what I was saying... this simple act, this slight facial movement was, truly, like a miracle. Because of that smile, I knew: I knew right then and there that I had my Dad back. He was there. He'd been listening and he'd heard.

 The grapefruit in the back of my throat clenched. I leaned forward in my chair, put my head on his chest, wrapped my arms around his body and sobbed, the kind of sobs that shake your body in violent convulsions. And I just tried to let them come. I said "I love you" over and over even as the chokes were getting stuck in the back of my throat.

 Some minutes later, I had to move my glasses off my face to blow my nose. When I put them back on, I half-jokingly said, "Do you like my new glasses?" and Dad nodded. I just shook my head in amazement and smiled. For days I hadn't seen him communicate in much of any way and now here we were with him smiling and nodding at me. My heart leapt. I felt like I'd entered an alternate reality. Which made my next action easy to decide.

 "I'm going to meditate now, OK, Dad? This is what I've been doing one or two times every day for five years and I want to do it with you. I just close my eyes, breathe and then listen for my mantra. I'm going to hold your hand, OK?" I moved my chair closer, took his left hand in my right, sat up straight in my chair and then closed my eyes. And then, after I found my mantra, something extraordinary happened:

 I entered into some kind of temporal dimension, a “jet stream consciousness” where I was able to effortlessly time travel with my father. I had no idea it was going to happen and I certainly had no control into which times I travelled, but the experience was similar to watching TV while someone else changed channels. Only, I wasn’t just watching these various channels, I was actually in the action, experiencing different times in history.

 I first found myself forty years in the past, experiencing Dad as a thirty-year-old man, when I was four-years-old and he was healthy, vital and the biggest person in my world; that morphed twenty-six years backwards in time when I saw Dad as a small, only child, playing alone with some of his toys; then I shot ahead fifty years to when I was aged thirty, confused and learning how to live my own life as an adult; then forward again, another twenty years, where it was me who was the father, fussing over my own child, enveloped in joy and in love with this precious, new cargo; finally — much later into the future — I saw myself as a grandfather, surrounded by the two generations that came after me. And there, at the end of my life, I felt a quiet knowing and a compassion that was unmistakable. Everything — my decisions, my family and my life — was as it should be.

 Lost in time: pleasantly so.

It ended as abruptly as it started, somewhere in the middle of my meditation. My remaining meditation felt chaotic and when I opened my eyes after thirty minutes, I remembered where and when I was but my head was swimming. Dad’s eyes were open. I squeezed his hand to get his attention. He looked at me.

“Listen: Mary and I have been talking about having a baby. If it's a girl, we’re thinking about naming her Allana, after her grandfather, who, I wish could have had the chance to meet her." He blinked, slowly and there was a softening. I didn’t imagine that, either: because I’d had his attention earlier, I knew that he’d heard me.

 "Am I going to see you tomorrow, Dad?" I asked. "If so, that's OK but if not... I’ll miss you and I love you. Now gimme a kiss..." I leaned over his face and he puckered up, again: just shocking. I kissed his cheek multiple times in devotion and loss and such terrible fear that I'd never see him again. I stroked his hair, held his neck, looked into his eyes, and - after a taking a breath - said:

 "You were a great Dad. You were such a great dad. You're my daddy."

Then, the time for words had passed. I put my forehead on his and cried. And then, despite the other remarkable events that had already transpired during our visit, Dad found a way to top it: he reached out his left arm and put his hand over my arm, holding onto me while I held him. For a man I've watched nearly motionless for the past week to suddenly demonstrate the strength to smile, to nod his head, to pucker up and kiss and to reach out his arm to hold me?

 There are no words for that.

 Forty-four years of my life plus seventy of Dad's slammed together in a nuclear fusion of love, creating more information and emotion than my paltry human brain could process. It was a miracle. It was a remarkable, unexpected miracle and I don't know how else to put it. For about seventy-five minutes, I had an audience with my Dad for one last time. I was there with him, only this time, he was also there with me.

 Now, it was even harder to say goodbye because I knew Dad was still in there: still alive inside that tired, failing body of his. I wanted to experience him more, protect him more, and try to save him more even though I logically understood all of that was futile now. But that’s one of the ironies of love: it makes us emotionally yearn for the things we logically know are impossible.

One last hug, one last kiss and one last look into his eyes. Then I said goodbye, turned and walked from room 509 and into the hallway, into that just-too-bright fluorescent light which lit the outdated 1950's wallpaper. As I drifted towards the locked door by the nurse’s station at the end of his ward — The Horizon Ward — I passed the other residents' rooms. Each room had a photo cabinet just outside the door showing pictures of the residents from earlier moments of their life.

 Life, then death: the most natural and shocking thing imaginable.

 Mom died twenty-two months ago. Now, Dad's going to die. He'll be dropping his physical form so that his spirit can head off to greener pastures. And it's going to happen within a few days. But not for me. I'm not going anywhere: I'm witnessing his last, few, precious moments. I'm surviving my father. He's dying, but I'm staying alive.

 Stayin' Alive.

 This one's for you, Dad.

2013.05.16 - The Middle of the Flower

2013-05-16T22:24:00.000-07:00

I'm not "fine". Everything isn't just "OK".

I'm still getting up in the mornings. I'm still going to work. I'm still suiting up for what I need to do to earn money. But I'm not fine. I'm certainly acting that way sometimes. And sometimes I certainly feel that way. And it's true: I have moments where everything is just fine and dandy. And in those moments I forget what a string of losses I've suffered in the past two years: two cats, two parents and an uncle.

I'm still raw. I still hurt. I still want to crawl up into a ball and sob. But a lot of tears haven't come yet. Some have. Mostly what's come, though, is sleeplessness, troubling dreams and a desire to write every thank you note I can to make sure all that "work" is done and people know how polite I am that they showed up for me.

Also, I seem to want to change everything: my profession, what I do, where I live, the car I drive and, honestly — I can't do that. I'm going fucking crazy because I'm coping with loss by trying to control and bend everything around me to my will. I can't do that. It's not an obtainable goal. Certainly not at the expense of my sanity (or my wife's for that matter). And it's certainly not at all a good idea to make all of these changes at once. Hell, I don't even know if it's worthwhile to make any of these changes in my current state.

For starters, none of these changes will bring my father back. Worse, I haven't thought through any of these changes. Not fully. And acting on incomplete impulses won't necessarily bring happiness. Changing my environment by changing my car or the location of my home won't necessarily bring happiness.

The trick is somewhere in the middle, in the pocket of the wave. Somewhere, in the middle of the wave is that sweet spot where I'm in harmony with my surroundings and everything is clear in the moment. Feeling my feelings, but not necessarily acting on them at every moment; considering possible changes and feeling how those changes make me feel but not necessarily acting on those changes without thorough investigation; trusting instincts but being able to discern them from stronger, sometimes overwhelming emotions.

The world goes on. People get up and go to work. And so, too, do I. And I do it today because, honestly: I don't know what else to do. Sometimes, the best thing to do when the unimaginable strikes is to do the ordinary. But to also trust that change is happening. And that I'm slowing unfolding and opening like a flower. The flower hasn't fully bloomed so I can't yet see what's in the middle. I'll need to wait for that.

But it will come.

2013.05.12 - Animals

2013-05-12T22:31:00.001-07:00

We humans are animals on this planet, just like all the others.

