The Book of Ben

2011-01-29T18:34:00.000-08:00

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http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewnews.asp?id=35290

Dear Friends,

Please click on the above link to read the book synopsis of Alan's second book Between Fathers and Sons.

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

p.s. more of Alan's work can be read at www.articlesbase.com and www.world-poems.net

2011-01-10T18:22:00.000-08:00

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Living With Parkinson's Disease

By Alan D Busch

In the first in a series of essays, Chicago writer Alan D. Busch examines the nature of the relationship between his Jewish faith and Parkinson's Disease with which he has lived now for eleven years.

Living With Parkinson's Disease (A Jew of Faith Explores The Presence of Parkinson's in His Life)

A Series by Alan D. Busch

Living with Parkinson's Disease is like taking a ride on a pendulum but with two caveats: first, once you're on you can't get off unless you fall off and secondly, while one pendulous swing takes you back to your familiar past the other brings you closer to an uncertain future that begins to look more like today with each morning's sunrise.

A progressively worsening disease over time, I admit how wrong I was years ago shortly after my doctor diagnosed my Parkinson's to persist in the folly of denial, trying to fool myself and others that mine was a mild case and would eventually "max out" upon reaching a certain plateau and progress no further.

Well, it never happened and won't.

The simple truth of the matter is it's all uphill from here on and at an ever increasing angle of incline. In everyday terms, I feel good less often more frequently.

Now don't get me wrong. I do have good days when I feel like a "million bucks". I am neither adopting the "chicken little" approach nor any longer deluding myself that Parkinson's will not continue to play an important role in my life.

I seek nobody's pity, but I do want folks to pay attention to my message: there is no weapon more formidable in our psycho-spiritual arsenal than the alliance between old fashioned stubbornness and the power of prayer and devotion.

On the other hand, the "Parkinsonian" challenges I face every day have strengthened my resolve to live my life as best I can. I learned this approach from my late son Ben Z'L and his grandfather, my dad, Dr. Albert I. Busch, ZT'L both of whom doggedly fought off disease and disability.

As with diabetes management, given proper maintenance and lifestyle, Parkinson’s needn't prevent me from leading a relatively full life, but I ask readers to remember that the key to living well with Parkinson's Disease, as with other afflictions, is to live life purposefully.
The fact my body is not functioning properly as it did for so long is, indeed, lamentable, but that fact is never sufficient reason to throw in the towel.

Adopting a vacuous approach, the absence of belief and trust in G-d and the power of prayer or a simple negative approach of feeling sorry for myself would only hasten my demise, leaving me without the support of community, alone and lonely.

Did you ever have a lemonade stand when you were a kid? Do you remember what the old expression advises if you're ever handed lemons? Well, what are you waiting for? Get out there and set an example, become an inspiration to others, be able to say at the end of day: "I've changed a lot of lives for the better."

Physical strength is as fleeting as youth itself, especially if unwedded to "the spirituality of purposefulness". It simply is not enough to lift weights; a better use of your time would be to show folks who need help how to lift the weight of their affliction from their shoulders.

First though, I think it important to understand what we're dealing with here, of how it feels to pendulate from one extreme to the other while navigating the sometimes perilous waters of Parkinson's Disease.

Follow these instructions. And yes, you may and should try this at home. Okay, are you ready?

Step 1: Place an empty shoe box on the table in front of you. (If you haven't a shoe box, any box of similar size will do.) Position it on the table within arms’ reach so that you’ll be able to pick it up when I instruct you to do so.

Step 2: Place your hands in your pockets and do not remove them until I tell you, okay? Now, ready for the third step?

Step 3: Pick up the box. Uh uh, no, no, put your hands back in your pockets. Okay, try it again. Pick up the box.

Step 4: I see you're having some difficulty. Once again. On the count of three ...1, 2, 3 pick up the box.

Step 5: Are you alright? That wasn’t too bad, was it? Oh, you can remove your hands from your pockets.

You now have a "hands on" slightly hyperbolized understanding of what PD often feels like to me. Equally important is the awareness that symptomology varies among different PD sufferers. On the other hand, we do have some overlapping of disabilities and medications, but far more interesting is Parkinson's sufferers tend to look alike when our medication levels are low.

It’s the funniest thing. I’ve two friends who have Parkinson's who bear no resemblance to me whatsoever. Yet there are times when we do look alike. We shuffle instead of walk, our speech is slurred and we’re unable to raise the volume of our voices. Our posture is stiff and our faces are frozen as if to say: "Please don't look at me when I'm like this."

Waiting for medications to kick in can be frustrating. The waiting at times seems interminable. I view it differently by remembering how grateful I'll feel when my gait normalizes and my hands work again along with many other benefits.

You see? Good things do come to those who wait.

G-d grants each of us a finite number of days and a gift box of our unique strengths, weaknesses, talents, deficiencies and last but not least ... free will. What we do with the contents of our gift boxes is another matter but, as you probably are aware, so much depends upon how each of us uses his free will.

Remember that the next time life makes you grumpy. Take a look at the next fellow's situation. Now reevaluate your own and repeat after me: "Azayhu ashir?" (Who is rich?) "Hasameach b'chelko." (He who is happy with his lot.)*

*Chapter 4, Pirkei Avos, (Ethics of Our Fathers)

Alan D. Busch
alandbusch(at)aol.com
01/08/2011

2011-01-02T09:20:00.000-08:00

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Dear Friends,

This is the first of two pieces I wrote after my interview with Israeli Professor Dan Porat, author of an excellent book "The Boy: A Holocaust Story". Have you seen the picture of the little boy with his hands up with that nazi soldier behind him?

My piece is a follow up to Professor Porat's talk he gave at the Illinois Holocaust Museum in Skokie, Il. the link for which I'll post shortly. In the meantime, read the first piece and buy the book too. You won't regret the purchase

http://www.articlesbase.com/literature-articles/conversation-with-professor-dan-porat-author-of-the-boy-a-holocaust-story-3810859.html

2011-01-02T09:17:00.000-08:00

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Dear Readers,

This piece I wrote in observance of my son Ben's tenth Yahrzeit. It's been reprinted in a variety of places, one of which you'll find by googling "parenting tips.

http://www.articlesbase.com/parenting-articles/looking-out-the-rear-window-ten-years-ago-3829780.html

2011-01-02T09:13:00.000-08:00

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Dear Friends,

Please click on this link to a piece I recently wrote while in and coming back home from New York. I hope you enjoy it.

http://www.articlesbase.com/travel-articles/jewish-life-learning-aboard-the-new-york-city-subway-3931749.html

2010-11-10T18:53:00.000-08:00

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Yahrzeit

(parental grief in a Jewish holy place)

I kindle a soul light for thee this eve,
when dawn awakens, I'll be able to see
a shadow of thy face ere mine eyes
as was before and shall always be.

Each morn I gather me to this place,
wherein I've heard G-d resides.
I search but Him I have not seen
His face as from Moshe hides.

A gray beard weeps over an ancient folio bent
in whom there yet burns the holy flame.
"Why art thou here too, Rebbe?" I ask.
"The reason, my son, is like yours the same."

"A lifetime ago I've forsaken him not,
like you I won't let his memory to fade.
I am here to assuage a young father's pain
so that aloneness not make him any more afraid."

revised 11/10/10

Alan D. Busch
11/3/10

2010-11-06T20:34:00.000-07:00

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poetry of grief within a Jewish holy place

Yahrzeit

I kindle a soul light for thee on this eve,
when dawn awakens, I'll be able to see
a shadow of thy face ere mine eyes
as was before and shall always be.

Each morn I gather me to this place,
wherein I've heard it said G-d resides.
I search but Him I have not seen
His face as from Moshe He hides.

A gray beard weeps over an ancient folio bent,
in whom there yet burns the holy flame.
"Why art thou here too, Rebbe?" I ask.
"My reason like yours is the same."

"A lifetime ago I've forsaken him not,
Like you I won't let his memory to fade,
I'm here to assuage a young father's pain
Lest aloneness make him afraid."

By Alan D. Busch

11/6/10

2010-06-30T16:04:00.000-07:00

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"When A Father Loses A Daughter", revision of what used to be entitled "Loss and Gain"

He took one life but gave back two …

How flows the divine arithmetic I cannot sum.

When his daughter’s death leaves her father benumb,

Such are His mysteries none too few.

Crushing broad shoulders oh bitterest shame …

yet summons his strength to pray a father’s grief.

He awakens from nightmares as if a falling leaf …

ere long were sent him twin miracles came.

He taketh yet giveth back to this, His world.

Hold them fast ‘til you’ve strength no more … l

est their souls forever depart toward eternity soar.

Blanket them with tenderness gently unfurled.

He sits as if for a portrait and every day weeps …

while recalling yesterday’s laughter now mute.

Nary a faint echo of her schoolgirl’s flute,

that he plays for her, in his memory keeps.

Alan D. Busch

2010-06-30T15:00:00.000-07:00

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Dear Readers,

As always, thank you for your on-going readership. I think this will be the final form of "Reckoning" that will appear as the the second or third chapter in my book, tentatively entitled Between Fathers and Sons ...

“Reckoning”

“Alan, come back here in the bedroom.” Dad does not feel well today. To see him lying in his disheveled sickbed is a disturbing sight. I spotted his “talis” (which was really his favorite sweater) crumpled into a ball and jammed in between the headboard and mattress. He wriggles uncomfortably atop his bedcovers. His head is scrunched up against four pillows, his frighteningly thin legs poke through the nearly threadbare ends of the same pajama pants he has worn for the past several days. A robust, barrel-chested golden glove pugilist in his youth, my father was someone you’d want to have on your side in a fight.

“Do you remember thinking I was going to die that morning?” I nodded.“Well Son, I wasn’t ready to die right then and, as a matter of fact,” he added emphatically “the thought never entered my head.” I’d always admired but feared my father’s toughness.“Dad, when I first saw you laid out on that gurney I was stunned and scared.”I swallowed hard. “Your skin was yellow, you were feverish and the diarrheafrom your “chemo” was unrelenting.

”Talk of death did not disturb Dad who spoke of it with the surety and dispassion of a man who had already squared his account with his Maker. He grimaced.“Dad, are you all right?” He didn’t hear so well any more. “Pain in your gut, Dad?” “Some yes,” he winced. “It’s been coming more frequently so I took a couple of Vicodin.”Dad often complained about how cold he felt during his two year battle against colon cancer. Even after I had covered him with as many as six blankets, it was never quite enough. Only that “talis” could took the edge off.“Dad, what kind of pain is it?” “It feels sore. You know, how I felt as a kid when I had eaten too many green apples.”

I didn’t believe one word though I understood what he was doing. Dad was being a dad, he thought, for my sake. As a matter of fact, his condition had worsened to the point that the short walks we had enjoyed taking as recently as the week before were no longer possible.

Leaving him on Friday afternoon, Erev Shabbat, filled me with separation anxiety. He became reflective with the approach of sundown, more so than at any other time of the week. Maybe he acquired his neshuma yeseira, the additional Sabbath soul, before anyone else. “You know I was thinking back when you were a baby,” his face brightened momentarily. “Did you know you were born with a club foot?” His eyes glistened. I’ll miss this tender part of him most, I think. “No, I didn’t,” I managed to respond albeit untruthfully. I had heard the club foot story many times, but each time was, at least for Dad, as if it were his first.“And I used to turn your foot and turn your foot, again and again, like this,” he showed me, tearfully twisting his hands as if disconnecting two rusty garden hoses.

“What time do you have, Son?” Dad asked, reaching for the box of tissues on the nightstand.“4:45,” I exhaled from utter exhaustion.“4.45! You better get going, Son. It’s getting late,” he cautioned. “Have a Good Shabbos”.“Hmm, he hadn’t ever said that before. Dad, I … uh, have a great weekend.”I cringed. “A great weekend? Dad’s dying and that’s the best I can come up with? Have a great weekend?”

Dad respected my beliefs though he may not always have agreed with them, but “Good Shabbos” wasn’t part of his world. I was left wondering why and why now.Dad taught me an invaluable lesson from years before when I was a newcomer to the observant community. We had been chatting on the phone for several minutes when he cheerilyannounced he had bought a new dental chair for his office.“Baruch Hashem,” I responded enthusiastically. In fact, I had been repeating the use of that phrase frequently throughout the course of our conversation. Eager to blend into the community as soon as possible, I didn’t realize (though I was old enough to have known better) that the harder I tried to “sound observant”, the more it became obvious I was “the new kid on theblock”.

“Alan, speak to me in language that I understand, Son!” Dad said, with a firmness I had experienced only two or three times before. I knew exactly what he meant. I had managed toannoy my father, not an easy thing to do.A patient man whose language, even when angry, never crossed the line between “firm”and “rude”, Dad struggled for years when I made the choice to become observant. Neither of ushad been prepared to cope with its disruptive effects upon family. He found it baffling as dideveryone else in my family.

Now fifteen years later, Dad was ready to make shalom. Just as we pray for length of days, so my father experienced his first “Kabbalat Shabbat”when, as it turned out, few in number were his remaining days.

It had been an exhausting afternoon. Dad, sitting up in bed against the headboard, looked sleepy and complained of cold feet. I covered and wrapped them loosely. Something was different todayabout our parting. The stubble of Dad’s unshaven whiskers no longer bothered me as it hadalways before when he kissed me goodbye. I inhaled his scent. Turning the front door knob everso slightly, I looked back to catch him peeking out from around the corner of the hallway. “Dad,”I called out, “Good Shabbos.” He smiled.

That tiny moment would remain ours forever.

Avi Mori, my father, my teacher, seemed content in the autumn of his days.

Alan D. Busch

June 24, 2010

2010-06-15T19:51:00.000-07:00

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"Loss and Gain" ... after a daughter leaves, her father struggles to live ... a friend lost his daughter to a freakish traffic accident. Dedicated to Noelle, late daughter of my friend Micky Peluso, author of And The Whippoorwill Sang.

He took one life but gave back two,

how flows His divine arithmetic I cannot sum ...

When a daughter’s sudden loss does a father benumb

unfathomable are His mysteries none too few.

Reaped undeservedly he this bitterest shame,

tear drops stream onto lips bespeaking his grief.

A dream became a nightmare’s fallen leaf ...

for him announced an angel twin miracles came.

He taketh, He giveth in this, His world,

enwrap them tightly until you can no more.

though souls depart and will forever soar,

cover them with kindness gently unfurled.

Each night wherein she lies a father comes to weep,

for he no longer hears his ballerina’s tiny laughter, now mute.

preserved long ago on a schoolgirl's recorder flute,

which he plays softly each night until she falls back to sleep.

Alan D. Busch

June 15, 2010

2010-05-31T00:31:00.000-07:00

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Dear Readers, this piece is an edit of a chapter from my book Betweeen Fathers and Sons
The word count is slightly under 400 words which is significant because the full-length chapter is around 2000 words. The object of the reduction was to relay basically the same story but having to make the point quickly and economically.

Kissing Dad’s Nose

by Alan D. Busch

Dad loved ice cream, especially spumoni, even more than a bunch of hot and hungry kids on
an August afternoon. But in the two weeks prior to October 18, 2008, my dad lay dying in his hospice bed. He no longer spoke nor cared to eat or drink. The end seemed tangibly near as if it
should have already happened the moment before. Although his cheery smile was gone, his once
handsome face, now gaunt and frozen, he managed to eke out a tiny smile when I kissed him on
his nose.

I responded to Adela, Dad’s wife, with cold stone silence when she told me the staff
doctor had recommended to her that we discontinue feeding Dad gradually. Truthfully, I wanted to ram that recommendation down his throat. It was fortunate for him he had spoken to Adela an hour before I arrived.

I insisted Dad eat more of the foods he had always liked but which required no chewing: ice
cream, crushed popsicles, pudding and mashed potatoes. Dad ate because he knew I would
never do as the doctor had recommended. At the end of the day, even though I was certain I had done the right thing, there remained something profoundly sad about feeding my father with a
plastic spoon.

G-d does the right thing at the right time. He alone governs in this as in all matters, but
the notion had crept into many heads long before that the end of life was no longer sacred. Shabbos morning. I was “on call” at home when, while getting ready for shul, the phone rang.

“Come down,” Adela urged.

Only a few seconds remained. Dad lay perfectly still with but a whisper of breath left.
Enwrapped snugly from feet to chin, Dad appeared as serene as the quietude of a country
pond at sundown. Leaning over his chest, I inhaled his scent and kissed his nose for the last
time. And though I grasped his hand in mine, he slipped through my fingertips effortlessly.

The deceased Rabbi Nachman appeared in the dream of his student Rava who worried that
his rebbe had suffered terribly while he died. “As little as when you remove a hair from a cup of
milk,” Rabbi Nachman responded, reassuring me that Dad suffered equally as little.

Alan D. Busch
5/28/10
Copyright 2010

2010-05-30T10:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

As we approach Ben's tenth yahrzeit, I am beginning to work on reissuing my first book Snapshots in Memory of Ben with some new material. Here is my proposed preface to the reissue. If any of my readers are interested in reading the book when available, please contact me at alandbusch@aol.com

At Heaven’s Gate

Hear me Ben, to you alone do I whisper,
close your eyes while I silently lullaby sing …
each day reminds me forever of yesterday
when tomorrow’s morn will no smiles bring.

