August 7, 2004 –  A Final Lesson From My Father.

As most of the civilized folks in this little corner of Los Angeles County know, my father passed away a little over two weeks ago.  People are supposed to go through various stages of grief when someone dies.  I don’t remember them all, I think they go as follows:   denial, anger bargaining, depression, and then finally acceptance.  I think there are a couple of other stages that they left out in this clinical analysis of how one grieves:  physical and mental exhaustion, and then affirmation.  It may seem strange to say, but my father’s funeral, the actual celebration of the life he led, was also a stage somewhere in the list of the many mental shenanigans that accompany death and grief. 

In many ways my father and my family were lucky – not in that my father died too soon, but that he died as a man well-loved, with closure to many parts of his life.  All of my sisters and me got to see my dad just a few short days before the “episode” that triggered the tears, cursing and mounds of paperwork I am currently sharing with my mom.  My dad got one last 4^th of July, one of his favorite holidays, and then a nice dinner on the 5^th with my sister Karen, her husband Fred, my mom, and me.  That was the last time Karen and I really saw him or spoke with him before the hospital, and for that, I am grateful.  Kim and her husband Bob got to see my folks just a few days later in San Francisco, where both my parents got to beam proudly as Kim successfully delivered one of the most important speeches of her life.  I know the fact that my father got to see this final accomplishment meant a lot to her as well.

Then, once my father fell ill, we were all able to come together, as a family at the hospital.  This family increasingly grew larger as friends and loved ones came to support us and show their concern for my dad.  We all got a chance to talk, comfort and show our love for my father as his conditioned weakened.  Finally, when it was clear that his body could no longer sustain the fight it was in, we as a family were able to say goodbye.  Each of us was there when my father passed, and each of us knows that for that one moment, our family was able to say goodbye to one of its loved members.  Not only did we all have strong, final memories of my dad just days before he fell ill, but we all got to be together one last time as a family when he finally slipped away.  Not many families get this luxury, and for this I am thankful.

The physical and mental exhaustion comes from being one of the survivors, and trying to dig into and reestablish the details of someone else’s life.  Beyond the numbing mental exhaustion of trying to plan all of the details of how to say goodbye, you are also surrounded with almost constant stimulation. Everyone is hugging, touching, talking, tearing, and trying to find a way to make something that cannot be fixed better. While most times this was appreciated, there were moments when all I wanted to do was take an Aspirin or drink a nice glass of red wine and crawl into bed.  Starting a conversation with anyone, even a virtual stranger can lead to a torrent of tears, which you are afraid to share with others because it then becomes one big echo of tears, and you really have to think about what has happened.  We all try to be so strong for each other, and then we do not know how to react when others are trying to do the same for you. 

Physically, sifting all of the stuff that made up my dad’s life, including all of his odd quirks and interests, was another totally unexpected challenge.  My dad had an office, maybe a mile or two away from his home, where he did all of his “great” thinking or just found a way to play with toys and gadgets outside of my mother’s watchful eye.  It is also the place where he was licensed to sell firearms, received more magazines and catalogs than could be reviewed in a lifetime, and had enough live ammo and guns to defend his office, his family, as well as most of Culver City.  Wading through the virtual landfill papers from the Exchange Club, Temple Akiba, the Parks & Recreation Commission, Mosquito Abatement Commission, the NRA and God knows what else to find those documents we really cared about, you know, the will, the trust, the inventory of assets, was tantamount to looking for Excalibur or the Holy Grail.  It would have made things a bit easier had he told someone, somewhere, the damn combination to his gun safe.   While we think we have gotten most of the important and or dangerous stuff out of his office, who knows what we will find when we go through some of the boxes file by file.  By the way, do you know how heavy Ammo is?  That stuff weighs a ton. 

The affirmation part of this experience comes with the funeral.  Sometimes it takes something terrible to really get perspective of what people mean to you, and what you mean to them.  I knew my father was loved and respected, but sometimes, you do not appreciate how much you yourself are loved and cared about, or respected.  So, when my entire office came to show their respects to me and my family at the funeral, I was truly touched.  It affirmed that the way I try to live my life and treat others is not in vain.  That people do notice.  When friends who heard from friends found out and called, it reminded me that we are only as alone as we choose to make ourselves.  When I recognized the impact my father’s life had on those around him it makes me certain that, yes, one person can make a difference.  One person can touch thousands in a lifetime.  That is a gift we often do not recognize and take for granted.  My father has affirmed in me that there is something more important than just what is now and what is easy.  There is what is of value and what is right.  While I knew this to be true, I never saw it materialized in the flesh until I witnessed the outpouring of emotion, grief and joy emanating from those attending his funeral. 

And, as for the funeral, it was the most life-affirming event I have ever attended. You may think that birth is the most life affirming.  Well, perhaps, but that is when all of your options are before you, and there is no perspective on the choices in your life, no consequences documented.  No, to me, a funeral where a Rabbi breaks into tears describing my father, where laughter rings out from some of the stories of his life, where you end celebrating with his favorite song and hoisting a cup of his favorite beer, well, to me that is far more life-affirming:  it shows the effects of a life, and how well it was lived.  Seeing how one man can be loved by so many different people at the same time was the most amazing testament of all to my father. 

So, my father’s final gift to me was a lesson:  the recognition of how he led his life, how the choices you make do matter, of how laughter through tears is not a bad way to remember someone.  My father was by no means a perfect man.  Like all of us, he had his flaws. But, he was a decent, kind man, who in his passing, taught me yet how it important it is to live your life well.  I do not know what “stage” of grief I am in.  I just know that my father left me a final lesson that was invaluable.  Thank you dad.  I love you, and will miss you terribly.