We like to forget that, of course. In fact, most of us can't remember that fact unless we consciously try to because we've designed a very elaborate structure around us in order to help us forget our animal status: we have cars; we purchase food from all over the globe at our corner market; we have the Internet; we have special rooms for bathing and elimination; we travel in planes to far flung and distant lands; we have hospitals to help heal and cure us; we have free will; we create staggering works of art in every discipline; we house other animals in our homes; and we've launched some of our humans on rockets to land on the moon, another heavenly body that lies a quarter of a million miles away.

That's pretty impressive work for a bunch of animals.

But we're still just animals. Our greatest challenge is that modern life has given us the illusion that life is always easy, comfortable and controllable. But nothing makes the illusion come crashing down like death.

Last night, right on schedule, my cat Boober jumped up onto the bed to watch me fall asleep. Minutes later, as I drifted out of consciousness, I remember thinking that if i just moved my arm down, I could touch him. But then I was gone, off into a fitful and jerky dreamworld. By the middle of the night, my legs had wound up so far on my wife's side of the bed, that she left the bed and went out onto the sofa to continue sleeping. I didn't calm down after that, however: I was literally kicking at objects in my dreams, waking myself up from time to time due to the movement. Ironically, during the night, the Shiva candle we'd lit one week ago for my father extinguished.

When I woke up, the kitten we adopted was on the bed next by my feet. When she saw that I was up, she rushed over and began licking my skin, something she's become fond of doing. I meditated while being groomed. About a half-hour later, I wandered into the kitchen to make some coffee. Mary was already up for at least an hour. We kissed. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and poured my coffee. We began to talk.

Then my phone rang. I looked at my watch, saw that it was 8am and thought: who in the hell calls me on a Sunday morning at this hour?!! So I picked up.

"Is this David?" I didn't recognize the voice.

"Who's calling, please?"

"I have your cat. I have Boober."

"My cat?! But how is that..." My sentence trailed off. Although Boober wandered around our property, he never crossed the street, and he hadn't strayed onto anyone else's property for nearly a decade. So I was confused: how could this woman have my cat?

"Listen," she said. "I, it's... I have bad news: your cat is dead and I think that —" before she could finish the sentence, I'd spun around and looked outside. I don't know why I did that, but I did. There he was. On the lawn. Motionless. Right there in the front yard. And I began wailing.

"Nooooooooooo! NoooooooNoooNoooooNooooooooooooo!" Mary rushed over to me not sure of what was going on. I began sobbing. "I see him on the front lawn," I said into the phone. Mary spun around and realized. He wasn't even fifteen feet away from us but neither of us had noticed him after we'd gotten up. Mary began crying and instantly hugged me deeply and wouldn't let go. I felt sucker punched. Like someone just took an iron and smashed it across my face. I started crying and moaning. In my grief, I sounded like the animal I truly was.

"I'll come right over," said the voice and the call ended. We wandered outside and there was a cat. And it looked an awful lot like mine. But it's fur was all wet and matted down from having been watered by the automatic sprinkler system. I put my hand on him. He was already stiff. I couldn't see his face, so I turned him over. And then there was no mistake. Then there was no mystery anymore. Then there was no illusion. My cat. Boober. Dead.

My heart sank. I inspected his body: no cuts, gashes or blood. His eyes had rolled back and his tongue was out. It didn't look like he'd been attacked, hit by a car or injured. He just looked liked he'd wandered out onto the front lawn and then died.

"My dogs were sniffing at him this morning and wouldn't leave him alone," said a voice. I looked up and saw a woman. She had a white trash bag. "I didn't realize that he wasn't moving, but once I saw, I pulled my dogs back...". It was my neighbor, the one who'd called me minutes earlier. I vaguely remember thanking her and then... we were alone with Boober and a trash bag. We brought him inside so the kitten could see and smell him and then, after wrapping him, put him in the freezer. We'll bury him later in the week.

I'm walking around in a fog so thick I can't feel my brain. But my heart? My heart is pounding.

After waiting over two weeks for me to return home from my father's deathbed and funeral, after keeping me company for the Shiva we held here in Los Angeles to honor my father, and after giving me a week to settle back into something resembling a normal routine for myself, Boober had left the bed, gone out the cat door in back of our house and then wandered out front and into the grass in yard. He hadn't been sick, he hadn't needed any special foods, medicines or surgeries, and he hadn't been suffering. My old boy just laid down when it was his time.

I haphazardly texted my family. And then I called the vet in Santa Monica - the same vet where I've taken Boober and his brother, Velcro since I adopted them both. I explained what had happened and asked the staffer for Boober's birthday. She checked and said "September 1st, 1994". She paused, then said "You don't see cats living that long anymore. It's really, really rare...." And that he was.

I know I've just lost a father, but this cat — this magical, all-loving, four-legged, nearly-black fuzzball — watched me grow from a young adult into a man. He saw me behaving badly, making stupid choices, hurting myself and failing, sometimes miserably.

He loved me anyway.

I rescued a kitten from under a dumpster over at Zankou chicken and adopted him into the family. That same cat knocked over trash cans in the kitchen to search for food for at least two more years and frequently fought with both Boober and his brother.

Boober loved me anyway.

He saw his brother Velcro die after having spent every day of his life playing with him for nearly a decade.

He kept on living.

And then he saw me excel, learn, grow, mature, meditate, laugh, cry, stabilize, and, ultimately, settle down with a wonderful wife.

He kept right on loving me, begging for chicken, wanting to sit on my lap, or climb up on my chest when I got into bed and being a general love whore.

And when Mary and I rescued and then adopted two feral kittens late last year, Boob was the definition of a Zen Master: unfazed, unburdened and unable to do anything other than continuing to love. And beg for chicken.

Yesterday he was here and I was playing with him outside and scratching him under his arms, something he very much loved. Today he's no longer here. Another powerful reminder that everything in our universe is temporary. Another powerful reminder to love now, no matter what. Another powerful reminder that if your life isn't filled with love, you can go grab yourself some at any time you choose.

Seventeen days ago, my Uncle died after battling pancreatic cancer. Two weeks ago, my father died after a ten-year struggle with Lewy Body Dementia. This morning, I learned that my crispy, bony cat had died of old age, after taking himself —literally and figuratively — out to pasture.

So goodbye, my friend and godspeed. Thank you for loving me when I didn't know to love myself, for cuddling me when I couldn't hug myself, and for climbing up on top of me, contented, when I couldn't find peace for myself. You will be remembered, cherished and very sorely missed as a part of my family and certainly as a large part of my LA story.

In the end, we're all just animals: I'm just lucky I got to learn from some of the best. So wherever you are now, Boob: I just hope there's as much chicken as you'll ever, ever want.

Your student,
David

2013.05.08 - The Shoulds

2013-05-08T21:31:00.002-07:00

Today was just an incredibly full and wonderful day. I took the week off work to have some personal time and boy it's really paid off in spades.

I got up at 5:30am and went surfing in Malibu with Rich. The waves were waist to shoulder high as the larger sets rolled in and I scored a couple of rides that brought me instant joy and laughter. Then off to breakfast with my dear friend Denise. We talked about some of the powerful lessons that both life and death have been revealing to us recently which I found very spiritually connecting. Later, I had lunch with my childhood friend Debbie whose father died when she was fifteen. We laughed as we always do, caught up and I shared my experiences of watching Dad die over the past month. After that, I went to a a big 'ole Hollywood blockbuster in 3D IMAX with my friend Keith and my lovely wife. Just something fun to add to an already lovely day.