Ben, Ben may I yet find you hiding?
I searched that night as much as I could …
Awaken, Ben, with me from this nightmare,
May G-d crown your life with abundant good.

Oh so longingly have I waited o’er these ten years,
but have now only understood what others see …
That it isn’t I who awaits you so much …
as it is you who’s awaited me.

Just as G-d does not warn man of his final awakening,
and the dawn of next day will not him renew …
Patiently await me Son though I may tarry …
when we’ll walk together barefooted in grassy fields of dew.

Alan D. Busch

2010-04-26T05:03:00.000-07:00

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Dear Readers,

This piece that I hope will serve as the postscript to my second book, tenatively entitled Between Fathers and Sons was published by www.examiner.com under the title "Poetical Reflections In Memory of My Father, Dr. Albert I. Busch. Google that title and several direct links will pop up. I would appreciate any written response you may have by posting a brief comment at the end of the examiner piece. See my other two pieces also published by examiner.com: "Losing Ben" and "Kissing Dad's Nose".

Sincerely,
Alan D. Busch

"Reflections In Memory of My Father, Dr. Albert I. Busch"

Sturdy Tree of Life, its trunk of broad girth,

A man of strong body, mind and soul,
my father’s real strength lay in his emotional tenderness.
His nature exposed as fiction the notion that “real” men mustn’t cry.
My father could be a tough guy when he needed to be,
but his true nature was that of a gentle soul.
This is the dad I cherish and miss more.

Profusion of leaves from peaking buds bring …

We were blessed when G-d renewed him each day.
His was a favored soul.
His tomorrows became less certain
as yesterday’s clouds caught up with us.

Resplendency burst forth come season’s spring…

A blossom makes us smile.
Its perfumed scent renews our flagging hope.
My father smiled when others frowned.

Turn back to reflections of innocent mirth.

Just as a boy needs his father,
so I cherish the memories of my youthful dad
and keep them as leaves in a sacred book.
Its pages are tear-stained and tissues serve as bookmarks.

I gazed at his beacon once time ago brightly fierce.

The Creator brings on evenings gradually
Just as He causes the brilliance of a man’s smile to fade
as the sunset of his days approaches.

Steadfastly towers o’er broad horizons seen.

His shoulders slumped, his back bent, his height diminished …
his gaze he could no longer cast as far as he had once done.

Fading verdancy from which I needst myself wean,

I mustn’t forget my father’s passing was not tragic,
but appropriately sad.
I am grateful he merited to become a “zakein,”
a man of advanced years and wisdom.

Dusk dimmed his light when fog it once pierced.

The bright, white light of youth became the colorful panoply
at which older, wiser eyes marvel.

Violently tosses this storm a gale,

He lived a healthy life until the very end.
The experience of his illness left us adrift in unfamiliar waters,
but the winds guided us to the end of his horizon.

Cleave tightly to thine anchor’s chain.

My father’s life was in His hands in Whom I had placed my trust
for no man governs in these matters.

Lest the tumultuous sea's calmness feign,

Entrusting man leads to despair and loss of hope.

Steer ship’s rudder toward windward sail.

Let thy trust reside alone in Him from Whom the wind blows.

Gaze the firmament for His infinity unknown

I acknowledge His Majesty by searching His Creation.
Wellness and illness are His province alone.

Accept thy portion with gladness by night and by day.

I am thankful for his eighty-seven years.
May he merit his portion in the world to come.

May faith’s compass guide thee, reap that thou may,

I remain strong because I know before Whom I stand.

Content thyself with what he hath sown.

He left the world a better place than how he first found it.

2010-04-07T18:12:00.000-07:00

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http://www.examiner.com/x-9432-Family-Grief--Bereavement-Examiner~y2010m3d7-Losing-Ben

Dear Friends,

Please click on the above link to read a chapter, "Losing Ben" from my book in progress about my late father, Dr. Albert I. Busch. There will appear soon on the same website (www.examiners.com) , perhaps tonight another piece from my book, tentatively entitled Between Fathers and Sons that will be under the chapter heading of "Kissing Dad's Nose". And as always, should you be favorably inclined or even if you are not, take a moment and leave a message.

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

2010-03-24T20:08:00.000-07:00

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http://www.examiner.com/x-9432-Family-Grief--Bereavement-Examiner~y2010m3d7-Losing-Ben

hopefully this link will work if the one below does not

A.Busch

2010-03-24T19:06:00.000-07:00

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http://www.examiner.com/x-9432-Family-Grief--Bereavement-Examiner~y2010m3d7-Losing-Ben

Dear Readers, Please click on the above link that'll take you to a chapter from my second book in progress. Please after you read the piece, leave a short comment. Your feedback is very much appreciated.

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

2010-02-15T05:40:00.000-08:00

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Dear Readers,

The following story will appear in the March edition of Poetica Magazine (poeticamagazine.com) and will appear in my second book in progress under a different title: Kissing Dad's Nose

Struggling To Do the Right Thing

by Alan D. Busch

“It feels sore,” Dad explained. “You know how I felt as a kid when
I had eaten too many green apples.” I didn’t believe a word. The
pain I saw on his face was not that of a child who had eaten too
many green apples but of a man whose cancer had worsened
dramatically over the last several days. Dad was doing what a
dad should do, he thought, for my sake.

Kissing Dad on his nose turned up the corners of his mouth the
tiniest bit. It was all he could manage. Gone his cheery disposition;
his handsome face now gaunt, frozen and expressionless. He no
longer smiled.

This is how he’ll look when he dies, I suppose. I’ve tried
unsuccessfully to block this thought. It is as persistent as it
is painful.

Dad's body was busy shutting itself down. Our every effort to
make him more comfortable served as a bitter reminder he would
not be going home again. Shouldering this emotional burden is
familiar to anyone who has cared for a dying parent in a
hospice.

I monitored Dad’s decline by the waning strength of his handshake.
He had had such powerful hands. No longer able to speak, his
silence spoke to me. There was nothing more to say.
Dad expressed himself … through his eyes. I saw their tiny twinkle.

He was glad I was there.

It was a time of our waiting.

Dad’s appetite, even for ice cream his life-long favorite, declined
precipitously. His refusal to open his mouth didn’t discourage
me from feeding him. There is something profoundly sad about
feeding your father with a spoon. Oftentimes it was enough to wet
his lips.

The High Holidays approached. I struggled to make the right
choice. Should I be in shul or at Dad’s bedside? What if while in shul,
he … I feared the guilt of a poor decision.

“I’ll be staying here with Dad for Rosh Ha Shana,” I told Ron, my
older brother, who had postponed his flight back home several
times, but could no longer do so.

“If you can’t take care of your father at a time like this, religion isn’t
worth much, is it?” he observed pithily. His face brightened.
“You’ve made the right decision little brother.”
“I couldn’t agree more Ron,” I replied, whose eyes had become
misty. I had never seen my brother weep. I guess there is a
first time for everything. I turned aside.
“Hey,” he said, gently draping his forearm on the back of my neck
and shoulders. “Thank you.”

The eve of Yom Ha Din drew near. Who would live? Who
would die? Who would be sealed in the Sefer Ha Chaim?
The awesome uncertainty filled me with dread.
I belong by Dad’s side, I told myself repeatedly, yet felt pulled away
as if I could do more for him by pleading for his life before the Aron
Kodesh. I needed guidance.

I called Rabbi Louis. We spoke for an hour.
“When my father was dying, I recited Tehilim for him at his bedside
for as much of the day, every day I could,,” he recounted lovingly.

I listened.

Overwhelmed by it all, I just could not bring myself to ask him if he
would have done anything differently had his father been dying on
the eve of Yom Kippur.

I returned to be with Dad still undecided.“Hello Reb Ephraim?”
I called a friend from Dad’s room several hours before Kol Nidre.
“I apologize,” Ephraim began, “but I’ve been so busy with my
mother. She’s eighty-six and is dying from stage four cancer.
“I’ll be staying home with her on Yom Kippur.”
I was thunderstruck. I knew what I had to do.
“Alan, how can I help you? You had a question?”
“I did but you’ve already answered it,” I exclaimed.

“The Aibishter sends messengers to help us make the right
decision,” Rabbi Louis remarked when we spoke after yontif.
I made the right choice at this time of extremity in my father’s life.
Together, we reached more closely to The One Above than either of
us could have done separately.

In the early morning hours, I received the following email:

B"H
Dear Alan,
May you and your father be blessed. There is nothing more that
I can say. You know that. Other than to say that your being there beside your Father at this time is the greatest, most precious, truly G-d-like act you could ever do.
May your Father always be blessed to have nachat (nachas) from you,
I pray for you,
Gita

We made a good team, Dad and I.

I was called to his bedside in the late morning of October 18, 2008.
My wife and I left immediately.
Dad’s end was imminent. Wrapped tightly in clean white
blankets, he had awoken and fallen back asleep several
times. I stood at his bedside. His breathing was unlabored.

A final calm overcame him. We were ready, I suppose.
I looked down into his green eyes to see them close. He appeared
to be smiling, no longer having to bear the pain of having eaten
“too many green apples”.

He suffered no apparent distress that Shabbos morning. Though I
held his hand, he slipped through my grasp anyway.

Alan D. Busch

2010-01-31T12:31:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends and Readers,

Thank you for your on-going readership. I am very busy of late with my second book about my late father Dr. Albert I. Busch, Z'L. If you would care to read some preliminary drafts, they are available on line at www.authorsden.com/alandbusch1. Go to the "My Books" section and look for titles like Preface, chapters 1,2,3 and 7 of Between Fathers and Sons. Keep in mind that I have beeen revising quite a bit so what you'll read is not necessarily what is current. But you can get a pretty fair idea in any case. If you want more information, please contact me at alandbusch@aol.com. Please see my other blog at www.writersstockintrade.blogspot.com.

Sincerely,

Alan D. Busch

2010-01-20T11:27:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Struggling To Do the Right Thing
by Alan D. Busch

“It feels sore,” Dad explained. “You know, how I felt as a kid when
I had eaten too many green apples.” I didn’t believe a word. The
pain I saw on his face was not that of a child who had eaten too
many green apples but of a man whose cancer had worsened
dramatically within the last several days. Dad was being a dad. I
understood what he was doing, he thought, for my sake.

Kissing Dad on his nose turned up the corners of his mouth the
tiniest bit. It was all he could manage. Gone his cheery disposition;
his andsome face now gaunt, frozen and expressionless. He no
longer smiled.

This is how he’ll look when he dies, I suppose. I’ve tried unsuccessfully
to block this thought. It is as persistent as it is painful.
Dad’s Dad's body was busy shutting itself down. Our every effort to make
him more comfortable served as a bitter reminder he would
not be going home again. Shouldering this emotional burden is
familiar to anyone who has cared for a dying parent in a
hospice.

I monitored Dad’s decline by the waning strength of his handshake.
He had had such powerful hands. No longer able to speak, his
silence spoke to me. There was nothing more to say.

Dad expressed himself … through his eyes. I saw their tiny twinkle.
He was glad I was there.

It was a time of our waiting.

Dad’s appetite, even for ice cream his life-long favorite, declined
precipitously. His refusal to open his mouth didn’t discourage
me from feeding him. There is something profoundly perverse about
feeding your father with a spoon. Oftentimes it was enough to wet
his lips.

The High Holidays approached. I struggled to make the right
choice.

Should I be in shul or at Dad’s bedside? What if while I’m in shul,
he …

I feared the guilt of a poor decision.

“I’ll be staying here with Dad for Rosh Ha Shana,” I told Ron, my
older brother, who had postponed his flight back home several
times, but could no longer do so.

“If you can’t take care of your father at a time like this, religion isn’t
worth much, is it?” he observed pithily. His face brightened.
“You’ve made the right decision little brother.”

“I couldn’t agree more Ron,” I replied, whose eyes had become
misty. I had never seen my older brother weep. I guess there is a
first time for everything. I turned aside.

“Hey,” he said, gently draping his forearm on the back of my neck
and shoulders. “Thank you.”

The eve of Yom Ha Din drew near. Who would live? Who
would die? Who would be sealed in the Sefer Ha Chaim[1]? I
wrestled with a more intense moral dilemma than the one I had
faced several days earlier. The awesome uncertainty of Yom Kippur
filled me with dread. I knew in my heart where I had to be but felt
compelled to plead for my father’s life before the Aron Kodesh?[2]
I needed guidance.

I called Rabbi Louis. We spoke for an hour. Though his role was that
of my counselor, Rabbi Louis is my friend. He had cared for his
dying father years before, but I could not bring myself to ask him
what he would have done had his father been dying on the eve of
Yom Kippur. I returned to be with Dad still undecided.

“Hello Reb Ephraim?” I called from Dad’s room several hours
before Kol Nidre.

“I apologize,” Ephraim began, “but I’ve been so busy with my
mother. She’s eighty-six and is dying from stage four cancer.
“I’ll be with her at home on Yom Kippur.”

I was thunderstruck. I knew what I had to do.

“Alan, how can I help you? You had a question?”

“I did but you’ve already answered it.”

“The Aibishter[3] sends messengers to help us make the right
decision,” Rabbi Louis remarked when we spoke after yontif.

I made the right choice at this time of extremity in my father’s life.
Together, we reached closer to The One Above than either of us
could have done separately.

I was called to his bedside in the late morning of October 18, 2008.
My wife and I left immediately.

Dad’s end was imminent. Wrapped tightly in clean white
blankets, he had awoken and fallen back asleep several
times. I stood at his bedside. His breathing was unlabored.
A final calm overcame him. We were ready, I suppose.

I looked down into his green eyes to see them close. He appeared to
be smiling, no longer having to bear the pain of having eaten
“too many green apples”.

He suffered no apparent distress that Shabbos morning,.
Though I held his hand, he slipped through my grasp anyway.

Alan D. Busch
revised 1/20/10
chapter from my manuscript

[1] Hebrew; The Book of Life
[2] The Holy Ark
[3]

2009-12-20T05:00:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together

Click here to read my newly published Chanukah story appearing in this week's edition of The Jewish Press. This link will take you to my Authorsden page, click on the link that says "download this article" and you'll view the article as it appears in The Jewish Press. It is a bit light but still readable. Thank you very much

http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewarticle.asp?id=53041

2009-12-01T16:24:00.000-08:00

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http://www.authorsden.com/alandbusch1

if you would like to read more of my work, click on the link above.

2009-12-01T15:37:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

These Lights We Kindle, (revised for submission)

By Alan D. Busch

“Mr. Busch?” a stranger’s voice inquired.

“Please God. No!” I quietly pled, my body trembling.

“Not again,” I girded myself for I knew, with a parent’s intuition,

that something bad had befallen one of my children.

“Yes,” I acknowledged reluctantly. “This is Mr. Busch.”

“Mr. Busch, my name is Ann,” she began calmly. “I have

just left your daughter Kimberly.”

“Kimberly!” I panicked. “Is she alright? Is she hurt?

Tell me where she is!”

"Mr. Busch,” Ann continued as calmly as she had begun.

“We’re about an hour south of Chicago at mile marker 80.

Kimberly was involved in an accident, but she isn't hurt, not a scratch,” she assured me.

“I’ve already left the scene,” Ann further explained, “but when I saw it happen,

I pulled over to offer whatever assistance I could. That’s when I met Kimmy.

I promised her I’d call you as soon as the police and rescue arrived.”

“Listen Ann,” I interrupted her as politely as I could. “Thank you from

the bottom of my heart. You can’t imagine how much I appreciate what you did.”

I hung up but realized that, in my haste, I had neglected to ask Ann for her last name and

phone number.

“Jan,” I called Kimmy’s mother. “Sorry to call you at work but, but …”

“But what,” she asked haltingly. I swallowed hard.

“Kimmy was in an accident.”

“Kimmy, my baby!” she cried out.

“But she’s fine, not a scratch,” I hastened to add.

“What, what happened?”

“Listen ‘Hon’,” I interrupted her with an old term of endearment.

“I’m leaving to get Kimmy right now. She’ll tell you later.”

I gathered my things and ran out.

I had driven the route often on my way to visit family in St. Louis. This portion of the trip,

however, took only about ninety minutes, but it afforded me enough time to revisit the

memory of the day Kimmy was born. And, as I had done on the occasion of my first-born

son’s birth, I dressed in surgical garb and, with the assistance of the nurses, scrubbed

along side of the obstetrical team. My job, as proud dad, was to count fingers and toes. I

am thankful to The One Above for having given ten of each to all three of my children. For

Kimmy, however, there was an additional gift. “Ma,” I called my mother. “It’s a girl. Yes Ma,

ten of each, but with red hair and,” I continued excitedly, “the most magnificently shaped

and graceful fingers you could ever imagine.” I’ve marveled at them ever since that day.

I exited at mile marker 80 and turned into a gravel lot about a half mile off the interstate.

She stood in front of the service station that had towed her car. Appearing exhausted and

emotionally fragile, I couldn’t help but see the little girl whose red hair I used to put up in

a ponytail like that of Pebbles on The Flintstones.

“Daddy, I … I’m so sor …” Kimmy trembled as I held her, her head on my shoulder,

sobbing.

“Shh, shayneh madele.”

“Dad, can we go home?”

“Yes Sweety,” I assured her, “in a few minutes. I’ll meet you by your car. Don’t forget your

bags.”

I walked over to the garage’s office.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Bill, the paunchy garage owner, admitted.