But I remember a moment that I had this morning as I drove up PCH. I suddenly felt guilty about the fun I was about to have in the ocean. And I thought: shouldn't I be mourning more? Shouldn't I be more sad and crying and upset for having just lost my father? Or shouldn't I be in synagogue saying prayers for him? The next moment, I got my answer: absolutely NOT.

Because I realized that the greatest way I can honor a man who loved to do what he did is to enjoy every minute of every day for as long as I have days left to enjoy. But my life hasn't looked that way if I'm truly honest. That's because for over 40 years, I've been navigating the world by charting a course based, in large part, on obligations or "The Shoulds" that other people told me: you should go to an ivy league school, you should choose a career more stable than acting; you should be a writer or a rabbi; you should come home to visit more often; you should marry a Jewish woman, and so forth. It's important to note that these were all other people's ideas for me that I tried adopted as my own because I didn't feel that I had alternatives.

One of the biggest lessons I'm taking from Dad's life and death is that we need to let go of doing things out of obligation and instead focus on doing things that we love doing. All of us. It sounds so simple as to be child-like, but there it is. Feel like you should stay in a relationship that you feel is bad for you? Walk away from it. Feel like you should stay at a job you despise because you think you have no choices? Then remember that you always have choices and options.

And when I start to imagine a world where I get up and do what I love every day, it gives me such excitement and hope that I can't contain myself. And when I start to imagine a world where everyone is doing that as well, it makes me think there's nothing we can't achieve.

2013.05.06 - Longboarding

2013-05-06T19:03:00.001-07:00

There's no denying the reality of Dad's dying today. There's no shiva to help absorb the shock of his passing. There's no religious mechanism in place to help the process have deeper meaning or resolution. And today, for the first time, Mary and I didn't spend the entire day together at a nursing home, or on a plane, or at a funeral, or at a shiva or dealing with family matters. She had her own day and I had mine.

And the reality of being alone with my thoughts and emotions hit pretty hard. I had myself of course. And I had my own practice of meditation. And I gave myself "things" to do: returning chairs, returning prayer books, buying a few things for the kitchen that Mary had requested and... I took myself to the movies. Which was a nice distraction, I suppose. But when I walked back out into the light of day, something awkward happened: people were going about their lives. They were shopping, chatting, eating and I couldn't understand how none of them knew about Dad, about his ten-year illness, about his decline, about his death and funeral. They were all just... unaware of him and of me. And I felt a wave overcome me and a bench appeared, so I sat down and just sobbed. And the sadness rolled through me and shook me this way and that for few seconds and then subsided.

But it's just under the surface now. And it's raw and red and simmering. And it's not going away. And there's nothing I can do about that. Which is fine. Because I'm not supposed to do anything about it: I just have to accept it and not fight it. It's bigger than me. I get it. I already know from surfing that no matter how big the wave, no matter which direction it's pushing or charging that there's a sweet spot there in the pocket. And in that spot, perfect harmony is achieved, perfect balance between me and the wave where I don't have to fight it, just simply allow it to propel me.

Of course, there are some days when you look at the water and think, there's no way I'm getting in to something that turbulent. And maybe this is one of those days, but I don't have a choice as to whether or not I get into my own life. I'm here. Dad's not, but I am. My life goes on and the waves continue to drive the way they do. Bigger, steeper waves usually require short boards because they're fast and maneuverable.

Today, I accept that I'm on a longboard. My turns are slower and less precise but, then again, there's also more room for standing up and finding balance. And for that — at least for the moment — I'm incredibly grateful.

June 5th, 2010 - A Small Piece of Dessert

2012-06-06T19:02:00.002-07:00

I am incredibly proud of my mom. And amazed. And shocked. Today was the worst day we've had since I've come home and certainly the worst Mom's had in a long time. And that's probably why making it through this day was so powerful.

The adventure started at about 7am this morning, three hours after I'd gone to bed (which is, itself, another story), when Mom called down to the basement to wake me up. Now look: Mom knows I'm not a morning person. That's because I'm not, not by fucking a long-shot, so for her to risk waking me at 7am is not only odd, it's pretty much unheard of. Which meant that something was really wrong. So I wandered upstairs through the dense fog that was my brain and found Mom in severe pain and nausea from the chemotherapy.

For those who don't know anything about chemotherapy, it can be taken in several forms: intravenously (IV) or via pill. When Mom had her mastectomy three years ago, she had IV chemo, the old-fashioned chemo, the kind you've probably heard about because it's so god-damned awful: she lost weight, lost her hair, lost her strength and frequently lost her patience as well. Chemo, basically, sucks balls. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, that's the entirety of their advertising campaign:

Chemo: It Sucks Balls. ©

But this time, Mom was taking her chemo via pills. The drug is called Xeloda. Mom's doctors explained that Xeloda would be "nicer" than IV chemo. Yes, she still might see her hair thin or fall out; yes, she might experience "some" nausea; yes, she might suffer as her hands and feet became swollen and red and irritated. But... it would be a kinder, gentler chemotherapy. You know, like walking through a field of daises at sunset... If, by "daises at sunset", you mean, "pure, fucking evil that reduces your body and mood to an utter mess in an effort to kill off the cancer".

Just six pills a day: three in the morning and three again at night, for two out of every three weeks over a nine week cycle. And, since each pill was provided for the low, low price of $30 (at least in this country), who knows how the fuck poor people in America can afford to take it, because this would have cost Mom $15,120 if she had to pay for it out of pocket.

Thanks, medical establishment. Great job. Good times.

So Mom's been up all night because her kindler, gentler chemo pills have have caused pain and nausea. She beyond exhausted. And I've been up all night because I've been acting like a friggin' motard, but I help Mom get a cup of ginger tea, organize a few things she'd requested and grab another 60 minutes of shuteye and 30 minutes of meditation (Quick sidebar: I've been practicing vedic meditation for about three years now and it's a huge help in many situations, I have to tell you).

When I got up after my nap, Mom was even worse: she wasn't eating, wasn't hydrating, and... not surprisingly, she wasn't in a good mood. So I grabbed my computer, sat in bed with her and just kept her company: I showed her photos from my nephew's briss that I'd snapped, I told goofy jokes, I got her to keep talking and, eventually, I suggested that she drink fluids and eat something. She refused. Her symptoms were such that the very idea of eating or drinking was a terrible consideration. So I asked if she'd taken her anti-nausea medication.

"I took some Compazine earlier. It didn't work."

"Do you have anything else?"

"Already took it hours ago. It's not working." Then - trying to sound as normal as possible - I offered the one solution I thought might provide some relief that she'd previously refused:

"Well, what about the pot brownies?"

I'd purchased some pot brownies for Mom three years ago, back when she'd had her mastectomy, radiation and traditional IV chemo. I'd brought them back to Philly with me from California because - as it turns out - travelling with Schedule 1 drugs is very easy in the post-9/11 world as long as your drugs look like food product. Only, despite risking my being arrested, Mom never used the goodies I'd brought her, despite losing her hair, her skin tone and her patience. But she had - for some odd reason - saved the contraband, buried them in a secret bunker known only to her in the freezer. Her response to my question was ludicrous.

"I don't want to take drugs," she said.

"Mom: you're already taking drugs. Lots of them, actually. And they're very toxic..."

"Well, those are legal."

"Yes, they're legal. But are they working...?" No response. "Mom, if you knew that something was available, right now, that might ease your symptoms, wouldn't you want to try it?"

"I... don't know what's going to happen if I take them," she said and I choked I started laughing so hard. This didn't exactly help Mom at the moment, but I couldn't help myself because I finally realized that she wasn't avoiding the pot brownies because they were illegal: she was simply scared of what might happen to her if she took them. And so, after she scolded me for laughing and after I calmed down enough to talk calmly, I simply explained how the drugs would work.

"You'll get high," I told her. "Lights and sounds will seem cool, you'll be relieved of your nausea and you'll get the munchies. It's why marijuana is so effective at combating the symptoms of chemo, Mom."

"I don't know. What if we get raided by the police?" There was a pause and then I just laughed my ass off again. But she was absolutely serious about her question.

"Mom: seriously... why would the police be coming to your home for a raid?"

"Well, I don't know," she said. "And that's exactly why I'm unsure about taking the drugs."

"Mom, you can't be that worried about a police raid, really..."

"Oh, no? And why's that?"

"Because you've kept the drugs in your house for over three years. Seems to me, if you were really worried, you would've thrown out the offending material years ago."

Silence.

"Look, it's your call. But one thing's for sure: it can't possibly make you feel worse than you already are. You're fucking miserable and need some relief. Tell you what: tell me where your secret stash is and I'll cut off a small piece for you..." And so it went. I found the secret stash buried deep in the bowels of the fridge and brought her some smaller pieces, each about the size of a thimble. I didn't want to overdo the dosage but I wanted to make sure that Mom had what she needed to get some fucking relief. And I'll give her this: despite her fears and her ethical fiber, Mom stepped out of the box and actually did something unusual and rare by being willing to try something different. But only after making me promise one thing:

"I want you to stay with me," she said. "I want you to check in on me. Don't leave me alone in case something happens." I gave her a hug, smiled, and told her not to worry: that I'd be right there no matter what. And with that, Mom ate some pot brownie, laid back onto her pillows, said "Yuck!" because she didn't like the taste and then closed her eyes.

And what happened next was even funnier.

September, 16th, 2011: A Correspondance with Jim

2011-09-16T12:02:00.001-07:00

jim,

you owe me no apologies for not having written before now. i mean that: i try not to keep score. folks speak from their hearts whenever that happens for them. life is busy: we get to things when we can. you wrote what you did when it felt right for you to do so and, for that, i'm grateful.

as for what you are going through now, when i was in your shoes several months ago, i did call it grief. i knew mom was dying even though she refused to talk about it. i knew mom was dying even though MY talking about it would only make her angry. and i was in grief not just because i knew i was going to lose her, either: but really because i'd finally realized - truly and deeply - that my fictional ideal of who my mom was and what my family MIGHT be had absolutely died. i'd always wanted my mom to be a kind, nurturing, loving, supportive, affectionate woman. she was none of these things. i'd always wanted my family to be the supportive, kind sanctuary i've always thought a family should be, like i've seen in some of my friends' families. my family was, with some rare exceptions, not this kind of family. which isn't to say that my family was awful and terrible: it wasn't. but it wasn't what i'd wanted it to be and what i'd hoped it could be. and my stubborn refusal to admit that earlier in my life caused me great pain and duress for several decades.

so yes: i was in mourning and in grief before my mom physcially died. but that grief, frankly, was my ticket out of my unending stubbornness and the resulting cycle of pain. the grief of those ideals dying was what allowed me to make peace with both mom and my family dynamic before she physically died. i was then able to be present with her for her death without needing or wanting anything from her. and that was beautiful. and i was able to be present for the others without needing or wanting anything from them. and that was beautiful.

you spoke of the price to play in terms of the disease. i think all of us have disease in some form or another. i have a disease of thinking. and as my mom finally surrendered to her cancer, i surrendered to the truth. my mom died and the fictions i'd been clinging to died as well, so i was, ironically, set free. and that surrender led to a much deeper connection with mary, something i can't describe in words, really. but it's a familiar and comfortable connection, something i noticed with her immediately upon meeting her. when her father died one month ago, a bitter irony, i was able to be present for her and am, in fact, now here in idaho for the weekend for her dad's memorial service and to meet her family.

so the ill continue to die, but the living continue to live. mary never met my mom and i never met her dad. but we survive today and continue to love one another in the face of life's continuing uncertainty. in fact, i'd say that the uncertainty of life only makes the certainty of my feelings for mary even more precious now. i understand more fully at this time, why people cling to love. as for what mom wanted for me, well... mom wanted me to be successful and to not forget my judaism. and although her definition of "successful" was far narrower than mine, i have achieved many great successes in my life and now, with mary, a deep, abiding and successful love.

and as for you, sir: there is no roadmap, no one right way, no "best" method. you'll do what you need to do and feel what you need to feel. and all of it will be right, no matter what anyone else tells you. if you see this as one of the last hurdles in the path to growing up, then so be it. perhaps you will come to realize this is true and perhaps not. but you're on the path and you'll find out what all of this means to you in one way or another. if i can give some unsolicited advice, it would only be this: be patient and with yourself at all times, no matter what. you have only one mother and she'll only die one time. you can't be present for that experience if you're busy judging yourself or beating yourself up for any reason.

all my love to you both on this most sacred journey,

On Mon, Sep 5, 2011 at 9:43 PM, jim wrote:

Thank you for your thoughts, David. (I didn't want to communicate via FB if possible.) Very glad you saw this.

I know about your visits east to see your mom; I was happy to see you fly back west the first time dumbfounded at your mom's spirit. That made me hopeful and happy. And I was so sorry to hear that later she passed away. (People say "lose the fight" but that isn't quite right. There is no shame in passing on, we all do that, as tragic as it is. The price to play is steep, and seems illogical, and we didn't have a choice, but we all make it worthwhile while we are here, as best we can.) I don't think I met her, but maybe I did at tim and tanya's wedding. I hope you have solace in her memories and her full life and her successes as a person, not just as a mother. Those successes were real. And I'm glad you are in a relationship! I hope you are in love, maybe that is what you said. I hope so. What a great time to have someone very close. Your mother would want that for you. And I'm sorry I didn't say more then. I thought about that about two weeks ago. "Why didn't I send david a card?" I fell down on that, I'm sorry. You probably weren't expecting anything but I would have loved to surprise you. I still thought about her, and you, and still do. I know you so inadvertently I know her.

I think you are kind; I bet you have a very good idea what I'm going through now, or will go through. It isn't grief really, yet, she's here, we talk daily. But the near future does crop up. I dread it. It seems dire; parents always have your back, no matter what happens. It is still unimaginable to lose one. I guess this is one of the last steps of growing up. I am thankful she has her mind, and didn't die when i was young, or in a host of more unpleasant ways.