“And I’ve seen quite a few of these in my time,” he added, scratching his head.

We settled up.

Kimmy and I stared incredulously at what had been her candy apple red, white

convertible top Toyota Solara. The collision crumpled the front end within several inches

of the dashboard, as though it were the bellows of an accordion. The driver’s side door,

to my amazement, opened cleanly. I got in, took hold of the steering wheel and slumped

down in the seat. The deflated air bag lay crumpled up on the passenger side. “My baby

girl almost died here,” I muttered, straining to avoid an emotional breakdown in front of

my daughter. I opened the door.

“Kimmy,” I invited her. “Come sit by me.” I slid over. “I need a few minutes,” I softly pled.

She nodded understandingly.

Then they came back to me … the eight words I’d never forget:

“Mr. Busch, I suggest you come down immediately."

Dr. Ibrahim Yosef, on call that morning in the ER of Cook County Hospital, called me at

10 o’clock in the morning. My first-born son Ben had been transported in by Chicago Fire

paramedics only minutes before.

“Mr. Busch? Are you the father of Benjamin Busch?”

“Yes, Sir,” my voice quivered.

“I’m sorry but Ben has suffered massive internal injuries from a traffic accident,” he

explained. It was then he “suggested” I come down immediately. I sped away to the

hospital in a state of focused desperation. I knew how this day would end.

Two hours later, my father and I witnessed our twenty-two year old son and grandson die

on the emergency room operating table.

“Dad, wake up,” Kimmy urged, shaking my shoulder. “It’s time to go home.”

The near loss of my second child led me to revisit the death of my first. It would not

surprise me if Kimmy, who had been a loving sister to Ben, had gone there too. We got

out of the car. I kissed her on the forehead. “Okay, Sweety. I’m ready to go home now.”

I thank The Almighty for “His miracles that are with us every day” and for ending this day

differently than He had the other when, several years before, I began the day with three

children but ended up with two.

We didn’t talk much. Kimmy was skittish, gasping every time I braked or switched

lanes.

“You okay?”

“Yes Dad. Just beat.” An hour and a half later, I dropped Kimmy off at her mom’s house.

My heart sank. I wanted to spend more time with her, but I had to keep the promise I had

made to her mother.

“We’ll get together later,” I reassured myself. As I pulled out of the driveway, I saw the

chanukiah Kimmy’s mom had placed in the front window. The shamash and the first

candle shone brightly. Chanukah, The Festival of Lights, is the season of miracles some

old, others new and for showering chocolate coins upon the heads of children.

“My God,” I chastised myself. “Tonight’s the first night of Chanukah.” I felt bad at first, but

quickly realized The One Above had enabled Kimmy and me to live the eternal message

of Chanukah: “nes gadol haya sham”-a great miracle happened there.

Later that week, Kimmy joined me and Zac, her younger brother, for dinner Friday night.

As it happened, it was the one “Erev Shabbat” of the year when the candles of both

Chanukah and Shabbat are lit. We gathered around the table.

“Sweetheart,” my voice cracked as I began a short speech.

“Yes Dad,” she responded laughingly while drying a few tears.

“This Shabbat is extra special.” I lifted the Kiddush cup. "I am so thankful to have you by

my side.” My right hand trembled slightly. I let a moment pass. The candles shone more

brightly at that instant, illuminating the serpentine path of a single drop of wine running

down my hand. Reflecting on how that day might otherwise have ended, I chanted the

blessing over the wine and thanked The One Above for her life.

It was a wonderfully simple moment when I rejoiced in my Chanukah miracle whose

fingers I held tightly in the palm of my hand, the best gift any dad could ever hope to

receive.

Alan D. Busch

11/29/09

2009-11-22T17:56:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

These Lights We Kindle

By Alan D. Busch

“Mr. Busch?” a stranger’s voice inquired.
“Please God. No!” I silently pled, my body trembling. “Not again.”
I girded myself for I knew, with a parent’s intuition,
that something bad had befallen one of my children.
“Yes,” I acknowledged reluctantly. “This is Mr. Busch.”
“Mr. Busch, my name is Ann,” she began calmly. “I have
just left your daughter Kimberly.”
“Kimberly!” I panicked. “Is she alright? Is she hurt?
Tell me where she is!”
"Mr. Busch,” Ann continued as calmly as she had begun.
“Your daughter is fine. Really! We’re about an hour south
of Chicago at mile marker 80. Kimberly was involved in an accident,
but she isn't hurt, not a scratch,” she reassured me.
“I’ve already left the scene,” Ann further explained, “but when I saw it happen,
I pulled over to offer whatever assistance I could. That’s when I met Kimmy.
I promised her I’d call you as soon as the police and rescue arrived.”
“Listen Ann,” I interrupted her as politely as I could. “Thank you from
the bottom of my heart. You can’t imagine how much what you’ve done means to me.”

I realized later I had hung up the phone without getting Ann’s last name and phone number. “Jan,” I called Kimmy’s mother. “Sorry to call you at work but, but …”
“But what,” she asked haltingly. I swallowed hard.
“Kimmy was in an accident, but she’s fine,” I hastened to add. “Not a scratch.”
Kimmy, my baby!” she cried out. “What, what happened?”
“Listen ‘Hon’,” I interrupted, addressing her with an old term of endearment.
I’m leaving to get Kimmy right now. She’ll tell you later.”
I gathered my things and ran out.

When I turned into the gravel lot about a half mile off the interstate, I saw Kimmy standing in front
of the service station that had towed her car. She appeared impatient, exhausted and emotionally
on the edge, but the child before my eyes was the same little girl whose red hair I used to put
up in a ponytail like that of Pebbles on The Flintstones.
“Daddy, I … I’m so sor …” she trembled as I held her, her head on my shoulder, sobbing.
“Shhh … sha shayneh madele.”
“Dad, can we just go home?” she asked, looking battered and worn out.
“Yes Sweety, in a few minutes. Get your bags out of the trunk. I’ll meet you over there.”
I walked over to the garage’s office.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Bill, the paunchy garage owner, admitted.
“And I’ve seen quite a few of these in my time,” he added, looking perplexed while scratching his
head. We settled up.

We stood there dumbfounded, staring at what had been Kimmy’s candy apple red,
white convertible top Toyota Solara. The collision crumpled the entire front end within several
inches of the dashboard, making it look like the bellows of an accordion, The driver’s side door, to
my amazement, opened cleanly. I got in, took hold of the steering wheel and slumped down in the
driver’s seat. “My baby girl almost died here today,” I muttered to myself, desperately straining to
avoid breaking down in front of my daughter.
“Kimmy,” I opened the door. “Sit here by me,” I invited her, patting the edge of the seat. I moved
over. “I need a few minutes,” I softly pled. She nodded understandingly.

Then they came back to me … the eight words I’d never forget:

“Mr. Busch, I suggest you come down immediately."
Dr. Ibrahim Yosef, chief resident trauma surgeon, was on call that morning in the ER
of Cook County Hospital when he called me around 10 o’clock in the morning. My first-born son Ben
had been transported in by Chicago Fire paramedics only minutes before.
“Mr. Busch? Are you the father of Benjamin Busch?”
“Yes, Sir,” my voice quivered.
“Ben has suffered massive internal injuries from a traffic accident,” he explained. It was then he said
them. I sped away from my office in compliance with Dr. Yosef’s “suggestion” in a state of focused
desperation, I knew, I just knew how this day would end.
Two hours later, my father and I witnessed our twenty-two year old son and grandson die on the
emergency room operating table. I knew in my mind’s eye I would stare forever at Ben’s
unresponsive body.
“Dad, wake up,” Kimmy urged, shaking my shoulder. “It’s time to go home.” For my daughter, it was
a moment she wanted to leave behind and move on.

After all, who among us wants to replay the footage of his near violent death? And there I was,
trying my best to comprehend the enormity of nearly having lost a second child by using the only
meaningful point of reference I had, the death of Kimmy’s brother. But this was not about Ben
though I suppose my drifting away for a moment to make the connection is understandable if not
entirely justifiable. It was all about my daughter, that once enchanting little ballerina with the
amazingly long and slender fingers. She now sat next to me on the edge of the driver’s seat, a
grown up soon to be law school graduate whose fingers were still as lovely as they had been when
she danced upon toe shoe. I like to believe Kimmy knew where I had gone for several moments.
Knowing the kind of loving sister she had been to Ben, it would not surprise me at all if she had
gone there too. But today ended, and I thank The Almighty for this, differently than had the other
when I had begun the day with three children but came home with only two. We got up out of the
car. I planted a big “Daddy” kiss on her forehead. “Okay, Sweety. Now I’m ready to go home.”We didn’t talk much. Kimmy, understandably skittish, gasped every time I braked or switched
lanes. “You okay?”
“Yes Dad. Just beat.” An hour and a half later, I dropped Kimmy off at her mom’s house. My heart
sank. I wanted to spend more time with her, but I had to remain true to the promise I had made her
mother. “We’ll get together later,” I reassured myself. As I pulled out of the driveway, I saw the
chanukiah Kimmy’s mom had placed in the front window. The shamash and the first candle shone
happily. “My God,” I chastised myself. “Tonight’s the first night of Chanukah. At first I felt bad, but I
realized that even though the tumult of the day had made me unmindful, it hadn’t severed me from
its eternal message, encoded on the dreidel: “nes gadol haya sham”-a great miracle happened there.

Later that week, Kimmy joined me and Zac, her younger brother, for Shabbat Chanukah dinner. The
table was set, its candles aglow. It was the season of miracles old and new, a time for spinning
dreidels, eating potato latkes and showering chocolate coins upon the heads of children.
Chanukah, The Festival of Lights, was on display in the front window of every Jewish home.
We gathered around. “Sweetheart,” my voice cracked as I began a short speech. “Yes Dad,” she
responded laughingly while drying a few tears.
“This Shabbat is extra special.” I lifted the Kiddush cup. "I am so thankful to have you by my side.”
My right hand trembled slightly. I let a moment pass. The flickering candles shone more brightly at
that instant, illuminating the serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my hand. I
chanted the blessing over the wine and thanked The One Above for her life. It was a wonderfully,
simple moment.

Reflecting on how that day might otherwise have ended, I rejoiced in my Chanukah
miracle whose fingers I held tightly in the palm of my hand, the best gift any dad could ever
hope to receive.

2009-11-16T11:51:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

http://www.juf.org/news/local.aspx?id=50878

Dear Readers and Friends

Clicking on the above link will take you to my latest published piece in the online edition of the Chicago Jewish United Federation News Magazine. As always read the comments from other readers and please leave one of your own.

I appreciate readership and support,

Alan Busch
alandbusch@aol.com
www.authorsden.com/alandbusch1
www.writersstockintrade.blogspot.com

2009-11-08T12:20:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

I Grieve For Ben at My Side

I devotedly await the impossible.

If only Ben could come crashing through my kitchen door on

his skateboard again, I’d be able to return to my life the

way it once was. Mind you, it was not always pleasant.

I’ve known the agonizing experience of wrestling my 220 lb.

adult son in the throes of diabetic hypoglycemia and the

torment of bear-hugging him while a grand mal epileptic

seizure ran its course. And I can assure you that combating

the devastating impact of not one but two chronic diseases

in my child’s life is, like his death, an event for which

no parent can adequately prepare himself. My family

experienced both.

The days and years of Ben’s life were few and troubled.

When ten and a half years old, he begrudgingly surrendered

his childhood to the pernicious demands of juvenile diabetes.

Gone were the yesterdays and tomorrows of his childhood.

His hopefulness for a normal future, his expectations of

success and for long life became bleak. Ben acceded to the

basic requirements of diabetic care but insisted he live his

life on his own terms, free to experience each day as if it

were his last. I’ve never known anyone more able to live in

the urgency of the present tense than Ben.

I‘ve never loved anyone more, but Ben and I clashed often. I

feared his diabetes. He largely ignored it. Believe me when I

tell you we did not welcome the additional burden of epilepsy

with which Ben was diagnosed just after his eighteenth

birthday.

Parental bereavement takes no days off. This year I will

commemorate the three thousand, two hundred and eighty-

fifth day I have been grieving for Ben. The 24^th of Cheshvan,

5761, corresponding to November 22, 2000, the day before

Thanksgiving, was the last day I spoke to him, touched him

and marveled at his gift for living life.

On the eve of Ben’s yahrzeit, I will light a ner neshuma, a

memorial candle, this year for the ninth time, a practice

I’ve done since Ben’s life ended after twenty-two and a

half years. But as important as I recognize this “light of the

soul” to be for Ben’s aliyah, it does nothing to soothe the pain

of my loss. Maybe it’s unreasonable of me to expect that it

should. There is, after all, no balm for parental grief.

Its pain worsens as the gulf that separates us widens. I

return older each time. Ben remains twenty-two years old as

he was then and will always be. Instead of recalling his

young manhood, I tend now to think of him more and more

as the little boy he once was. He has missed so much of life.

I don’t think any number of yahrzeit candles can illumine the

darkness that shrouds the life of a bereaved parent.

Though of my past, I grieve for Ben at my side one day at a

time, every day of the week, month and year. He must

remain an eternal zikaron, an everlasting remembrance.

That is, I suspect, the way of most, perhaps of all bereaved

parents. Ask any one of us how it works.

“I know what you mean," noted a friend of mine, a fellow

bereaved parent. "It's been 28 years for me. I can't imagine

the days!! Yet I still grieve and always will. I don't want a day

to come when I can't remember her face or things she said

and did.”

Contrary to the well-intentioned but wayward counsel of

some consolers, I don't wish to put Ben’s death behind me. I

hold it in front of my eyes. It neither blinds nor causes me to

stumble. Even though I’ve never put much stock in the old

platitude that “time heals all wounds”, I do worry, however,

that someday Ben’s death will feel more like history than

yesterday’s tragedy. So, I refuse to surrender his memory to

the amnesia of time. Though I believe I did the best I could

for him, I’ve considered the possibility that guilt might be

hiding behind my grief, that somehow I may have failed Ben

in his life.

I think a lot about that. I am, however, certain of one thing.

My grief, like that of others who have loved and lost their own

Bens, remains my steadfast companion.

So, as I approach the three thousand, two hundred and

eighty-fifth day, I pray Ben that you dwell in the heavens high

enough to see me searching the starry skies for your

passing shadow.

Alan D. Busch

11/7/09

2009-11-04T20:20:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

I Grieve For Ben at My Side

I devotedly await the impossible. If Ben could only come crashing through the kitchen door on
his skateboard again, we’d be able to return our lives to the way they once were.

Mind you, it was not always pleasant.

I’ve known the experience of wrestling a 220 lb. man in the throes of diabetic hypoglycemia and bear-hugging him while a grand mal epileptic seizure ran its course. And I can assure you that combating the devastating impact of chronic disease on your child’s life is, like a child’s death, an event for which no parent can adequately prepare himself. Our family experienced both.

The days and years of Ben’s life were few and troubled. I think we did the best we could for Ben although there have been times when I’ve had serious doubts. Ben begrudgingly surrendered his childhood to the pernicious demands of juvenile diabetes when ten and a half years old. Gone were the yesterdays and tomorrows of his childhood. His hopefulness for a normal future, his expectations of success and for long life became bleak. He acceded to the basic requirements of
diabetic care but refused to live his life unless it were on his own terms.

Ben lived in the present tense better than anyone I’ve ever known, experiencing each day as if it were his last. I loved no one more than Ben, but we clashed often. I feared diabetes.
Ben largely ignored it. Believe me when I tell you we did not welcome the additional burden of epilepsy with which he was diagnosed just after his eighteenth birthday.

Parental bereavement takes no days off. This year I will commemorate the three thousand, two hundred and eighty-fifth day I have been grieving for Ben. The 24th of Cheshvan, 5761, corresponding to November 22, 2000, the day before Thanksgiving, was the last day I spoke to him, touched him and marveled at his gift for living life.

On the eve of Ben’s yahrzeit, I will light a ner neshuma, a memorial candle, this year for the ninth time, a practice I’ve done since Ben’s life ended after twenty-two and a half years. But as important as it is, the light of the ner neshuma does not soothe the pain of my loss. There is no
balm for parental grief.

Its pain worsens as the gulf that separates us widens. I return older each time. Ben remains twenty-two years old as he was then and will always be. Instead of recalling his young
manhood, I tend to think of him more and more as the little boy he once was. He has missed so much of life. I don’t think any number of yahrzeit candles can illumine the darkness that shrouds the life of a bereaved parent.

Though of my past, I grieve for Ben at my side one day at a time, every day of the week, month and year. Ben must remain an eternal zikaron, an everlasting remembrance.
That is, I suspect, the way of most, perhaps of all bereaved parents. Ask any one of them how it works.

A friend and fellow bereaved parent notes: “I know what you mean and it's been 28 years for me. I can't imagine the days!! Yet I still grieve and always will. I don't want a day to come
when I can't remember her face or things she said and did.”

Contrary to the well-intentioned but wayward counsel of some consolers, I don't wish to put Ben’s death behind me. I hold it in front of my eyes. It neither blinds nor causes me to
stumble. Even though I’ve never put much stock in the old platitude that “time heals all wounds”, I do worry that someday Ben’s death will feel more like history than yesterday’s tragedy. I refuse to surrender his memory to the amnesia of time.