Thank you so much for your offer, I'm very sorry you have the experience that makes your offer attractive and no doubt helpful.

love,

Jim

June 23rd, 2011: A Gentle Surrender

2011-07-09T17:34:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-28T11:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-05T13:03:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-09-16T15:08:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-16T17:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-08T13:35:00.003-07:00

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.

June 15th, 2010 - The One Time of Day

2010-07-04T12:02:00.001-07:00

Regardless of what’s happened during the course of the day, no matter how much good or bad there’s been, there is one, tender moment I have come to look forward to more than others: the time when I help Dad get ready for bed. And I know he looks forward to it as well. That’s because he shuffles around in his slippers until he finds me and then... just stands there smiling.

“You ready for bed, Dad?”

“You wanna help me...?” It’s more of a statement than a question, but still: who says no when their Dad asks to be tucked in? Answer: not me.

So I get up, accompany him to the bathroom and we go down the checklist: make sure he’s taken his medicine, brushed his teeth, taken a piss, removed his rings, eased off his slippers, socks and - finally - his undershirt. When that’s all done, I pull back the covers, Dad sits down and then - with what seems an unreasonably large effort - roles back and swings his legs up over the edge of the bed. He usually winds up in a half-fetal, half-diagonal position with his head in the middle of the pillows but his legs hanging off the side of the bed. So I lift his legs and pull them into the center of the bed to straighten him. He’s a big man, so his legs are heavy. Sometimes, he’s too far down on the bed and his feet are hanging off after I straighten him, so I have to go up on the bed with him and lift him up and back onto the pillows. That’s difficult to do, I won’t lie.

But all of this makes him smile. He likes the attention. He likes ending the day with his loved ones around him, present during the transition into his other world, his dream world: the world where his body and mind work flawlessly and his deceased friends and family are still present and - from what he tells us - quite active.

Then, I swing the comforter back over him in one wave motion which I know he likes. I don’t know why he likes it, but, for some odd reason, he giggles every time I swing the comforter over him like that, so I’ve just kept doing it that way. Sometimes, I’ll swing the comforter over his face too so that he can’t see. And the I’ll innocently ask: “Is that OK? Is that perfect? Is that the way you wanted it...?” And he’ll laugh, say, “Stop it...” and I pull the comforter back down to a more workable position.

Finally, I sit down next to him on the edge of the bed. Sometimes, I put my hand up on his chest, over his heart and rub the skin there. Sometimes I make a joke out of it and push lightly up and down on his chest until he bounces like a basketball on the bed. That either makes him laugh or annoys the shit out of him. Either way, if I’m lucky, I get about sixty seconds with him before he falls asleep. And, during that precious window, unfiltered thoughts flow from him:

"That was the strangest day of my entire marriage," he said one night, and it was true. Mom had ignored us both that day due to her anger and pain.

"I don't know why we have to yell and scream so much when we talk to one another," he said another night, reflecting on the arguments we'd had at the dinner table.

Mostly, I just listen. Because if I take the time to respond, he's asleep before he can answer. Not just lightly asleep either, but deeply entrenched into another consciousness, limbs twitching and shaking as dreamtime takes over him. I wish I could fall asleep that quickly and that deeply.

And then, it is over. And the one time of day I have with Dad that is most precious and tender has passed. In a moment, I'll walk down the hall to say good night to Mom in a similar fashion. But, for now, I look down at the old man in the bed and try to remember who this man is. And, more importantly, who he was.

My father is still very much alive, his chest rising and falling as he breathes. But my Dad - the man I used to rely on - died a while ago. I give him a kiss and shut off the light on his end table before leaving the room.

July 2nd, 2010: Overheard in the Car

2010-07-02T20:03:00.000-07:00

So we're driving down the Jersey shore today and Mom asks me to put on some music. This request is a trap: it's no different than when a woman asks if she looks fat in a particular pair of pants. So I put on Sting. Because Sting is the musical equivalent of "not-being-offensive". And then Dad says:

"Hey... It's Styx!"

"Who?"

"Styx... The singer: Styx. We saw him on Broadway..."

"You did see him on Broadway, Dad. But his name's not 'Styx'..."

"No? But we saw him in 'Three Penny Opera'."

"That's true, but his name's not—"

"It's Sting!" Mom interrupted, yelling. "It's Sting, not Styx!!"

"That's right," I said more calmly. "His name is 'Sting'."

"Of course," Dad said, nodding his head. It was Sting and not Styx. Of course! Those two bands are hardly alike at all! Duh.

June 24th, 2010: Love Ladies

2010-06-30T08:55:00.000-07:00

So here we are in Love Ladies. Yes, Love Ladies. Love Ladies, New Jersey. It’s a small city on Long Beach Island, the island north of Absecon island, where Atlantic City is located. Long Beach Island is The Hamptons for the Jews in Philadelphia who need a summer vacation destination. So that’s where we are. And we're here because Mom and Dad insisted that they continue to be here every weekend this summer as they have for about twenty-five years. And they'd made this decision despite their diseases, despite their unpredictable daily abilities and despite the fact that when I asked Mom who would help to care for her and Dad during the weekends, Mom had said:

“The kids will. They come down every weekend.” I cringed.

My brother and his wife just gave birth to their second child not even a month ago, and their oldest - a three year old girl - was already a handful because of her brains, curiosity and stubbornness. They simply wouldn’t be able to care for their two children and help Mom and Dad. My sister had just started her own corporation and had just begun landing clients and making money which was an incredible goal of hers. Who knew if she’d even be down the shore every weekend with her business at such a crucial juncture...?

So never mind that we’d have eight people sharing a small ranch house; never mind that Mom and Dad haven’t shared a bed for years; never mind that both of them are battling debilitating diseases; never mind that the kids would also like to have an actual getaway themselves and not be forced to spend every weekend caring for their sick parents. Never mind the god-damned, fucking obvious: if the family’s gone down to the Jersey shore during the weekends for the past twenty-five years, then fuckit: this summer wouldn't be any different. Period. No need to think about it more than that.

Which is why I interceded.

With the help of my dear and amazingly knowledgable friend, Pam, I arranged for a company called Home Instead to provide a home care worker at the shore house every morning, just as we do at Mom and Dad’s house in Philadelphia. Thank God. Thank God for my friend who made the recommendation. Thank God I had the presence of mind to do the research on the company and ask them questions to see if they could handle our situation. Thank God, the company had really capable providers to offer us. It literally made the difference between having a somewhat workable family weekend and a complete and utter disaster of the highest magnitude.

We moved into the shore house: I unpacked the car; we picked up the repaired sails for the old sailboat; I moved both of my parents into the house; we met and interviewed the Home Instead representative who came out to the house to meet with us and assess our situation; I provided them with Mom and Dad’s insurance information; I even took Mom and Dad out for an incredible dinner to celebrate that we made it, despite all of the obstacles... and even got a little drunk drinking some Chimay.

So... here we are in Love Ladies. And I can certainly use some love myself: Mom’s back on her chemotherapy pills after getting a week off and she’s in as foul a mood as I can remember since I’ve been home. Rage seems to be her default coping skill right now. Maybe that will change tomorrow but probably not.

What I do know is that, tomorrow my sister will arrive in the late afternoon, followed by my brother, his wife and their two children just before bedtime. And then, for seventy-two hours, we’ll have a full house and absolutely no privacy but plenty of baby crying.

What I do know is that the day after that, I’ll help rig up the sailboat with my brother and that, later that night, there’s going to be a full moon. And it will rise like a giant cantaloupe over the Atlantic. And I plan on being outside to watch her rise, the lovely lady that she is.

Love Ladies, indeed.

June 20th 2010: Tomorrow Is Another Day

2010-06-30T08:22:00.001-07:00

I am a good son. I am a devoted son. I am a caring son. I am a thoughtful, forward-thinking, emotionally developed, peaceful, and sensitive son. I am willing to watch illness and decay unfold in front of me. I knowingly came home for an extended period of time to witness my father’s daily decay and my mother’s second round of chemotherapy rip into every aspect of her life. I willingly put my job, my two cats, my theatre company, my artistic pursuits, setting up my new apartment and my friendships in Los Angeles on hold so that I could live in my parents’ home for six weeks to care for them in any way I could.

Nobody can ever take this away from me. But sometimes I forget them myself so I need to remind myself of what I’ve sacrificed and what I’ve accomplished here. And why I came in the first place. I came without hesitation because I knew it was the right thing to do. I came because I knew my parents would need my help and might not have the ability to ask for me to make such a sacrifice. I came because I knew that I’d never regret serving them in this way but that I might regret NOT making this trip to visit with them when I had the opportunity.

And I made this trip knowing that it would be a defining journey for me, one of the hardest, most challenging, gut-wrenching and potentially rewarding chapters of my own life. I didn’t make this journey because I wanted or needed my parents approval or permission: I made it because I knew how rewarding it might be for them and for me if I trusted myself and made the sacrifice.

What I didn’t understand - and what I couldn’t have predicted - was the grueling, day-to-day hardship that both of my parents face: the constantly changing restrictions on their physical abilities; the anger they have about having to face untimely and unfair diseases; the anger and impatience that they direct at each other as they try to cope with one another’s restrictions and inabilities; and the surprising amounts of anger, impatience and stubbornness they direct at me because I’m the closest care-giver they have. It's because I’m their child that they know it’s safe to yell and scream and bitch and complain to me in ways that they cannot to the insurance-provided home care workers that come into and out of the house every day or to some of their friends.

My closeness means that I’m a safe target. And I’ve certainly spent some time on the firing line, I’ll be honest.

This is why, no matter who you are, no matter how close or distant you may be emotionally from those for whom you care, no matter how trained you are to handle disease and pain and suffering, you must still take such incredibly good care of yourself. You must take time for yourself each day to unwind and decompress. You must eat healthy foods and exercise and get enough sleep every night and treat yourself well.

And some days I’ve accomplished this long list of self-care items. But some days not. Some days I just don’t have the energy or time to give myself everything I need. I know that. And it’s OK. I just do the best I can and then... tomorrow is another day.

June 23rd, 2010: Dear God...

2010-06-23T20:17:00.000-07:00

Dear God,

Fuck you. Fuck you for what you've done. Especially after what we do for you...

We get on our knees, we pray, we try to do right in this world and by your name and we praise and revere you. We start wars in your name. We bless our children in your name in your houses of worship. We inaugurate our Presidents by putting their hand on one of your Holy Books. We invoke your name at the start of sessions of congress. We make the time in our lives to acknowledge the Blessed Perfection and Peaceful Goodness that are the hallmarks of the All-Knowing and Supreme Father.

And, in return, you denegrate my father. You insult his legacy. You spit in the face of a man who has served your children well, a man who dedicated his life to treating the ill and helping them to regain health. And you're not just taking his body and physical abilities, like his ability to dress himself or his ability to wipe his own ass, or his ability to just get up from a mother-fucking chair.

No, that's not enough for you, God. Because you're a sick fuck. You're taking his mind as well, his ability to know what's going on around him, his ability to cognitively navigate the world. And today, you took his ability to remember that we have steps in the back of our house. And so, when it was time to say goodbye to the cousins who'd come over to visit, he walked out the back door, forgot that there were steps there and then... just tumbled wildly through space.

There were four of us nearby too, so you really planned it out well, you evil fuck. We were close enough to watch everything unfold in that blink of an eye but not close enough to reach out and grab his arm and help him. He fell to the ground on his right hand, hip and knee and as head tumbled forward. Our two tomato plants stopped his head from cracking open on the cement porch. Disgraced. Shamed. Embarrassed. Face literally covered in dirt.

And there he sat, stunned on the ground, in front of his wife, his son, his cousins, and the at-home aide who comes here every day to try and make his life and Mom's more easy. So we all rushed to help him, us puny humans, us limited and imperfect creatures of habit because you didn't, God.

You're a pathetic sham of an illusion. You're a douche bag magician who can't pull off the simplest of card tricks. My father doesn't deserve this undignified, disgusting, degrading decay. Not at all. So fuck you, God. Fuck you for your contempt of a man that served. Fuck you for your ignoring a man who provided for his wife and three children. Fuck you for the disgrace you permit despite our best efforts.

And if this is how you've seen fit to treat a man who's served others for his entire life, it makes me wonder about what your plans are for a selfish prick like me. Because I haven't spent my adult life tending to the sick and trying to heal them.

A mentor and spiritual advisor suggested that I get on my knees this afternoon and pray after what happened. To open up to you and humble myself and just give it all over to you. I replied, "Why should I pray to the God who's taking my Father's life?"

"Tell him you're angry," my friend responded. "He can handle it." And so I have.

As for your houses of worship, they mean nothing when my own house is in mourning and decay. As for your Righteousness, I don't see it. As for your Grace and Perfection... Fuck you.

Later, this afternoon, when I was cleaning up my Father's urine from the bathroom floor, and from his shoes, and from his pants because he can no longer urinate while standing, I pretended that what I was cleaning up was you, you twisted fuck. Cleaning up the remnants of my faith that you actually matter, that you actually listen and that you actually care.

And then... I tossed you into the toilet with what was left of Dad's piss and flushed.

May 29th, 2010: It All Comes Tumbling Down

2010-06-20T14:17:00.000-07:00

There are, in my experience, only a few times in life when something so powerful happens that it immediately snaps you out of your reality and brings you instantly into the present. This evening, one of those singular events happened. Then, a few hours later, another one occurred. That's right Life fans: it was a double-header of mind-jarring reality shifts.

Let's get ready bummmmmmmmmmmmble......!

Part one occurred while we were out for dinner at some incredibly mediocre restaurant chain. I've got my niece on my lap playing with my iPad. And while I'm showing her some awesome Pixar app, I hear a "thump", followed by a bunch of patrons in the restaurant gasping and then Mom starting to yell.

Dad has fallen down.

He's on the floor - limbs sprawled out - and seems absolutely confused as to how he's gotten there. Patrons get up to offer assistance. My brother rushes over. So does his wife's family. Others start calling 911. Dad's knee is bleeding. I've got my niece on my lap and, because she's so engrossed with the Pixar app, I figure: it's better to just keep her occupied and allow the others can attend to Dad. Which they do. And so, helpless, I just watch. A few people help lift him up and get him in a chair. The "restaurant" staff bring over some ice and a band-aid. They look concerned... the fear-of-possible-lawsuit concern.