While still struggling to clarify the impact such profound grief has had on my life. I’ve considered the possibility that guilt hides behind my grief; the guilt I have felt at times for somehow having failed Ben in his life. I think about it a lot. I just don’t know, but of one thing I am certain. My grief, like that of others who have loved and lost their own Bens, remains my steadfast companion.

Alan D. Busch
11/04/09

2009-10-26T13:00:00.000-07:00

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Cruising Route 66 With Dad, Revision 2

“Albert, you’ll have the boys back next Sunday around noon,
right?” our mom anxiously reminded Dad of the promise
he had made. “Come on, Dad, let’s get going,” we hurried
him along, shouting in unison from the leather–upholstered
back seat where any mischief might remain undetected for
a while or so we thought.

Fashionably dubbed the “T-Bird” by aficionados, Dad’s flashy Ford
Thunderbird was a fabulous set of wheels with which to cruise
Route 66. And that was precisely what we were about to do,
getting our kicks on Route 66, as it were, in the spirit of
Nat King Cole's famous song from that era.

"Sure will, Gerry. I’ll have them back on time,” Dad shouted
back smilingly and waving while he excitedly strode to the car.
My father looked nattily but not fancily attired as he left Mom’s house.
Sporting a pair of white summer weight slacks cuffed just perfectly atop a pair of
O’Conner and Goldberg wingtips, a navy blue Banlon knit shirt
and topped off by a brand-new cap rakishly worn a bit off center,
my father was quite the handsome fellow, truth be told.

Firing up the ignition while gleefully lowering the convertible top,
my dad, a genuine sun-worshipper, older brother Ron and I began
a memorable road trip from St. Louis to Chicago. It happened a lifetime ago on one of
several summer Sundays in 1960 so hot that the black pitch used
to patch the roads reached its boiling point by mid-morning, a
matter of some concern to local highway and volunteer fire
department. Life was … good.

My folks had recently divorced and, as the courts typically decided in those days, the mother
received custody of the children. Don’t get me wrong. We loved
Mom then as we do now forty-five years later. Simple as that.

In the absence of their marriage, my parents went about their business of responsible
parenting as if nothing had happened. Dad was, to his credit as the
non-custodial parent, always a conscientious father. That’s never
been an easy thing to do. While we saw him only four times a
year, he more than made up for the infrequency of his visits by
the quality of the time he spent with us.Apparently, he and Mom had cooperated in the planning of our week-long vacation in Chicago where we had all lived until just
recently. Following their breakup, my brother Ron, my mom and
I moved down to St. Louis where we lived with my maternal
grandmother or was it she moved in with us? Really I was
never quite sure about the arrangements. I do recall, however,
that Grandma Jean moved out after a year or so , I think, due to a
dissolution of the mother-daughter relationship, traceable to her
giving my mom too much grief about coming home late from a
date. Yes, it is weird when your mom is dating, but not too
surprising in my case because Mom was about thirty-one years
old and extraordinarily pretty. I recall a good many gentlemen-
callers knocking on our front door.

One of my favorites was Dr. Leslie Rich. A dentist like my
dad, he had a boat and a Porsche, a big tough guy. I sure liked
him. Don’t know what happened between them. Wasn’t meant to
be, I guess.You know it’s kind of funny, but the kind of “funny” you don’t
really ever understand-never mind that you think about it quite
often. “What did happen back then, I mean, between my parents?
But as a kid, I clearly remember them talking together in my
mom’s kitchen over a cup of coffee on those Sunday mornings
just before Dad would head back to Chicago.

“Do you think they’re talking about getting married again?” I
asked Ron. He looked at me as if to say “That’s ‘gotta’ be the
dumbest question in the world.” God, I hated those meetings
but this one was going to end differently because we were headed
back to Chicago to spend a week with Dad. I’ll say this much for
my parents. I never saw or heard either of them argue or say one
unkind word about the other in our presence and, for
that matter, to anyone else. My folks were decent, civil people.
Whatever happened … happened. It destroyed their marriage.
That being said, I am grateful my parents never let their marital
difficulties and hurt feelings each one may have had for the other
infect their parenting.

My brother Ron and I couldn’t have been more excited in
anticipation of a grand week. It was to be our first extended time
with Dad since the divorce.

“Seeya Ma!” She looks kind of sad,” I remarked to Ron.
“Don’t worry,” we reassuringly yelled out the window. We’ll
be back.”
“Hey guys, here you go,” he said, flipping his cap into the back
seat. “Too hot for this. Hold on to it for me okay?”
“Sure dad,” we agreeably responded, each of us lunging for the cap.

And so it began. Could it have gotten any better? To our way of
thinking, no. We were with Dad, it was a beautiful though
intensely hot day and we had a cap, one cap between the two of
us. And so we tussled about who would wear it first and then for
how long.“Boys will be boys,” I saw my Dad mouth, smiling contentedly,
when both he and I looked into the rear-view mirror at the same
time. Should we have shared the cap between us? Well sure, but
that would have been way too grown up for an eight-year old
boy and his ten-year old big brother.

“Hey boys, take a look. We’re crossing over the Mississippi
River into Illinois. That might have been of interest on another
day.

“Give it here, “I righteously demanded. “It’s my turn.”
“Why dontcha try to take it?” Ron taunted me in act of
sibling cruelty. And I did, jolting Ron somewhat in the
process. Well, the combination of my self-assertion and the gale-
like winds sweeping across the historic Eads bridge was more than
enough to snatch the cap from Ron’s hand and drop it into the barge-
congested, muddied waters of the Mississippi River. It probably
never even came close to reaching New Orleans.

“Oh my God! The cap! Dad’s cap!” Ron muffled his gasp of
incredulity.
“Everything okay back there?” Dad inquired, looking at us from
his rear view mirror.
“Yes. Dad, just checking out the river,” Ron blurted out, a bit too
eagerly perhaps or had it been the guilt-infused tone of his voice?
What it may have been, Dad looked somewhat nonplussed.
“What are we gonna tell Dad?” I whispered to Ron worried about
how Dad would react to the awful news.
“What are you asking me for? I’m not the one who lost his
cap,” Ron shot back.
“Me?”
“Yea, you.”
“Why did you dangle it in front of my face?”
“Why did you reach for it?”
“You think we can go back and find it?” I asked pleadingly.
“Are you whacky? That hat is a goner. Probably end up
hanging off the hook of some fisherman’s pole.”
“You really think so?”
“Yup.”

My father loves the sunshine, the brighter, the hotter, the
better. But, as with everything, there is a limit, and my father
reached his that day. He had driven bare-headed from St.
Louis and, by the time we reached Litchfield, given the
baldness of his pate, it had become too hot even for him.
Litchfield, Illinois, one of those “slice of Americana” towns you’d
miss had you so much as blinked or nodded off for a second. In
the old days before the interstate was rerouted outside the town,
“motorists’, as they used to be called, drove through the town
itself, stopping at every red light, “stop” sign, Esso “filling” station
(remember their slogan that advised us to ‘put a tiger in your
tank?’) and “Dog ‘n Suds”.

Now there was no finer lunch to be had on a sultry summer
day than a Dog N’ Suds all-American beef hotdog on a
steamed poppy seed bun with everything on it (naturally!), the
greasiest fries you could ever imagine and an ice cold root beer.
“Hey, you guys hungry?”
“Hey yea, Dad! How ‘bout Dog and Suds?”
“I was thinking the very same thing. I see their sign up ahead.”
“Wow, the top of my head is burning up,” Dad remarked as he
pulled up to the Dog ‘n Suds Drive-In. Edging up to the two-way
speaker as closely as he could to avoid having to hang out the
window to place our order, he depressed his automatic window
switch.
“Boys, will you hand me up my cap, pl … ?”
“Welcome to Dog N’ Suds. May I take your order?” a
lady’s pleasant voice asked
“Oh, okay, sure,’ Dad responded, turning back to the speaker.
“Hi, okay, thank you. Uh, one moment, Miss.” Dad seemed
slightly rattled, caught-as it were-between a talking box and the
chicanery of two boys.
“Fellas” hot dogs and fries, right? Shakes too?” We nodded
eagerly. ‘Yea sure, Dad, two chocolates, right?” Ron turned to me,
beseeching my quick agreement.
“Hello sir, may I have your order please?” she requested again with
the slightest trace of irritation in her voice.
Dad turned back quickly to place our order.
“Yes, sorry about that” he began, “We’ll have three dogs with
the works, three fries, two chocolate shakes and one extra large
root beer.” Whew! Saved by the lady’s voice in the Dog N” Suds
speaker box.

Within five minutes, our roller skating teenage waitress hooked
our tray onto Dad’s half open window. What a treat! And you know the best part of it all? Dad’s extra large root beer struck out the flame scorching the top of his head.
Maybe, just maybe he’d forget about the cap. Ron and I wolfed
down our dogs, fries and shakes.
“You guys ready?”
“Yes Dad, thank youuuuu …” Ron and I lazily responded,
feigning irrepressible sleepiness while harmonizing our yawns
and stretching our arms overhead. Good thing the top was
already down. We would have gone straight through it
otherwise. We handed up our trash to Dad.
“Hey, you know,” Dad cheerfully said, “By the time you guys
are done napping, we’ll probably be in Chicago.”
Thinking we had pulled the proverbial wool over Dad’s eyes,
Ron and I “dozed off.”

Have you ever noticed how summer weather can dramatically
change within several minutes? As we approached Lincoln,
Illinois, about forty miles beyond Litchfield, those big, fluffy,
puffy gray rainclouds- which had been looming overhead ever
since we left Litchfield-became ominously dark, blotting out
the rays of sunshine, a welcome respite from the intense heat.
Dad put up the convertible top.
“Hey boys, everything all right back there? You sleep okay?”
Ron looked at me. I looked at him. The jig was up! “Oh just
great Dad. Are we almost there?”
“No. we’ve got a ways yet.”
“Dad, is there another Dog N’ Suds coming up?” Ron inquired,
barely concealing his beginner’s attempt at disingenuity.
“Hey, yea Dad, how ‘bout those shakes?” I chimed in.
“Don’t know Son. I had a root beer. Remember? Oh, by the
way, my cap … do you guys got it back there?”
Now, you may not believe this, but at that precise moment,
when it appeared no further subterfuge could prevent the
revelation of the awful truth, Dad’s cap probe was interrupted
yet again, but this time by a thunderclap so startlingly loud that I
spilled the rest of Dad’s root beer on Ron’s shirt. What fell from
the sky were not raindrops but rain buckets. Dad switched his
wipers on high, but they could not keep up with the deluge. Dad pulled over.
We’d wait this one out. After five minutes,
the rain stopped, having moved out as quickly as it had
moved in. The temperature must have dropped fifteen
degrees. Dad put the top down again and seemed happy, you
know carefree. Pulling off his shirt at a rest area, he drove the
rest of the way into Chicago smiling broadly, bare-chested and
still bare-headed. He certainly appeared to be enjoying life-kind
of like the idealized “glamorous people” you’d see depicted on
the ubiquitous marketing billboards placed along the interstate
every quarter mile or so. I remember their smiling faces
fashionably accentuated by Marlboros or Benson and Hedges and
whose hair was as wind-blown as Dad’s would have been had he
still the red wavy locks of his youth?

My father never mentioned the cap again. Did he realize what
had happened? Probably did, but this week in Chicago would be
his time with us and ours with him. Jeopardize that over a
cap? My dad wouldn’t have done that. Besides, it wasn’t
exactly a Biltmore black Canadian suede fedora, just a cloth
cap, no big deal, right? And you know what? Even had it been
a Borsalino, my father was wise enough to teach us by his example
that it’s not the hat but the head on which it sits that makes the
difference.

2009-10-22T06:40:00.000-07:00

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Cruising Route 66 With Dad-Revision 1

It was such a hot summer Sunday that the black pitch used topatch the roads reached its boiling point by mid-morning, amatter of some concern to local highway and volunteer firedepartments.

As we crossed over the mighty Mississippi from Missouri toIllinois, my father, a genuine sun worshipper, gleefullylowered the convertible top of his flashy Ford Thunderbird. Fashionably dubbed the “T-Bird” by afficionados, my dad, older brother Ron and I cruised along U.S. Rte. 66 from St.Louis to Chicago. It happened one summer Sunday, a lifetime ago. Life was … good.

My brother Ron and I couldn’t have been more excited.Anticipating a grand week in Chicago with Dad, we rode very comfortably in the leather–upholstered back seat where any mischief might at least remain undetected for a while which, as matter of fact, it did or so we thought.

My folks had recently divorced and, as the courts typically decided in those days, the mother received custody of the children. Don’t get me wrong. We loved Mom then as we do now forty-five years later. Simple as that. My dad has always been a conscientious father. To his credit, as the non-custodial parent, that’s never been an easy thing todo. While we saw him only four times a year, he more than made up for the infrequency of his visits by the quality of the time
he spent with us.

We had just passed through Litchfield, Illinois, one of those“slice of Americana” towns you’d miss had you so much as blinked or nodded off for a second. In the old days before the interstate was rerouted outside the town, “motorists’, as theyused to be called, drove through the town itself, stopping ate very red light, “stop” sign, Esso “filling” station (remember their slogan that advised us to ‘put a tiger in your tank?’) and“Dog ‘n Suds”. Now there was no finer lunch to be had on a sultry summer day than a Dog N’ Suds all-American beef hotdog on a steamed poppy seed bun with everything on it (naturally!), the greasiest fries you could ever imagine and an ice cold root beer.

“Hey, you guys hungry?”
“Hey yea, Dad! How ‘bout Dog and Suds?”
“I was thinking the very same thing. I see their sign up ahead.”

“What are we gonna tell Dad?” I whispered to Ron, nearing astate of panic.

“What are you asking me for? I’m not the one who lost hisc ap,” Ron shot back.

“Me?”

“Yea, you.”

“Why did you dangle it in front of my face?”
“Why did you reach for it?”
“You think we can go back and find it?” I asked pleadingly.
“Are you whacky? That was probably thirty miles back. Besides,it’s long gone by now. Probably hanging off the hook of some fisherman’s pole.”
“You really think so?”

“Yup.”

As for the cap, a powerful wind swept across the historic Eads Bridge just as we crossed the state line into Illinois and snatched it from Ron’s hand. We gasped as we watched it fall into the barge-congested, muddied waters of the Mississippi River. It probably never even came close to reaching New Orleans. Should we have shared the cap between us? Well sure, but that would have been way too grown-up for an eight-year oldboy and his ten-year old big brother And so we tussled about who would wear it first and for how long. “Boys will be boys,” I saw my Dad mouth, smiling contentedly, when both he and I looked into the rear-view mirror at the same time.

My father loves the sunshine, the brighter, the hotter, the better. But, as with everything, there is a limit, and my father reached his that day. He had driven bare-headed from St.Louis and, by the time we reached Litchfield, given the baldness of his pate, it had become too hot even for him.

“Wow, the top of my head is burning up,” Dad remarked as he pulled up to the Dog ‘n Suds Drive-In. Edging up to the two-way speaker as closely as he could to avoid having to hang out the window to place our order, he depressed his automatic window switch.

“Boys, will you hand me up my cap, pl … ?”
“Welcome to Dog N’ Suds. May I take your order?” a pleasant lady’s voice asked.
“Oh, okay, sure,’ Dad responded, turning back to the speaker.“Hi, okay, thank you. Uh, one moment, Miss.” Dad seemed slightly rattled, caught-as it were-between a talking box and the chicanery of two boys.“Fellas” hot dogs and fries, right? Shakes too?”

We nodded eagerly.

‘Yea sure, Dad, two chocolates, right?” Ron turned to me, beseeching my quick agreement.
“Hello sir, may I have your order please?” she requested again with the slightest trace of irritation in her voice. Dad turned back quickly to place our order.“Yes, sorry about that” he began, “We’ll have three dogs with the works, three fries, two chocolate shakes and one extra largeroot beer.” Whew! Saved by the lady’s voice in the Dog N” Suds speaker. Within five minutes, our roller skating teenage waitress hooked our tray onto Dad’s half open window.

What a treat! And you know the best part of it all? Dad’s extra large root beer struck out the flame scorching the top of his head. Maybe, just maybe he’d forget about the cap. Ron and I wolfed down our dogs, fries and shakes.

“You guys ready?”
“Yes Dad, thank youuuuu …” Ron and I lazily responded,feigning irrepressible sleepiness while harmonizing our yawns and stretching our arms overhead. Good thing the top wasa lready down. We would have gone straight through it otherwise. We handed up our trash to Dad.

“Hey, you know,” Dad cheerfully said, “By the time you guys wake up from your naps, we’ll probably be in Chicago.” Thinking we had pulled the proverbial wool over Dad’s eyes, Ron and I “dozed off".

”Have you ever noticed how summer weather can dramaticallychange within several minutes? As we approached Lincoln, Illinois, about forty miles beyond Litchfield, those big, fluffy, puffy gray rainclouds- which had been looming overhead eversince we left Litchfield-became ominously dark, blotting out the rays of sunshine, a welcome respite from the intense heat.
Dad put up the convertible top.