And Mom - embarrassed, exasperated, concerned, alarmed - begins yelling at Dad. It's not intentional. It's not like she doesn't love Dad. She does. Without question. Hell, she's given up her life to care for him. But in that moment... In that moment, every fear she's ever had about Dad's progressive illness and abilities, every secret prayer she uttered - that, please, God: let no one really notice just how bad Dad's condition really is - all of that rises to the surface and blurts out of her mouth. And, instead of soothing him, she shames and humiliates him.

It's not her finest moment. But I understand. I've been caring for both of them for four days now and I understand.

Mom cleans up Dad's wound. Someone offers to call an ambulance. People are staring at the old, disoriented man now seated in the chair in the middle of the restaurant who just fell down. They have no idea that he's only sixty-seven years old. How could they? How could they know what this man was like in his prime? How could they see how he would carry us on his back, sometimes two at a time? How could they know that he would dig up an entire garden, tilling the soil before planting carrots, beans, tomatoes and more? How would they have any idea that - for years - he would rise at 5:15am in order to get to the hospital by 6am to see his patients for his first rounds and not return home until 6pm to have dinner with his family. They couldn't know that. They couldn't see that. Instead, they just see a frail, old man who needs help.

We calmly leave the restaurant as people escort us out with their stares and concern. Mom alternates between fuming silently and shaming Dad. It's not a pleasant situation as I drive them both to my brother's house. But later, while Mom's upstairs helping to put her grand daughter to sleep, I sit with Dad downstairs. It is one of the only moments so far when just the two of us have had some time together. I ask him how he's feeling. And that's when part two of the double-header happens.

"Embarrassed," he says. "Mom yelled at me."

"I know, Dad. I'm sorry. Mom probably didn't mean it like that."

"I don't want to be a burden," Dad says and starts to cry. "I don't want to be a burden on the family..."

How do you respond to your father when he admits, defeated, that he doesn't want to burden the family he helped to create, raise and educate? I went to my Dad and put my arm around him. I gave him a kiss on his head and I cried with him. And then I lied to his face. "You're not a burden, Dad," I said and I meant it. I really did. Because, to me, falling down one time in a restaurant isn't being a burden. It's an accident.

But I knew better. And so did Dad. And at this stage of his disease, he requires help sitting down and help getting up; he requires help getting into and out of his clothes; he sometimes requires help wiping his ass, cutting his food and frequently understanding what's going on around him. So, yes: that makes him a burden right now.

And it made me a liar. Kind of. But not really. But kind of.

After we'd cried, after I'd re-dressed his wound, I went upstairs and found Mom. I pulled her aside and told her, "Dad's crying. He's very upset about falling down in public and that you raised your voice at him." She begin to protest but I cut her off.

"What you did wasn't nice. At the exact moment when Dad needed your love and support, you shamed and humiliated him in public. Now go downstairs, tell Dad that you love him and wrap your arms around him, Mom. Give him the love he deserves. He'd made a mistake. He didn't fall down intentionally to hurt your feelings. Right now, he needs your support."

She looked at me, looked away for a moment and then walked downstairs to do exactly as I'd requested. And so it goes. We all fall down. Most of us just get back up again. But for those around us who cannot, we try to extend a hand. But sometimes, we forget. And in those moments, it's nice to know that we have others around us to help remember that we're not alone, that we depend on others all day, every day, to help us navigate and survive.

In the end, despite our best efforts, it all comes tumbling down anyway. It's a simple and beautiful truth that unites us all... even if we actively try to forget it.

June 18th, 2010: It All Went to Pot

2010-06-18T20:27:00.000-07:00

Today, Mom and I both ate a centimeter-wide cube of some pot brownies and then - Dad in tow - watched Toy Story 3 in a theatre full of kids at 4:20pm. I fucking love Pixar. Seriously. Those folks are an American treasure and flat out masters of their craft. So it is with absolute honesty that I can tell you: nothing says, "I'm a grown man" like crying at a kids' movie in front of your folks. Enough that your Mom has to hand you tissues as the credits roll. Honestly, if you've seen that movie and sat through the ending without crying... you're not human; you're an alien from Dagoba.

When we left the theatre and drove home, it was the magic hour — there was golden sunlight bathing everything we drove past in the most perfect way imaginable. Almost as moving as the film we'd just seen, we drove past a delightful series of classic, East-coast Summer evening vignettes: folks out mowing the front lawn, moms out with baby strollers for a walk, joggers out exercising by the park, horses on the nearby farm all out by the main intersection so you could see them playing with each other, jostling, kicking up dust into the sunlight as they bucked and jumped around one another. The dust rained down on them in the evening light like gold particles.

It's was kind of night when you roll down the windows, breathe deeply of the fresh cut grass and you can almost hear the sound of the ice-cream truck around every corner.

And when we got home a surprise: Mom had saved some of her kreplachs from Rosh Hashannah and whipped up an awesome batch of soup for dinner with fresh veggies for the dumplings. Mom's soup is one of the things I'm going to miss when she's gone and I told her that. I wasn't trying to be morbid and she didn't take it that way. I just wanted to let her know that I love her soup that much. And that I hope I find a wife and have kids while she's still alive so that they, too, can taste her soup. And I told her that as well. And I told her because I wanted her to know. And she liked that. And she played with my hair affectionately to let me know. And it was a wonderful moment for a woman who's not normally affectionate... and for her son who usually is. I give my Mom credit for stepping outside of the box today. It's hard for anyone to do that, but I think it's harder when there's so much disease in your body and in your home...

So yes: today it all went to pot. But in the very best way possible. Tomorrow my sister arrives for a visit from NYC so we'll all have some time together. Next weekend: we're off to the Jersey Shore and my brother's family will join us. And we'll have a ridiculous, wild and hysterical circus for a few days and nights.

May 28th, 2010: The Newest Arrival

2010-06-12T20:02:00.000-07:00

The reason we've come to god-forsaken New Jersey in the first place is because my brother and his wife were due to deliver their second child via c-section this morning. To be honest, given the challenging reasons I've traveled home for six weeks, knowing that I'd start off my journey by witnessing this newest arrival was incredibly inspiring. And the little guy didn't disappoint, he just jumped the gun a bit early is all. Although we'd planned to get to the hospital this morning at around 8am for the surgery, my sister-in-law's water broke last night at about 11:30pm.

...about fifteen minutes after Mom and I had each taken a sleeping pill.

So while my brother went off to the hospital with his wife and in-laws, Mom, Dad and myself stayed in the hotel, got some sleep and shuttled off to the delivery unit this morning around 10am. Ny nephew arrived early this morning at 1:59am, tipping the scales at 7lbs, 7oz and has more hair on his head than some of my friends (sorry, Stuart and Wyatt, but it's true). My brother and his wife are very tired but doing fine and just thrilled that their newest baby is healthy.

Holding a newly born infant is an incredible experience. They are soooo tiny and have perfectly formed lips and fingernails and ears and toes and they smell like vanilla cake with yummy frosting and they taste just like rainbows and honey. Or maybe I'm just really excited to meet my first nephew. I spent most of that first visit snapping photos of him along with the other members of the family.

New life: it ushers in a breath of fresh air, a ray of hope, another reason to live, and a cause for celebration at a time when celebration is needed most.

So, to my nephew, the newest arrival: thank you for arriving when you did. Like all good comedians, you've already started to master that most important concept of delivery: timing.