“Hey boys, everything all right back there? You sleep okay? Ron looked at me. I looked at him. The jig was up! “Oh just great Dad. Are we almost there?”“
No. we’ve got a ways yet.”
“Dad, is there another Dog N’ Suds coming up?” Ron inquired, barely concealing his beginner’s attempt at disingenuity.
“Hey, yea Dad, how ‘bout those shakes?” I chimed in.
“Don’t know Son. I had a root beer. Remember? Oh, by theway, my cap … do you guys got it back there?”Now, you may not believe this, but at that precise moment,when it appeared no further subterfuge could prevent the revelation of the awful truth, Dad’s cap probe was interrupted yet again, but this time by a thunderclap so startlingly loud that I spilled the rest of Dad’s root beer on Ron’s shirt. What fell from the sky were not raindrops but rain buckets. Dad switched his wipers on high, but they could not keep up with the deluge. Dad pulled over. We’d wait this one out. After five minutes, the rain stopped, having moved out as quickly as it had moved in. The temperature must have dropped fifteen degrees. Dad put the top down again and seemed happy, you know carefree. Pulling off his shirt at a rest area, he drove therest of the way into Chicago smiling broadly, bare-chested and still bare-headed. He certainly appeared to be enjoying life-kind of like the idealized “glamorous people” you’d see depicted onthe ubiquitous marketing billboards placed along the interstate every quarter mile or so. I remember their smiling facesfashionably accentuated by Marlboros or Benson and Hedges andwhose hair was as wind-blown as Dad’s would have been had he still the red wavy locks of his youth.

My father never mentioned the cap again. Did he realize what had happened? Probably did, but this week in Chicago would be his time with us and ours with him. Jeopardize that over a cap? My dad wouldn’t have done that. Besides, the cap wasn’t exactly a Biltmore black Canadian suede fedora, just a cloth cap, no big deal, right? And you know what? Even had it been a Borsalino, my father was wise enough to know it’s not the hatwhich makes the difference but the head wearing it.

Alan D. Busch

2009-10-02T10:31:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Martin

I stretch out my arms for Martin …
If I could I’d have dug his well deeper,
If for me he was never meant to be,
I remain alas my brother’s keeper.

Why didst Thou irreparably my mother’s heart break?
For Martin, until her last day, she grieved
Burdened by guilt she should not have borne
Unto Thee alone did she steadfastly cleave.

Until this everyday these years later,
In prayer do I call Thee in dread.
I can’t help but ask you why Martin …
Wouldst Thou hadst taken me instead.

I writhe in my anguish to fathom,
Your ways in the wee hours I’ve sought
Why didst Thou decree so severely?
The pain his young death hath wrought.

Alan D. Busch

10/2/09

2009-09-01T14:19:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Is it Still Okay If Your Father Cries?

The phone rang. I had long dreaded this call. It’s Bobbie, my
dad’s wife. My father is in crisis. I know this because Bobbie is
calling me. We had agreed she would in the event of a life.-
threatening emergency. “Well? Pick it up already,” my wife
exhorted.

“Alan, I’m taking your father to the emergency room at
Prentice. Hold on. The paramedics have arrived. Oh my God.
Bye!” I left immediately for the hospital.

“Dr. Busch. Hmm, Dr. Busch?” the receptionist repeats while
searching her daily admittance list. “Patient’s first
name is?”

“Albert,” my father’s name shoots out of my mouth. The
receptionist, a young woman, in her mid-late 20s, with
painted nails, gingerly keys in our last name. “B-u-s-h, Bush”.

“No, Miss, it’s B-u-s-c-h, Busch.”

“Oh, okay, got it. There he is. Dr. Albert I. Busch. Treatment
Room number one. Oh my! Right over there,” she swivels in
her chair and points, “Turn right at the hallway.” I dash off
forgetting to thank her.

“Dad’s inside,” Bobbie gestures, nodding her head toward the
door. “My God, what am I walking into here?” I wonder,
drawing a deep breath and swallowing. Bobbie follows me in.
The windowless room is cramped, clutter all over the place.
An extra gurney with a broken wheel, several wheelchairs
and a portable weight scale make it seem more like a storage
closet than a treatment room. The air is hot, fetid. I see Dad
lying atop a gurney several feet away wearing
nothing but a loosely-tied hospital gown, his clothes
unceremoniously stuffed into a clear plastic garbage bag.

My father is fading away. He has lost so much weight his skin
hangs off him like an over-sized suit. The skin of his neck sags.
His legs have become spindly, their skin tightly stretched and
transparently thin. Two nurses are just finishing their second
clean up when I walk in. Soiled linens, towels and wipes are
everywhere strewn about. A momentary calm passes, just a
matter of seconds before ‘whoosh!’ A third torrent of “profound
diarrhea” has attacked my father only ten minutes after his arrival.
The nurses respond swiftly and unaffectedly. I watch them
with awe and thanks. Their tireless professionalism comforts
me. Dad’s in good hands. Sarah, the head nurse, busy rifling through
the cabinets for more adult diapers, fresh gowns and bed sheets, asks us to
leave, but nods approvingly when I remain at my father’s side.
Bobbie steps out.

“Alan?” Dad whispers, grasping my hand with his powerful
clench, a good sign. “Yes, Dad, I’m right here.” We both
manage a little smile. The door opens.“Dr. Busch?” inquires
a young resident, sporting a three-day growth of beard and a
black suede kippah.“Shalom Aleichem. I’m Alan Busch, Dr. Busch’s
son,” I quickly respond.

“Benjamin Finerman. Aleichem shalom,” he returns the
greeting, extending his hand in Shabbos courtesy. ”Dr. Busch,”
he addresses my father, “your chart indicates a few problems
with chronic diarrhea, high fever, dehydration and urinary
tract infection.”

“’A few problems’ indeed, doctor!” my father chuckles in
appreciation of Dr. Finerman’s understatement.

“Dr. Busch, we’ll be admitting you as soon as the paperwork is
processed.” He turns to me and whispers: “May your father
have a refuah shleyma.” Within half an hour, just as he had
indicated, patient transport moved us to room 1676 where we
spent the next thirteen days.

His last battle against profound diarrhea lies ahead. My dad
and I have no plan but to react. There are no offensive
measures we can take. It ambushes us whenever it pleases. His
body no longer signals any advance warning. We are stuck on
the defensive. Although not itself lethal, it is turning my
father’s remaining time into a living hell.

"Call the nurses, Alan.

"Dad, let me. I can take care of this by myself.”

Please, please don’t do any more,” my father pleads.

My protestation weakens.

“I understand your feelings Son but the nurses are better at
this than you. Let them do their jobs. Besides, it’s not right for
a son to help his father in this way.”

Though I have no doubts the oncology nurses are doing the
best they can, they cannot always respond to our calls in time,
especially in the early morning hours when staffing is cut
back. And I understand that. And so it comes back to me.
I can’t begin to recount the number of times Dad and I have
shuffled from his bed to the bathroom. Dragging that
awkward “post and poll”(as one nurse called it) to which Dad
is attached by his saline drip and heart monitor makes the
eight feet from dad’s bed to the bathroom seem like … well,
sometimes we make it. Sometimes we don’t. Each clean up is a
tiresome repetition of the previous one: helping Dad wash
himself, changing his gown and bed clothes, cleaning the
floor if necessary, bagging it all and calling housekeeping to
pick up the soiled linen and freshen up the room. Despite the
embarrassment of it all, Dad remains determined to reach the
bathroom in time and thereby regain, at least, partial mastery
over his body.The doctors have no answers, their treatments remain
ineffective. “There is nothing more we can do for him,”
according to my father’s oncologist. My father is not ready to
go home, but the hospital is ready to release him tomorrow.
Time is running out.In an act of desperation, I called my dad’s
gastroenterologist at 5:00 a.m. and left an urgent message with his answering
service. He called me back within minutes.

“Doctor, the “tincture of opium” you prescribed to treat my
dad’s diarrhea hasn’t worked. There is still no change,” I
explained as calmly as I could. It wasn’t easy. I was at wit’s end,
ready “to strangle” anyone who crossed my path.
“I’ve tried everything I know to do, but if the tincture is not
working, I do not know how to stop it,” he admitted. My
heart sank.

“The prognosis varies with each person,” my dad’s oncologist
explained later that morning. “This could go on for three to
six months or even a year,” he added, shrugging his shoulders
and turning up the palms of his hands.Dad was getting sleepy.
We all needed a break. Ron, my older brother, went downstairs
to get a coffee for himself and Bobbie. I wandered over to a
computer lounge with a picturesque view of Lake Michigan.
If only I had been able to enjoy it. It was one of those moments,
you know, when you just stare out of the window …
“Prayer is like dialing long distance to ‘De Aibishter’”, the
voice of my late mentor, Reb Isser, spoke to me. “’Call His
number’ every day, Mr. Busch and remember to pray with
your heart. You may get a busy signal, lots of folks trying to
reach Him, so be patient or leave a message. He returns every
call.”

The sound of my brother’s voice “awakens” me. "It's so sad,"
Ron remarked, remarking that he and Dad had made it to the
bathroom in time that morning.

“You did? That’s good news!”

“Wait. There’s more. Dad told me he needed to sit for a while,
and that I should lie back down for a few more minutes. He’d
call when finished. Shortly thereafter, I heard him quietly
crying.” Ron detailed the rest of the day, one that had gone
from bad to worse.

Is it still okay if your father cries?

I watch him for hours while he sleeps. His once cheerful face is
now gaunt and expressionless. This is how he’ll look when he
dies, I suppose. I try to block such thoughts, but they intrude
upon my privacy nevertheless.I glance at the clock radio, 3:00 a.m.
Outside our door, I catch a glimpse of the early morning nurses’ aides
as they scurry about from room to room. Barbara, a heavy set woman
in her mid-forties, currently assists Dad. I like her. She is good
at what she does and seems to care about my father.

I return to the same computer lounge at 3:15 a.m.
No other souls but me and the sound of Reb Isser’s voice
faintly echoing in my memory… “Keep dialing His number.
De Aibishter will pick up. You’ll see ...”

“Ribono shel Olam … I do not presume any merit of my own.
My father, without rancor, awaits his end of days. He has taught
this lesson of faith and trust to me by his personal example.
Please help my father, Avrum ben Rose. Heal his bowel so that he
may live out his last days in dignity and peace.”

And so, I waited to hear from Him “who heals all flesh and
performs wonders.” As the days wore on, I summoned all
of my faith that The One Above had heard my plea and would
answer my prayer. We waited for the tincture of opium to do its job.
Dad’s first few days at home were tenuous.

And then the phone rang …

“Good morning Alan!”

“Dad?” I answered, surprised both by the call itself and the
upbeat tone of his voice, “So Dad, what’s …?”

“It’s worked. The tincture, Son, has finally kicked in,” he
blared so excitedly I had to remove the phone from
my ear. And kicked in it had, my father’s happiness … well, it
skyrocketed. “So Dad, tell me how you feel?” I asked, sharing
in his excitement. “Sonny Boy, I feel … I feel,” his voice
cracking ever so slightly. “I feel … like I’ve so much to be
thankful for.

My father’s struggle reminds us of the importance of
choosing life when sickness all too often extinguishes hope
and all is given up to surrender. In my father’s case, cancer was
killing him, a fact he recognized and accepted with calm and
grace.The diarrhea, on the other hand, represented a formidable
obstacle which we overcame by the combination of my
father’s sheer drive to emerge the victor and the power of
prayer. When he passed away on Shabbos morning, October
18, 2008, he did so as a man at peace whose dignity had been
restored.

Alan D. Busch
09/01/09

2009-08-08T20:55:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends,

Please click on

http://www.ou.org/shabbat_shalom/article/reckonings_a_language_you_understand/

to read my latest published piece in the Orthodox Union.

The photo above is of my late father Brigadier General Dr. Albert I. Busch, Z'L about whom I write in this piece, of our time together in the last days of his life.

Please do leave a comment at the article's end.

Sincerely,

Alan D. Busch

8/8/09

2009-07-26T22:49:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewpoetry.asp?id=259573

please click on this link to read three jewish love poems, two of which will be read on THE BEN BRESKY SHOW on ISRAEL NATIONAL RADIO this Tuesday.

Ty,

Alan D. Busch

2009-07-20T08:45:00.000-07:00

Please copy and paste the link below to read the newly published poem "Shacharis Musings" in the summer 2009 edition of Poetica Magazine.

http://www.authorsden.com/adstorage/79100/page 48.pdf

2009-07-19T14:53:00.001-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Senator Boxer:

Your conduct toward two very fine gentlemen ...
you are aware, I'm sure, to whom I'm referring was sophomoric and offensive. Why did you not upbraid Mr. Alford for using the same expression of RESPECT the general had previously used? Caught too much heat for it, did you?

I'm sending the dictionary.com link for the definition of "ma'am". Please find the definition of a term of respect for a lady.

To paraphrase Mark Levin, the general's "error" was in assuming he was addressing a "lady"-an identity to which you have amply demonstrated to the world you cannot lay claim.

http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/ma'am
Alan D. Busch

2009-07-15T14:24:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Our Future Began In Our Past

Certain childhood experiences are like good teachers.
And good teachers are like road maps. They show you
the several ways to travel from point “a” to point “b”.
The route you choose, well… that’s left up to you.

There are always, as everyone knows, certain stopping
points along the way. Whether it is to rest, eat or
appreciate the beauty of the scenery, we come away
feeling that we are qualitatively better off than
before, perhaps even indelibly impressed, reinvigorated,
ready to go on until such time when we need we pull off
the road again.

Unlike the certainty and convenience of small towns
strung along the interstate-there is no map we can
consult to find the next rest area point while cruising
life’s spiritual highways, The time and distance interval
between any two points may be brief or it may happen,
as it did in my case, that years pass before we reach the next
point on the map. What we do know, however, is-no matter how bizarre
or pedestrian the stopping off points may seem at
the time of their occurrence, their great value lies in the
life-long impressions they imprint upon our memories
and values. Only when we retrace our steps do we
realize how very fortunate, albeit unaware, we were to
have experienced what we did at the time.

“v’al titosh Toras imecha” (adhere to your mother's instruction)

The year was 1959. Everything about my parents’
divorce happened quickly. Just days before we had
been a “regular” family: father, mother, children.
Suddenly, my brother and I found ourselves living with
our mother and maternal grandmother in Olivette,
Missouri. My father remained in Chicago.

For reasons not entirely clear either then or now, my
mother enrolled us in the Epstein Hebrew Academy,
the first Orthodox Hebrew day school in Missouri, soon
after we arrived in St. Louis. It was, in retrospect, a good
beginning. My mother told me she “had grown up in a
fine home” that my grandmother Jean worked hard to
provide for herself and her two daughters, my mom and
her sister Iris. “But without any Jewish atmosphere except
on the high holidays,” she added.

“I thought it would be good for you boys,” my mother
explained when I asked her about her decision to enroll
us in the Epstein Academy. And looking back, my
mother was right. It was a good idea. Problem was we
felt like fish out of water. My brother and I hadn’t
received any prior Jewish training either in school or at
home, and I don’t recall having any personal Jewish
awareness at the time. To me (and Ron) it seemed a
scary, unfamiliar world of which neither of us wanted
any part. My sole memory of the Epstein Academy was
of the alphabet chart on our classroom walls about
which I complained to my mother. The letters were
unrecognizable, looking nothing at all like the “abc (s)”
I had learned before we moved to St Louis. Naturally
but unbeknownst to us at the time, we had been
looking at the aleph-beis, the Hebrew Alphabet.
We complained so bitterly that within a week our mother
enrolled us in public school.

As a result of my “close encounter” with Torah
Judaism, I grew up a Jew who knew virtually nothing
about his Judaism-its richness eluding me and countless
other Jewish children whose attachment to Jewish life
was and would remain cultural rather than Torah-based.
My life would probably have been different had I
not disliked the Epstein Academy so passionately and
pressured my mother to withdraw our registration.
But I learned later-when I embraced my faith as
an adult-things happen as they do for the best. There is
no second guessing the ways of The One Above, despite
the many cynically “rational” voices to the contrary.

My upbringing didn’t lack the threads of Jewish life
(although there were many we were missing) as much
as we lacked its fabric. We celebrated the holidays in the
dining room of Aunt Iris and Uncle Marvin’s house.
Our one annual Passover seder, always replete with
ample supplies of machine matzah and a fabulous meal,
was the most memorable. Aunt Iris (whom we
nicknamed Aunt “I”) was a great cook. Uncle Marvin
led us through the redemption of our people, according
to the Haggadah from Maxwell House.

Shavuos and Sukkos were unknown to us. We
celebrated Rosh Ha Shana and broke the fast of Yom
Kippur with festive meals. We did not light candles, but
my mother did plug in an electric menorah each of the
eight days of Chanukkah.

My First Shabbos

It was exceedingly difficult not to love Reb Moishe and
Chava Grossman. The parents of Harold Grossman,
my mother’s second husband, Reb Moishe and Chava
became Morris and Eve upon their passage through
Ellis Island. A tiny twosome who lived fifty yards from
their synagogue Nusach Ari B’nai Zion, they were a
quaint, picture-perfect couple of old-fashioned dignity,
each crowned with snow white hair. I felt drawn to Reb
Moishe and Chava who spoke the blend of Yiddish and
English that author Leo Rosten dubbed “Yinglish”.
There was something about them I found so …
charming, I guess.

When the sun sets on Friday afternoon, Erev Shabbos
begins. For observant Jews, the Shabbos is kadosh,
separate and holy, a reminder of the Creation.
To me, an eight-year old Jewish boy attending public
school and living outside the observant Jewish
community, it was Friday night. I had no idea that
another state of being, Shabbos, existed on a parallel
but higher plane than our own.

Harold, my mom and I stopped in one Friday night to
visit his parents. Already several minutes after sundown
when we arrived, we found Harold’s parents sitting
quite properly on their plastic cover-fitted sofa, in total
darkness, as if nothing were amiss. Except for what little
remained of the Shabbos nerot, Sabbath candles,there was
no other light to be had.

We sat down with them in a state of virtual bemusement
for several moments until Harold, his patience exhausted,
rose from his seat.

"Pa,” he pled incredulously, always the dutiful son but
who had forsworn Jewish religious observance when he
enlisted in the Navy after Pearl Harbor, "You're ‘gonna’
sit here in the dark?! Lemme tur ..."

"Zol zein shtil, Herschele! 'Don' touch!” barked Zaide , but
who did not pronounce the 't' in ‘don't’.

"But, but ... " Harold blurted out.

"But, but 'nuting'! Shah!" Zaide thundered.

"Ma!?" pled the son."It'll be fine tatele. Listen to your father,"
Bubbie counseled.

"Mom, why are we sitting in the dark?" I asked,
absolutely intrigued by this most bizarre circumstance.

"Shah! Listen to Bubbie."

(If only Mel Brooks could have seen this!)

To this day some forty-seven years later, I do not know
if the Grossmans had failed to set their timers or simply
forgotten to switch on their Sabbath lights. It remains
nonetheless a fond albeit befuddled memory to this very day.

After a half hour, we drove back home to Friday night
leaving behind the fascination of Erev Shabbos. Though
I was only eight years old at the time, its mystery had
definately piqued my interest.

A Lifetime Later

The return road to explore that mystery upset many lives:
those of my family, my children, my job, my marriage.I could
not have imagined the danger that lay ahead

“I feel this emptiness in my gut,” I confessed to my wife..
We were out one summer evening and had stopped to
pick up some ice cream. The kids were home. There
wasn’t much time to talk things over. It was nearly
sundown. I noticed several cars hurriedly pulling
into the parking lot of the shul just across the way from
where we had parked the car.

“I want to be part of that,” I said, pointing to the shul.

“But we’ve not lived that way. It’s too much. We didn’t
raise the kids in a kosher home. I just don’t get why you
cannot be happy with where we are.”

“Jan,” I turned and looked at her, “I don’t understand it
myself, but I know in my heart it’s real.”

We headed back home. “You’re sure about this?” she
turned to me, “because I can’t go with you.”

“I know that, I really do,” I smiled understandingly.

“What about the kids?" she wondered.

“Tonight, we’ll tell them tonight.”

“Your mother and I love you unconditionally,” I
began with our youngest. I looked at her, the mother
of my children and wife of twenty-four years, as if to
get the final go-ahead. She nodded approvingly. “But
Mom and I have decided … “

Zac, our youngest, wept a little boy’s tears. Ben, our
oldest, was incredulous at the announcement but had
known something was not right between us for a long
time. Kimberly, our middle child, had just completed her
freshman year at the university. Her mother drove
down and told her on the way home.

I moved out of my house soon thereafter to a nearby
apartment. Our children remained at home with their
mom, but I tended my bonds with them unfailingly.
I navigated the path of Jewish observance, at times very
clumsily, I feared. Unaware of its many gaping potholes
which surely lay ahead, I felt uncertain I understood the
road map before me.

Alan D. Busch
7/13/09

2009-07-08T08:04:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Darkness Can Enlighten

Certain childhood experiences are like good teachers. No matter that they may seem bizarre or pedestrian at the time of their occurrence, they often leave worthwhile, life-long impressions. Henry Brooks Adams, American historian, journalist and novelist put it best when he said: “A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops”, and so it is with
certain of our lives’ experiences, the importance of which we may only realize years down the road.

I grew up “Jewishly” but not religiously in the 1960 (s) one suburb west of the orthodox community, centered in University City, Missouri. My brother and I lived with our mother, a young, inexperienced divorcee who probably felt overwhelmed by the realities of single parenthood.

My maternal grandmother, Jean Austin nee Pick who lived with us for several years, worked as a professional buyer of women’s fashions and was, I think, a genuine rarity in an age when divorced, independently-minded women were far less common than even in my mother’s generation. She had been a “tough love” parent (a fact I learned from both my mother and my
Aunt Iris, my mother’s sister) who successfully combined hard work and an independent spirit to raise two daughters. “My mother provided us with a fine home,” my mom told me, “but without any Jewish atmosphere.”

I’m not sure why she did what she did or if she even understood it herself, but my mother enrolled my brother and me in the Epstein Hebrew Academy, the first Orthodox Hebrew day school in Missouri almost immediately after our arrival in St. Louis. It sounds like a good first step, right? Well, we hated it. My sole memory was of the alphabet on our classrooms’ walls
which, I recall with perfect clarity, was written in an unrecognizable script. Unbeknownst to us at the time, we had been looking at the aleph-beis posters. My brother and I protested vociferously to our mother. I don’t think we lasted more than several days before my
mother withdrew us.

As a result of my all too brief “close encounter” with Torah Judaism, I became a Jew who knew virtually nothing about his Judaism. The richness of Jewish tradition had largely eluded me and countless other Jewish children whose attachment to Jewish life was largely cultural rather than Torah-based. I suppose had I not disliked the Epstein Academy so passionately, things might have turned out differently, perhaps even better.

Then again, as Jews of faith, our bitachon reinforces our belief that while “things do happen for the best”, I look back upon my limited Jewish upbringing with a slight tinge of regret but with thanks as well. After all, my youth was not entirely barren of Jewish experiences. We
gathered at my Aunt Iris's house for our family's one seder with ample supplies of machine matzah while my Uncle Marvin led us through the redemption of our people, according to the Haggadah from Maxwell House. Shavuos and Sukkos were unknown to us. We celebrated Rosh Ha Shana and broke the fast of Yom Kippur with festive meals. We did not light candles, but
my mother did plug in an electric menorah each of the eight days of Chanukkah. It was not so much that my family lacked the threads of Jewish life (though there were many we were missing) as much its fabric.

My First “Almost” Shabbos

It was exceedingly difficult not to love Reb Moishe and Chava Grossman. The parents of Harold Grossman, my mother’s second husband, Reb Moishe and Chava became Morris and Eve upon their passage through Ellis Island. A tiny twosome, they were a quaint, picture-perfect couple of old-fashioned dignity, each crowned with snow white hair. Speaking a stereotypical
blend of Yiddish and English, dubbed “Yinglish” by author Leo Rosten and living within fifty yards of their shul, I felt drawn to Reb Moishe and Chava. There was just something about them I found so … charming, I guess.

When the sun sets on Friday afternoon, Erev Shabbos begins. For observant Jews, the Shabbos is kadosh, separate and holy, a reminder of the Creation. To me, an eight-year old Jewish boy living outside the observant Jewish community, it was just Friday night. I had no idea that another state of being, Shabbos, existed on a parallel but higher plane than our own. Harold, my mom and I stopped in one Friday night to visit his parents. Already several minutes after
sundown when we arrived, we found Harold’s parents-their feet barely touching the floor (actually Mrs. Grossman's did not), sitting quite properly on their plastic cover-fitted sofa, in total darkness as if nothing were amiss. Except for what little remained of the Shabbos nerot, there was no other light to be had. We sat down with them in a state of virtual bemusement for several moments until Harold’s patience ran out.

"Pa,” he pled incredulously, always the dutiful son but who had forsworn Jewish religious observance when he enlisted in the Navy after Pearl Harbor, "You're ‘gonna’
sit here in the dark?! Lemme tur ..."

"Zol zein shtil, Herschele! 'Don' touch!” barked Zaide who did not pronounce the 't' in ‘don't’.

"But, but ... " Harold blurted out.

"But, but 'nuting'! Shah!" Zaide thundered.

"Ma!?" pled the son."It'll be fine tatele. Listen to your father," Bubbie counseled.

"Mom, why are we sitting in the dark?" I asked, absolutely intrigued by this most bizarre circumstance.

"Shah! Listen to Bubbie."

If only Mel Brooks had seen this!

To this day some forty-seven years later, I do not know if the Grossmans had set their timers which-for reasons unknown-failed to turn on or simply forgotten to switch on their Sabbath lights. It remains a fond albeit befuddled memory to this very day.

We did not stay much longer. Leaving behind the dark wonderment of Erev Shabbos, we drove back to Friday night. Darkness could and did enlighten me that night to the fascination of Erev Shabbos to which I returned years later. It turned out to be a difficult destination to reach as an adult, but at least I know that-as an eight year old boy-my spiritual odyssey began that
night in the apartment of Moishe and Chava Grossman, may their memories be for a blessing.

Alan D. Busch
7/01/09

2009-06-26T14:02:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

click here http://www.aish.com/spirituality/odysseys/Losing_Ben.asp to read my piece entitled "Losing Ben" published at www.aish.com. please take a few moments to leave a comment. i'd appreciate hearing from you.

sincerely,

alan busch

2009-06-26T08:35:00.000-07:00

Dear Friends,

Below please find the final of "Losing Ben" as it appears at http://www.aish.com/

Please leave a comment on this site or if you like, read it at http://www.aish.com/ and leave your comment there.

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

My father was not an atheist, no matter what he may have told you.

He was rather a grieving grandpa who witnessed the death of his first grandson, my son Ben, on an operating table at Cook County Hospital, a cataclysm which so profoundly shook the fragile architecture of his belief in God that I wondered if any of it would remain standing when the dust settled.

Earlier that morning, the phones had been ringing off the hooks. I picked up one of the lines to help out. I heard the voice of a stranger.

"Mr. Busch?" he queried.

"Speaking," I reluctantly admitted for I knew, with a parent's intuition, he was not the bearer of good news.

"Mr. Busch. My name is Dr. Ibrahim Yosef, chief of emergency surgery at Cook County Hospital."

"Yes, doctor," I acknowledged nervously.

"Are you the father of Benjamin Busch?"

"Yes, I am," girding myself for the worst.

"Your son has arrived by fire department ambulance, having sustained massive, critical injuries in a traffic accident."

At that instant, I felt like I'd been struck by the same truck I later learned had run Ben over.

"Mr. Busch, Ben requires immediate surgical intervention."

I tried to speak but my words were stuck.

"Mr. Busch," his voice now emphatically urgent, "I suggest you come to the hospital right away!"

"Suggest!" I repeated. Digesting the ominous meaning of his "suggestion," I sped away to the hospital in a state of controlled desperation. I knew how this day would end.

While a team of doctors and nurses worked feverishly to save my son's life, my dad --whom I had never before seen pray -- cried out to the Master of the Universe to spare the life of his grandson, who had been crushed under the rear wheels of a 26-foot long moving van. And though he (and I) pleaded desperately with the Almighty for His immediate intercession, it was not meant to be. The spark of life in Ben flickered out.

"I must admit to you, Alan, I don't understand how you've done it," my father told me on more than one occasion. "Your brother and I were talking about you the other day," he added, "and we both agree that neither of us could have done what you did."

He can either choose life accompanied by the permanent presence of grief or he becomes busy with dying.

My father was referring to my resolve, following Ben's death, to continue living my life as best I could, a decision I thought necessary for the sake of my other children, my daughter Kimberly and younger son Zac. My responsibility to them was not only to survive our sudden loss but to lead my extended family in the emotional reconstruction of our lives.

I thanked my father but protested that nothing I had done merited any praise.
A parent whose child predeceases him does not enjoy a wide range of choices. He can either choose life accompanied by the permanent presence of grief or he becomes busy with dying.

I don't know how it feels to lose a grandson. I regret the fact I never did ask my father about it. How had he coped with Ben's death? Frankly, the devastation from which my family was suffering at the time was unfathomable. Ben's mom and I had divorced several months prior to our loss, which made the initial mourning and subsequent grief even more difficult. I was so preoccupied with recovering my life and struggling daily to watch over my other two children that I did not spend much time with my father. He was emotionally devastated, and truthfully, I didn't know how to balance the loss of my son with that of my father's grandson.

Eight months after Ben's death, my father wrote in a letter to a friend, "For a while there I was depressed. My grandson Benji was killed in a car accident. He was just 22. I miss him. It left a large void in my heart." He said nothing more, although I suspect he was never quite the same again.

Eight years later, my father and I were chatting one afternoon in his apartment. He was home after spending two weeks in the hospital's oncology unit. My dad was dying of colon cancer and although he was enjoying a well-deserved respite from his suffering, we suspected it would be all too brief. We were together quite a lot, better late than never I suppose. He was telling me his story between hands of gin rummy. I dealt the cards and listened.

"Have you heard it said, son, that there are no atheists in foxholes?"

"Sure. I've heard that." We never discussed faith before.

"Well, I assure you. It's the absolute truth. During the war, there were a couple of guys from my barracks who claimed to be atheists. It was just prior to what later became known as the Battle of the Bulge. After my unit had engaged the enemy, I found myself in the same foxhole with these two guys, our heads in the mud, enemy fire, shells bursting all around. In my life, I had never heard so much praying. 'Dear Lord, please get me out of this. I'll be good. I'll never do that again.' You know, the sort of thing that comes out under deep stress."

Here's my chance, I thought excitedly. "What's your belief, Dad?"

"Me? I don't believe in God," he asserted without even so much as a pause.

My jaw dropped. I didn't expect such an answer. What about the story he had just told me? Wasn't it an endorsement of belief in God? There was something very wrong here. Where was the man who had pled before the Master of the Universe for his grandson's life? I wanted to speak to him.

"Were there a God -- a caring, loving, parent-like God, He would not allow the terrible things in life to happen," he asserted.

I had heard it before. I think everyone has. It is an argument that demonstrates the incompleteness of belief in God without the faith that sustains it in times of crisis.

"Dad, do you recall what you said to me after we lost Ben?"

"You mean when I told you I couldn't have gone on with life like you did?"

"What's the source of my strength? It's you Dad."

"Yes, Dad. Well, I have a secret to tell you." I crossed my arms on the kitchen table and leaned slightly forward. A moment like this had never happened before in our relationship. "I wanted to tell you then that you had never been so wrong! What's the source of my strength? It's you Dad, you're "avi mori", my father, my teacher."

I backed off a bit. His eyes had become misty. "That day when Ben died, I watched you as you pled for Ben, for all of us, and I remember thinking: 'This is my dad!' Your strength, the strength of your faith to be able to plead before God, that strength could only derive from God. So when Ben died, in your profound disappointment you set down the strength of your faith. But you know what?" My father answered me with his continuing silence. "I picked up that faith and made it my own."

That's when my father's silence turned into a smile.

He never realized what an important lesson he had taught me that day. Despite my father's earlier assertion that he would not have survived the death of a son, his own actions disproved his claim. He not only survived Ben's death but continued practicing dentistry successfully for an additional eight years before he entered the hospital for a urinary tract infection, high fever and incessant chemotherapy-induced diarrhea.

To my father, Ben was as much his son as were my brothers and I. He routinely called him "Benji son" -- his favorite term of endearment. In his heartfelt prayers - for "Benji son" and for his own life -- my father personified, perhaps unwittingly, a basic, unadorned, unarticulated trust in the words of the psalmist: "I will lift up mine eyes unto the mountains: from where shall my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth."

Dad, you were right. There really aren't any atheists in foxholes.

Published: Sunday, June 21, 2009

2009-06-23T14:01:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

This is the remainder of "Shabbos Minchah With Reb Isser" that ended up on the "cutting room floor". Scroll down to find the link to the story. The editor ended the published version at a very appropriate point. I was actually quite pleased with what she did, but this original ending is a great story in and of itself.

I did as Reb Isser had advised. I could no longer ignore my problems at home, hoping they would simply disappear. The decision I made to keep Shabbos by myself-though difficult- was one I felt I needed to make. The experience not only did not weaken but strengthened my resolve to live more observantly. We did try marriage counseling, but I am certain we both knew ours was a case of too little, too late. If nothing else, counseling delineated our differences so sharply that our irreconcilability became a foregone conclusion.

“I feel this emptiness in my gut,” I confessed to her. We were out one summer evening and had stopped to pick up some ice cream. The kids were home. There wasn’t much time to talk things over. It was just around sundown. I noticed several cars hurriedly pulling into the parking lot of the shul just across the way from where we had parked the car.

“I want to be part of that,” I said, pointing to the shul. “But we’ve not lived that way. It’s too much. We didn’t raise the kids in a kosher home. I just don’t get why you cannot be happy with where we are.” “Jan,” I turned and looked at her, “I don’t understand it myself, but I know in my heart it’s real.”

We headed back home. “You’re sure about this?” she turned to me, “because I can’t go with you.” “I know that, I really do,” I smiled at her understandingly.

“What about the kids? Jan asked. “Tonight, we’ll tell them tonight.”

“Your mother and I love you unconditionally,” I began. I looked at her, the mother of my children and wife of twenty-four years, as if to get the final go-ahead. She nodded approvingly. “But Mom and I have decided … “

Zac, our youngest, wept a little boy’s tears. Ben, our oldest, was incredulous at the announcement but had known something was not right between us for a long time. Kimberly, our middle child, had just completed her freshman year at the university. Her mother drove down and told her on the way home.