Love,
Uncle David

June 10th, 2010: It All Comes Up Eventually

2010-06-10T21:21:00.000-07:00

I was awoken this morning after only five hours of sleep. I'd forgotten that Mom's infusion is today. Infusions of medicine happen intraveneously (via IV) and happen about once every three weeks for Mom. Today's the day. And I went to bed too late and forgot about it. So it goes. My brain's been overwhelmed since I've been home. I can forgive that. Of course, I got up, did my morning meditation and went upstairs to have a quick breakfast.

That's when Mom told me that the vomiting had begun. What else could I do? I gave her a hug and off we went to Fox Chase Cancer Center for her infusion. After a cup of coffee and reading the god-awful news on today's sports page, I was actually starting to feel half-human. We were in the lobby of the center for not even 15 minutes before Mom had to vomit again.

Off she ran to the bathroom. I got up and got her a cup of tea so she'd have something comforting when she got back. But the tea didn't stay down too long. There, in her seat in the lobby, Mom began vomiting again. She'd brought a plastic bag to her chair — I have no idea how she'd thought of that — and pressed her face into it. I got her a trash can and, when she'd finished, went back into the infusion room to ask them to please expedite her. The cancer center prides itself in all of its commercials for excellent care and service, but having to wait an hour each time we've gone there speaks another story entirely.

But - miracle of miracles - they moved mom back into the infusion room and started to set her up. So, here I sit, next to Mom, in a room full of cancer patients as saline, then Benedryl, then Zometa and then Avastin are all pumped into a vein in her right arm.

And I wish there were something I could do to stop this awful nonsense. But I cannot. All I can do is be here, let her know that I am here no matter what and then, where and when I can, take good care of myself to keep myself as healthy as possible for her and Dad.

I continue to fall down in that regard, but I continue to get back up. I feel like a boxer who's committed to going the distance: I know I'm gonna get punched. In the face. Repeatedly. But I also know that I'll be fine and will pull myself back up, bloody or not.

Now's not the time to give up. Not on her and not on me.

May 27th, 2010: The Set Up

2010-06-10T19:36:00.000-07:00

We've been in suburban New Jersey with it's bountiful strip malls and for either one day or one week now. I can't really tell, but that's precisely the magic of New Jersey, isn't it?

Leaving my life, my job, my city, my structure, my schedule, my cats and my friends all behind has stunned my system. I guess that's natural. The real challenge is that there wasn't a gradual shift: the other day, I was at home in Los Angeles and, the very next day, I'm suddenly caring for two parents all day long, sometimes in awkwardly intimate ways. It's shocking: I'm not sleeping well, I'm agitated and I'm struggling to balance helping Mom and Dad when they need it and still take care of myself. There's a learning curve here... I don't know the specifics of what they need or when they need it.

As it turns out, Mom can handle her basic needs just fine. She's just in a lot of discomfort and fatigue as a result of the radiation treatment on her upper spine that just ended. That radiation was performed for ten minutes every day for three weeks and was focused on her spine, to prevent the cancer from entering her spinal column. In other words, the core column of mom's central nervous system was radiated daily for three weeks.

Tired, you say? You have no idea.

Dad, however, requires constant attention. He needs help getting dressed and undressed, sitting down and getting up, getting into and out of the car, cutting his food, getting onto and off the toilet, being bathed and, on occasion, having his ass wiped. It is a humbling and emotional experience to have to wipe your father's ass and it forces you to realize that time and life are not forever.

Dad is like a three-year-old child: he doesn't make much sense when he talks, he loves eating dessert whenever he can get away with it, and he walks around burping and farting without thinking twice about it. His two favorite topics of discussion are what he'd like to be eating at the next meal and what just happened in the bathroom.

Because Mom is ill and in pain, her patience is thin. I understand. I don't judge her for that. When you're going through cancer treatments like radiation and chemotherapy, having to also monitor your husband of 43 years as if he's a small child grows tiring really, really fast. Not surprisingly, Mom and Dad bicker a lot and even more so when they travel and share such close quarters.

And so, today, I'd just like to start my gratitude list with the fact that while we're here in New Jersey, they actually got me my own hotel room in the hotel where we're holed up so I can have a smidgeon of privacy and downtime.

Thank you, Jesus. And that's coming from a Jew...

May 26th, 2010: And So It Begins

2010-06-03T14:13:00.000-07:00

After about five weeks of preparation to make this journey possible, I have left Los Angeles today and arrived in Philadelphia. I have come here to help take care of my two ailing parents.

Dad is slowly dying from Lewy Body Disease, something most people have never heard of when I mention it. But that's ok. In short, it's like having Alzheimer's and Parkinson's disease, so I'm fond of calling it "the peanut butter and jelly of senility". But I only say that to make me laugh. The joke doesn't change how fucking awful it is to watch your own father deteriorate before your eyes, but at least it helps me chuckle darkly. Every little bit helps.

Mom is battling breast cancer. It started about three or so years ago when, a series of small lumps were found in one of mom's boobs. Rather than pull out each lump, she elected to have a mastectomy. Then radiation. Then chemotherapy. That was topped off by having an implant surgically inserted where her real breast had been so she would - at the very least - look symmetrical. And, gosh darnit: all of it worked. Mom was doing great and getting a clean bill of health.

For a while.

Then, about six weeks ago, during a check-up to which I was invited, Mom was given the news: her cancer has metastasized, or spread. And it had done so dramatically, spreading to her liver, both lungs, and all of the bones in her upper body from her skull to her spine to her hips. This is known as Stage IV cancer and although it's not a death sentence, it's awful close. The average survival rate with cancer like this is somewhere between 18-24 months. More recent data says mom has a 27% chance of lasting five years.

But her doctor's didn't tell Mom this. Instead, when they broke the news to her, Mom asked them a simple and direct question: "Should I be making long-term plans...?". Her doctor told her, "Oh yes: absolutely!" Dr. Goldstein spoke of how the radiation and chemotherapy Mom now required would help in this way and that and tra-la-la, isn't everything so nice and bright and chipper?!

I understand not wishing to convince a patient into believing that death is certain. I get it. And I understand the desire to help keep a patient optimistic and positive. But I don't understand lying or omitting the truth when a patient with a potentially terminal disease asks you a direct question about their long term survival. If I were Mom's doctor, I'd have gotten quiet, told the truth, been humble and then help her to be as positive as she could in order to fight the disease and become a survivor.

So fuck you, Doctor: you're a woman, you're an oncologist, and you know better. If it makes you uncomfortable to tell the truth to someone who might have a terminal disease, then maybe you should have thought about that shit before you decided to become a fucking cancer doctor, you know?

I flew home to Los Angeles a few days later, decided that I needed to be at home to be with both of my parents and assist in any way I could during this process. I didn't hesitate for a moment. That was the weird part. I just knew this is what I needed to do. So I put in the paperwork to take advantage of the Family Medical Leave Act, got a cat sitter, parked my car in a friend's driveway, arranged for mail and... five weeks later, here I am.

I am scared. I am nervous. I am hopeful. And I am here to help. I am willing to take care of myself while I'm here and I hope that remember to do so. There is a lot to be done. Tonight, I sleep on the pull out sofa and tomorrow I drive us all up to New Jersey. The following morning, my brother and his wife will welcome their newest child into the world via c-section. It will be good to start off this journey with some new life, new blood and new excitement.