I moved out of my house soon thereafter to a nearby apartment. Our children remained at home with their mom, but I tended my bonds with them unfailingly. Never too adept at map reading and unaware of its many stumbling blocks yet before me, I trod the path of Jewish observance very cautiously lest I become irretrievably lost.

2009-06-21T15:20:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends,

PLEASE CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO READ MY NEWLY PUBLISHED SHORT STORY AS IT APPEARS IN NEW HORIZONS MAGAZINE.

Shabbos_Minchah.pdf.pdf

if you like it well enough to telll someone, write up a note to editor@targum.com

many thanks,

alan

2009-06-21T13:43:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers

dear friends,
shavua tov, a gutte voch
please take a few minutes if you will to read my latest piece at aish.com.

Losing Ben
it is,in fact, a chapter taken from my book in progress about the last weeks of my father's life,Dr. Albert I. Busch, z'l.

i do have a small favor to ask of you. please if you can at the end of the piece, you'll find a "leave a comment" feature. please take a few moments to type a comment, be it negative or positive, long or short ... in memory of my father may his memory be a blessing. i am ...

very sincerely yours,

alan d busch

2009-05-21T05:03:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends,

Several months ago, I announced that my short story "Tefilin and Teacher" had been accepted for publication by The Jewish Press, America's Largest Independent Jewish Newspaper. Happily, you can read it now in this week's edition, both in print and on-line. I would request that if you are so inclined, leave a short comment at the bottom of the on-line page.

Sincerely,

Alan

http://www.jewishpress.com/pageroute.do/39340

2009-05-14T15:47:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Darkness Can Enlighten (current)

It was exceedingly difficult not to love Morris and Eva Grossman.

The parents of my mother’s second husband, Harold Grossman, Morris and Eva were a tiny twosome, a quaint couple of old-fashioned dignity, each crowned with snow white hair, their language-a comic blend of Yiddish and English, that Leo Rosten dubbed “Yinglish”. They spoke like comic Myron Cohen who appeared often on “The Ed Sullivan Show.” If you remember that, you’re one step ahead of the game.

Certain childhood experiences are like good teachers. To paraphrase Charles Francis Adams, they affect eternity because we never know where or when their influence stops.

I grew up Jewishly but not religiously. The net result of my upbringing was I knew myself to be a Jew but one who knew nothing about his Judaism. Sound paradoxical? Not really as long as one remembers there are Jews for whom the cultural components of Jewish life are at least as important as traditional Torah learning.

When the sun sets on Friday afternoon Erev Shabbos, the eve of the Sabbath, begins. For observant Jews, the "Shabbos" is "kadosh", separate and holy, a reminder of the Creation.To
me, an eight-year old Jewish boy living outside the observant Jewish community, it was just Friday night. I had no idea there is a parallel dimension, another state of being called
“Shabbos”, the Sabbath.

Harold, my mom and I stopped by to visit his parents in their apartment on Briscoe Court on the western edge of University City, Missouri, a St. Louis suburb with a sizeable observant
Jewish community. Already after sundown when we arrived, Harold’s parents would not have answered the phone had we called them, and even had they wanted to invite us over, they could not have because their apartment was, we discovered, enveloped in pitch darkness. After our eyes adjusted, we saw Mr. and Mrs. Grossman, whose feet barely touched the floor; (actually Mrs. Grossman’s did not) sitting quite properly on their plastic cover-fitted sofa as if nothing
were amiss. Not one ray of light shown.

"Pa," said Harold incredulously, always the dutiful son but who had forsworn Jewish religious observance when he enlisted in the Navy after Pearl Harbor, "You're ‘gonna’ sit
here in the dark?! Just lemme tur ..."

"Zol zein shtil, Herschele! 'Don' touch!” barked Zayde who did not pronounce the 't' in ‘don't’.

"But, but ... " Harold blurted out.

"But, but 'nuting'! Shah!" Zayde thundered.

"Ma!?" pled the son."It'll be fine tatele. Listen to your father," Bubbie (a Yiddish term of endearment for "grandmother") counseled.

"Mom, why are we sitting in the dark?" I asked, really very intrigued by this most bizarre of circumstances.

"Shah! Listen to Bubbie."If only Mel Brooks had seen this!

To this day some forty-seven years later, I do not know if the Grossmans’ lights were on timers but had neglected to set them in time before sundown or simply forgotten to turn on
their Sabbath lights. It remains a fond albeit befuddled memory to this very day!

We did not stay much longer. Leaving behind the magical, albeit dark wonderment of Erev Shabbos, the Sabbath Eve, we returned home to Friday night, a dimension in time far more
illumined but much less interesting than the mystery of Erev Shabbos in the apartment of Morris and Eva Grossman.

Alan D. Busch
Revised 5/13/09

2009-04-19T03:34:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Readers,

I am currently working on a second book about my last weeks with my father.
You may also access other chapters from the manuscript and much more at www.authorsden.com/alandbusch1

My Brother Does Not Look Like My Dad

My brother Ron cooked spaghetti on Saturday mornings for
the two of us when our mother was at the beauty parlor. He
had always been a “take charge’ kind of guy who preferred
using Open Pit Barbecue Sauce on his pasta instead of
concocting his own special blend, but that was okay with me.
I’ve loved Open Pit ever since.

Ron did, I guess in the great tradition of older brothers
everywhere whose parents had divorced, assume the role of
surrogate dad. And, it made sense because-as it happened-he
was always bigger and stronger than I. He looked out for me
and you know what? I rather liked it. Our relationship was
straight out of “Leave It To Beaver” but without Ward
Cleaver-our parents had divorced, and though we visited with
our father no more than three-four times a year, he was
forever able to cement and reinforce a very strong bond
between us.

It will not surprise you to know I look like, dress like, emote
and sound like my father. I am my father’s son, as is my older
brother Ron who looks like our mother but not nearly as
pretty. Our father’s illness brought us back together after a
hiatus of many years. We had never before faced any problem
together of this magnitude, but of my brother Ron, I can
say that it was an absolute pleasure to get to know him again,
but this time as an adult, a grown up, caring and loving son to
our father.

Ron and I spent the better part of a Wednesday afternoon
with our father at his dental office. He’s closing it down after
more than a half century of business. Though he enjoyed an
all too brief improvement after his first hospitalization, he
knows he can no longer treat patients due primarily to his
neurapathy.* Though he has been practicing dentistry in
Chicago since 1950, (“One of these days, I’ll get it right,” he
often quips with an irrepressible smile.) he accepts his
involuntary retirement as he does his cancer, with grace.

Taxicabs

Nattily dressed in suit, a freshly laundered and starched white
dress shirt with French cuffs, with matching silk tie and
handkerchief (stuffed in his outer breast suit pocket with just
the right panache), topped off by a black straw fedora, my
father looked that day as he had always and as far back as I can
remember.

The three of us hailed a cab home that afternoon-actually it
was Dad who stood at the curb and waved his hand while
attempting a shrill whistle. For some unknown reason, my
father could never whistle well though I guess he thought he
did. What came out invariably was more spittle than whistle.
Ron and I always thought that enormously funny, never
disrespectfully, just in good fun. You know what I mean.
“Eleven ten north Michigan please,” my father directs the cab
driver. We have ridden in cabs many times together, but
today was the first time in many a year. Dad fell asleep almost
instantaneously, Ron opened his copy of Ekhart Tolles’ new book and …

I was six years old, my brother eight when the three of us left
Dad’s office at 25 E. Washington Street on the east side of
Chicago’s Loop. We would hail a yellow or green Checker
Marathon cab. Failing that and, should one arrive first, we’d
hop on the bus. Frankly, I preferred the cab although It never
ceased to amuse us to watch Dad fall asleep while hanging on
to the “standees’ strap”. Naturally, a taxicab was the preferred
choice because it had two distinctive folding jump seats
anchored to the floor for additional passenger seating. Great
for kids. “’Fellas’, always enter and exit the taxi on the
curbside,” Dad faithfully reminded us. My father was an
effective teacher who chose his pragmatic life lessons carefully
and hammered them home. They remain with me to this day.

He awoke one half block before our arrival. Ron marked his
page. “Son, get out on the curb side,” he reminded
me, pointing toward the right passenger door with the thumb
of his right hand as if he were hitch-hiking. “Yes Dad. I know,”
I reassure him. Even though I’m fifty-four years old and have
been exiting from the curb side ever since I was six and sitting
on the folding jump seat in the back of the old Marathon
cabs, it annoyed me a bit. I glanced at Ron whose shrugged
shoulders and faint smile reminded me that some things
simply do not change. Then again, maybe Dad and I had had
the same dream.

It was getting late in the afternoon around 4:30. I got up to
leave for home around 5 o’clock. Ron walked me to the front
door I could see our father reading the paper at the kitchen
table. His wife, Bobbie, sat across from him.

“So, Alan, any words?” Ron asked.
“None at the moment,” I responded, hoping to preclude an
emotional scene.“God, I feel so … so guilty about leaving, but I’ve got to get
home,” Ron confessed in an undertone. “I understand,” I
reassured him. My brother Ron feels bad. He’s got it tougher
than I do. I can see Dad anytime I wish and do. I visit with him
three days a week, and I think he’d agree this has been the best
time we’ve ever spent together. Ron, however, lives in St.
Louis. Not far away, to be sure, a one hour flight. Still, it
worries him.

“What if,” my brother’ voice quivered … “what if this is the
last time?” “No, no. Not going to happen. Not now,” I insisted, my tone
rising as if in denial of that realistic possibility. “Dad is a
pugilist, Ron, remember? He’s a boxer, a fighter, you know.”
(As a matter of fact, my father had been a “golden gloves”
boxer in his youth).

Though Ron is only eighteen months older than I am, that
difference has always defined our relationship. It was an odd,
yet defining moment. I sensed a shift between us. For the very
first time, I was “taking care” of Ron-who had forever been
my big brother and a darn good one too.
“Hey listen, call me if you want to get together tonight,” I
clumsily changed the topic.
“I’d like to but I’d better not.”
“Listen, we’ll talk,” I reassured him.
I picked up my computer bag. “Dad, we’ll talk later.”
That’s how it ended that day. Actually there wasn’t an ending,
just a “to be continued”. Our father was sick. We knew where
it would take him and … us. For the moment, he had taken
some steps forward. We were doing our best to honor him.
Somehow it made sense and I think we felt pretty good about that.

Alan D. Busch

2009-03-22T22:29:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Shabbos Mincha with Reb Isser (to be published by Horizons Magazine, Summer 2009)

Reb Isser knew intuitively something was wrong. Truth be told. I didn’t know what to do. My marriage was in jeopardy. My children felt conflicted. I wanted to become more Jewishly observant. My wife and children did not. Our family had suffered a near meltdown on Erev Pesach over kashrus in our home. Whatever shalom bayis still remained was crumbling fast.

I hurried to shul Shabbos afternoon to greet Reb Isser at the front door. “He’ll know what
to do,” I reassured myself. In the two years since I had first wandered into his minyan, he
became my mentor, confidant and proxy zayde.

I began helping Reb Isser prepare shalosh seudos every Shabbos afternoon. We draped the folding tables with white plastic table cloths, set out twenty-five place settings and served as much tuna fish, chopped fish balls, herring, cake and soda pop as we could find left over from the morning Kiddush. The minyan would file down the narrow stairwell after mincha, line up around the kitchen island to wash and make “ha motsi” over the challah buns we had placed in a wicker basket to the left of the sink.

“Nu, Mr. Busch. What’s on your mind?” Reb Isser finally inquired as I had hoped he would. I guess he noticed how preoccupied I must have appeared. “Well … uh, trouble at home, Reb Isser. My wife … you know,” I responded, searching for the right words but hopeful I would not have to explain too much.“No, I don’t know. You want to tell me?” “My wife is very unhappy with me.” I hesitated to continue.

“Go on,” Reb Isser encouraged me, as if he had some familiarity with this problem. “I spend too much time in shul, she thinks. By the time I get home Saturday night, now with spring and summer, it’s too late.” “For what?” he asked.“She wants to go out with me in the early evening, you know, a movie, maybe something to eat.”

Reb Isser reflected for several “interminable” moments. Waiting nervously, I hoped his would be a sympathetic decision. “Mr. Busch,” Reb Isser spoke softly. He removed a single photograph from his shirt pocket. For someone as forthright as Reb Isser usually was, he seemed reluctant to speak. “I’ve shown this picture to no one in fifty years since I came to America,” he confessed,
handing it to me. “Reb Isser, you don’t have …” “Mr. Busch,” he gently interrupted, “Yes, I do.” I was afraid I knew where he was going with this. I fell silent. “This was Rivkale, aleah hashalom,” he said, pointing to a pretty, slight woman with delicate features. Her hair was put up in a bun, her long flowery dress seemed very appropriate attire for what appeared to be a family picnic. “And these,” he continued, his forefinger trembling, “are mein kinderlach …” He blinked repeatedly, trying to hold back the tears. “Reb Isser, please don’t,” I pled. He handed me a tissue. “Forgive me, Mr. Busch, but you need to hear this. This is Yossele,” he pointed to the older of his two children, a boy who looked to be about six years old. “I used to curl his peyos around this finger,” he recalled, holding up the same forefinger with which he had pointed to Yossele in the picture. “And this, this …” he began to sob. “This is … is Chavaleh ...” whose shoulder length red hair her mother specially fashioned into ringlets for this picnic, Reb Isser tearily recalled. “Do you see this spot?” he asked me, pointing to the hem of Chavaleh’s white dress. I nodded. “It’s a grass stain. She fell running in the park that day.”

I couldn’t look any more. I turned aside and began nervously dividing up the herring among several paper plates. “Mr. Busch,” he patted my hand. I released the fork. “My wife felt I was working too much. She told me many times that our family time together was much more valuable than the few extra zlotys I was bringing home. I was a druggist, you know. In those days, you had to make up the prescriptions by hand, took a lot of time so I stayed after hours. Did I tell you that story?” I nodded again. “But did I listen to her? No, I was young, a pisher, like you,” he smiled ever so faintly, handing me another tissue.“Thank you.” “But by the time I realized she was right, the Germans came to our village. The men they rounded up. The women and children ... they took away, gone. We never saw them again. Mr. Busch, I never saw them again! Understand?” I handed him back the picture which he returned to his pocket. “Go home to your family.” His words seemed plain enough, but he stopped short of advising me any further.

My wife and I had indeed arrived at a fork in the road. Whether I would keep Shabbos at home by myself, well … that he left to me. I had only to choose the path I would travel. From the stairway, a voice beckoned. “Reb Isser? … Ashrei!” I followed him upstairs for minyan.

I did as Reb Isser had advised. I could no longer ignore my problems at home, hoping they would simply disappear. The decision I made to keep Shabbos by myself-though difficult-was one I felt I needed to make. The experience not only did not weaken but, in fact, strengthened my resolve to live more observantly. We did try marriage counseling, but I am certain we both knew ours was a case of too little, too late. If nothing else, counseling delineated our differences so sharply that our irreconcilability became a foregone conclusion.

“I feel this emptiness in my gut,” I confessed to her. We were out one summer evening and had stopped to pick up some ice cream. The kids were home. There wasn’t much time to talk things over. It was just around sundown. I noticed several cars hurriedly pulling into the parking lot of the shul just across the way from where we had parked the car. “I want to be part of that,” I said, pointing to the shul. “But we’ve not lived that way. It’s too much. We didn’t raise the kids in a kosher home. I just don’t get why you cannot be happy with where we are.” “Jan,” I turned and looked at her, “I don’t understand it myself, but I know in my heart it’s real.”

We headed back home. “You’re sure about this?” she turned to me, “because I can’t go with you.” “I know that, I really do,” I smiled at her understandingly. “What about the kids?
Jan asked. “Tonight, we’ll tell them tonight.”

“Your mother and I love you unconditionally,” I began. I looked at her, the mother of my children and wife of twenty-four years, as if to get the final go-ahead. She nodded approvingly. “But Mom and I have decided … “ Zac, our youngest, wept a little boy’s tears. Ben, our oldest, was incredulous at the announcement but had known something was not right between us for a long time. Kimberly, our middle child, had just completed her freshman year at the university. Her mother drove down and told her on the way home.

I moved out of my house soon thereafter to a nearby apartment. Our children remained
at home with their mom, but I tended my bonds with them unfailingly. I trod the path of
Jewish observance, at times very clumsily, I feared. Unaware of its many stumbling blocks, I
often felt uncertain I fully understood the map before me.

Alan D. Busch
Revised 3/22/09

2009-03-15T14:15:00.006-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends,

Below please find an original short story that I hope soon will appear in the pages of Horizon Magazine. Please read it in conjunction with an earlier story Tefilin and Teacher that you will find by clicking here. Tefilin and Teacher will be published by The Jewish Press sometime after Passover of this year.

Shabbos Mincha with Reb Isser

Reb Isser knew intuitively something was wrong.

Truth be told. I didn’t know what to do. My marriage was in jeopardy. My children felt

conflicted. I wanted to become more Jewishly observant. My wife and children did not. Our

family had suffered a near meltdown on Erev Pesach over kashrus in our home. Whatever

shalom bayis still remained was crumbling fast.

I hurried to shul Shabbos afternoon to greet Reb Isser at the front door. “He’ll know what

to do,” I reassured myself. In the two years since I had first wandered into his minyan, he

became my mentor, confidant and proxy zayde.

I began helping Reb Isser prepare shalosh seudos every Shabbos afternoon.

We draped the folding tables with white plastic table cloths, set out twenty-five

place settings and served as much tuna fish, chopped fish balls, herring, cake and

soda pop as we could find left over from the morning Kiddush. The minyan would file

down the narrow stairwell after mincha, line up around the kitchen island to wash and make

“ha motsi” over the challah buns we had placed in a wicker basket to the left of the sink.

“Nu, Mr. Busch. What’s on your mind?” Reb Isser finally inquired as I had hoped he

would. I guess he noticed how preoccupied I must have appeared.

“Well … uh, trouble at home, Reb Isser. My wife … you know,” I responded, searching for

the right words but hopeful I would not have to explain too much.“No, I don’t know. You want to
tell me?”“My wife is very unhappy with me.” I hesitated to continue.

“Go on,” Reb Isser encouraged me, as if he had some familiarity with this problem.

“I spend too much time in shul, she thinks. By the time I get home Saturday night, now with

spring and summer, it's too late"

"Too late for what?” he asked.

“She wants to go out in the early evening, you know, a movie, maybe something to

eat.” Reb Isser reflected for several “interminable” moments. Waiting nervously, I hoped his

would be a sympathetic decision.

“Mr. Busch,” Reb Isser spoke softly. He removed a single photograph from his shirt pocket.

For someone as forthright as Reb Isser usually was, he seemed reluctant to speak.

“I’ve shown this picture to no one in fifty years since I came to America,” he confessed,

handing it to me.

“Reb Isser, you don’t have …”

“Mr. Busch,” he gently interrupted, “Yes, I do.” I was afraid I knew where he was going with

this. I fell silent.

“This was Rivkale, aleah hashalom,” he said, pointing to a pretty, slight woman with

delicate features. Her hair was put up in a bun, her long flowery dress seemed very

appropriate attire for what appeared to be a family picnic. “And these,” he continued, his

forefinger trembling, “are mein kinderlach …” He blinked repeatedly, trying to hold

back the tears.

“Reb Isser, please don’t,” I pled. He handed me a tissue.

“Forgive me, Mr. Busch, but you need to hear this. This is Yossele,” he pointed to the older of

his two children, a boy who looked to be about six years old. “I used to curl his peyos around

this finger,” he recalled, holding up the same forefinger with which he had pointed to Yossele

in the picture. “And this, this …” he began to sob. “This is … is Chavaleh ...” whose shoulder

length red hair her mother specially fashioned into ringlets for this picnic, Reb Isser tearily

recalled. “Do you see this spot?” he asked me, pointing to the hem of Chavaleh’s white dress. I

nodded. “It’s a grass stain. She fell running in the park that day.”

I couldn’t look any more. I turned aside and began nervously dividing up the herring

among several paper plates.

“Mr. Busch,” he patted my hand. I released the fork. “My wife felt I was working too much.

She told me many times that our sholem bayis was much more valuble than the few extra

zlotys I was bringing home. I was a druggist, you know. In those days, you had to

make up the prescriptions by hand, took a lot of time so I stayed after hours. Did I tell

you that story?” I nodded again.

“But did I listen to her? No, I was young, a pisher, like you,” he smiled ever so

faintly, handing me another tissue.“Thank you.”

“The Germans came to our village. The men they rounded up. The women and

children ... they took away, gone. We never saw them again. Mr.Busch, I never saw them

again! Understand?” I handed him back the picture which he returned to his pocket.“Go home

to your wife and children.” He could not have said it more plainly.

From the stairway, a voice beckoned. “Reb Isser? … Ashrei!” We hurried back upstairs.

I had some hard choices to make. I began thinking about how I could become more

observant, even if only incrementally, but without putting my family at risk. Fairly certain I

knew what the right path was and where it led, I did as Reb Isser had advised. Though I was

worried that I might be coming home too late, I realized The One Above sends molochim

into our lives when we need guidance to make the right decision. This was one of those

instances. Reb Isser taught me there is a makom for every man. For the now, mine would be

at home where I needed to repair the foundation of my family’s sholem bayis. By so doing,

my children would have the opportunity to learn the invaluable lesson of which the Germans

had denied Yossele and Chavaleh.

Alan D. Busch
Revised 3/15/09

Glossary

Shabbos-Sabbath

mincha-the afternoon prayer

reb-yiddish expression of respect shown an older man

zayde-yiddish, grandfather

erev Pesach-the eve of Passover

Kashrus-kosher dietary laws

kiddush-meal served with grape juice or wine after the morning prayer

shalom bayis-peace at home

shalosh seudos-the third Sabbath meal eaten after the afternoon prayer

minyan-prayer quorem of ten adult men

ha motsi-blessing over bread

aleah ha shalom-may she rest in peace

nu-yiddish, so

pisher-yiddish slang, young boy

shul-yiddish, synagogue

peyos-side curls

Ashrei-the first word of the afternoon prayer

makom-Hebrew, place

2009-03-15T14:15:00.001-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

2009-03-05T19:48:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends,

The following piece from my manuscript in progress will be published in the Shabbat Shalom feature of the Orthodox Union (OU) at ou.org sometime after Passover this year

This is a photograph of my father Dr. Albert I. Busch, DDS, Z'L at 87 years of age shortly before his passing on October 18, 2008.

Reckoning

I am my father’s witness.

He’s been sent home after spending two weeks in the hospital. Colon cancer
is killing him. There is nothing more the hospital can do. We visit with each
other three days a week, just he and I, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays,
from noon until 5 o’clock. We’ve recently completed our eighth week
together. He’d agree, I am certain, that it has been the best time we’ve ever
spent with each other.

I’ve read that a son should ask certain questions of his father. This I
have done. I usually initiate the conversation, but there was an occasion or
two when he beat me to the punch. I’ve always regarded my father as my
teacher. Now that our time is running out, I must learn to see things as he sees
them, from his inside out and, perhaps with just enough gentle prodding, he’ll
tell me about the stuff he’s never told me before.

Never inclined toward casual conversation, my father and I have always
preferred the weighty dialectic of issues, substance. These eight weeks really
comprise our last, albeit extended, substantive exchange, but with one
important difference for each of us.

For me, it is a matter of kibud av, my last chance to better honor the man
from whom I have fashioned so much of me. For Dad, it is his time to tie up the
loose ends, say what has to be said and what he’s wanted to say. When he speaks
to me now, it is with what I’ll call a “sense of mission”.

It’s been during this time that he has fashioned his cheshbon ha nefesh,
his life’s reckoning. It is, I suppose, roughly comparable to a last will and
testament but opened and read only by The Dayan Emes.

“Alan, come back here in the bedroom.” My dad is not feeling well today.
To see him lying in his disheveled sickbed is a disturbing sight. I spot his favorite
sweater that he so enjoys having wrapped around his shoulders crumpled up in a
ball by the head board. We jokingly call it his “talis”. He wriggles about
uncomfortably atop his bedcovers. His head is scrunched up against four
pillows, his frighteningly thin legs poke through the ends of the same pajama
pants he has worn now for several days. A once robust, barrel-chested man and
golden glove pugilist in his youth, my father was someone you’d want to have
on your side in a fight.

“Do you remember what you said?” he asked me with a worrisome look. My
father is referring to one of the stories he’s been reading that I’ve written about
his struggle and our time together. “How you thought I was going to die that morning
when Bobbie (my dad's wife) brought me to the emergency room.”

“Yes, I do remember that all too clearly …”

“Well son, I wasn’t ready to die that morning and, as a matter of fact,” he
added, “the thought never entered my head.” I swallowed hard, having just
shared a gritty, dramatic moment with my father. “Dad, when I first saw you in
that treatment room, I was scared at how terrible you looked. Your skin was
yellow, you were burning up from fever and the diarrhea was unrelenting. Truth
be told, I thought to myself: ‘This is the end.’ “

Talk of death does not disturb him. He speaks of it almost detachedly, with
the calm acceptance of a man who has squared his account with his maker. It’s
important that I transcribe the meanderings of his soul before colon cancer
takes him from us. He grimaced.

“Dad, are you all right?” He seems not to have heard me.
“Pain in your gut, Dad?”
“Some yes.” He tells me it’s been coming more frequently.
“I took a couple of Vicadin.”
“Dad, what kind of pain is it?”
“It feels ‘sore’. You know, how I felt as a kid when I had eaten too many green
apples.” Somehow I was not convinced his grimace reflected a merely “sore”
stomach, but I understood what he was doing, he thought, for my sake.

My father and I had gone out in the morning on business which completely
wore him out. We had been able to get out fairly regularly until just recently
when my father suffered a precipitous decline in his health. Whenever we
did make it out, I felt like such a kid walking around with a toothy grin, wearing
a t-shirt with an arrow and caption that read: “This is my dad!”

It is very difficult to leave my father today on Erev Shabbos. As sundown
approaches, he becomes contemplative, soulful if you will, as if he had already
acquired his neshuma yesaira.

“You know I was thinking back when you were a
baby,” he began. “You were born with a club foot. Did you know that?” he
asked, his eyes becoming misty. I’ll miss this part of him most. “No Dad I
didn’t,” I managed to choke out those four words. In truth, I had heard it
untold times before, but for my father, each time was as if it were the very first.
“And I used to turn your foot and turn your foot, again and again, like this,” he
demonstrated painfully and tearfully, twisting his hands in the manner of one
struggling to connect two rusty garden hoses into one. It was enough to
emotionally drain both of us.

“What time do you have, Son?” he asked me, reaching for the box of tissues
on the nightstand.
“4:45.”
“4.45! You better get going. I don’t want you to be late for ‘shul’.”
I gathered my things slowly. “Go home Son. It’s getting late,” he counseled.
I turned to leave.
“Alan, thank you,” he said excitedly.
“Have a great weekend,” I said.
“Good Shabbos,” he responded, as if mildly rebuking me. I leaned
over.

Kissing me as he had always done, I felt the familiar scratchy stubble of my
father’s unshaven face, but not so strangely, it didn’t bother me this time. I
inhaled his scent.

Traffic that afternoon did, as I had hoped, run quickly, but it still seemed to
have taken me forever to get home.

Alan D. Busch
3/2/09

2009-02-23T09:56:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends,

Please click on the link below to read about my latest publication news.

http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewnews.asp?id=26900

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

2009-02-22T17:59:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends, please click on these links to read original short stories by Alan D. Busch. You'll be taken to Authorsden.com where most of my work in presenly posted as well as my latest published pieces in several media and news of upcoming publications. Lastly, please take a moment and let me know what you thought of the writing. Praise welcome but by no means required. Constructive criticism or questions are always very welcome.

Sincerely,

Alan D. Busch

http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewshortstory.asp?id=40228

http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewshortstory.asp?AuthorID=79100&id=40319

2009-02-17T06:30:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Readers,

My Father, Albert I. Busch, DDS, Z'L passed away on October 16, 2008. I am currently working on a book tentatively entitled Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me, a memoir of our last weeks and conversations together. Please feel free to comment on this and other forthcoming chapters as I revise them.

Sincerely,

Alan D. Busch

Difficult to Leave

My father makes it very difficult for me to leave sometimes. Another Friday has arrived. Erev Shabbos, the Eve of The Sabbath, is the time when he begins to reflect. You see … my father is fashioning his cheshbon ha nefesh, his life reckoning, and I am his witness. It affords me the opportunity to see things from his inside out, to look out upon the world and see it as he
does. My father and I sit down together. He paused for a moment or two.

“Dad, are you all right?”
“Do you remember what you said?” he asked me with an expression of concern.
“About …?” I wondered.
“How you thought I was going to die when Bobbie (my dad's wife) brought me
to the emergency room?”
“Yes, I remember that very clearly …”

It was almost 4:00 on a Friday afternoon. My father lay atop his bedcovers, his head scrunched up against what appeared to be four fluffy pillows. He has appeared worn out these last several days. The “recovered and spry” dad of two weeks ago, the dad about whom I fancied might beat his cancer, seems long gone. He hasn’t changed out of his bedclothes in several days.

“Well, I wasn’t ready to die that morning son.” I listened. What is the appropriate response when one’s father says that?
“In fact,” he continued “the thought never entered my head.”
“Well, I ‘gotta’ tell you Dad, you looked terrible. I mean your skin was yellow.
You were feverish, the diarrhea was unrelenting. I thought to myself …. I really
did: ‘This is the end.’ “

Speaking of death does not disturb my father. He accepts it because he can do nothing to prevent it. I never stop learning from my father. He grimaced.

“Pain in your gut, Dad?”
“Some yes.” It’s been coming more frequently, he noted.
“I took a couple of Vicadin.”

We had gone out earlier to take care of some business. Wore him out.

“Dad, what kind of pain is it? Sharp, dull, stabbing, throbbing?”
“No. None of those. It feels ‘sore’.”
“Sore?” I wondered.
“You know, how I felt as a kid when I had eaten too many green apples.”

Now whether my father is giving me a sanitized explanation of his pain, I’m not
sure, but his grimace does not suggest “sore” to me.

“Dad, you rest this weekend,’ I advised, immediately recognizing the
presumptuousness of my recommendation.
“I’m not sleeping so well these days, Son.”
“He sleeps very little at night,” Bobbie informed me several days before of how
little he sleeps and spends hours walking around the apartment. “He does not
want to stop moving.”
“Know what I prescribe Dad?” I asked only partly in jest.
‘What?”
“Take a half cup of wine, just wine, a half cup only and a book. Climb into bed
and I guarantee you’ll be asleep within minutes.”
“Son,” my father said sternly, “I don’t drink.”
“Dad, this is not drinking. Half a cup of wine,” I pled. It was getting close to 5:00. I would have to leave soon.
“Do you have several minutes yet? Have I told you that story?”
“About … ?”
“Why I don’t drink …”

I sat back down and listened as if I had plenty of time. After all, this was my dad. Perhaps traffic would be light on a late Friday afternoon.

“Your mom and I went out to a friend’s dinner party, and I got stupid drunk. I never did like the stuff but that night … well anyway we got home, but I couldn’t make it up the stairs. Your mother was livid. So there I lie so drunk I couldn’t help myself. Then your brother Ron came out.”

Dad’s face reddened at the recollection.
“Daddy, why are you sleeping on the stairs?”
“I’m conducting a comfort test of these stairs, Son, and I think it’s not a good
idea to sleep on the stairs.” My father did not like recalling this story.

“Alan, understand?”
“Yes Dad.”
“Go home Son. It’s getting late,” he counseled. I turned to leave. He looked so far away.
“Alan, thank you,” he said excitedly. He remained seated. “You know I was
thinking back when you were a baby. You were born with a club foot. Did you
know that?” His eyes became misty. “No Dad I didn’t,” I managed to choke out
those four words.

In truth, I had heard it untold times before, but for my father, each time seemed as if it were the very first time. “And I used to turn your foot and turn your foot, again and again” he said
painfully and tearfully, showing me how he did it by twisting his hands in the manner of one who is wringing out a wet towel.

“What time do you have?” he asked me.
“4:45.”
“4.45! You better get going. I don’t want you to be late for ‘shul’.” I gathered my things.
“Have a great weekend,” I said.
“Good Shabbos,” he responded, as if correcting my salutation. He kissed me on
my cheek with the stubble of three days’ growth of beard.

Though traffic did run surprisingly quickly, it seemed as if it took me forever to get home.

2009-02-13T07:20:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Tefilin and Teacher

I was running several minutes behind. I feared I was going to miss the Rabbinical Kaddish for my dad who had passed away several weeks before. In my rush to be on time, I made a mental note to take my Parkinson’s meds before I ran out the door. I had begun to slow down, my movements were becoming labored and I sensed a slight increase in what I call my "trembling index" which, should it exceed a certain level without additional medicine-makes it virtually impossible for me to put my tefillin on.

"Oh no! 6:03!" I glanced at the time on my cell phone. Brochos had begun promptly at 6:00.If there were already a minyan, I had approximately four minutes before it reached the Rabbinical Kaddish. If I cut through the alley, I could be in shul in less than a minute. I rushed over and down the hallway to the beis medrash."Al Yisroel v'al rabbonam …” I tried to catch up, but my heart was pounding, my legs and left hand trembling rather noticeably.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened. The worst part is not the temporary physical incapacity but the self-consciousness I feel. I don’t want anyone’s pity or assistance although Rabbi Louis has helped me to rewind my tefilin and fold my tallis on more than several occasions.“Calm down a bit,” I muttered to myself, realizing then I had forgotten my meds.

Minyan was crowded that morning. Two new fellows had shown up to my right. Ordinarily a table of three, we had grown to five. I felt cramped. “This is not going to work,” I thought, clumsily trying to unfold my talis. My fingers were stiff and uncooperative. I gathered up my stuff. “I need lots more room,” I thought while opening the door to the main sanctuary. I could hear the chazzan …"Yishtabach shimcha ..." “I’ve got to get back in there before “Shema” I thought, managing finally to get my talis and tefilin on after ten minutes.On such mornings, the privacy does help.

“Borechu es …”

I checked my Rosh quickly and reentered the beis medrash in plenty of time for Shema.

“…ukshartam l’os al yadecha v’hayu letotafos bein einecha …” I felt better. I had really earned it.

Find Thyself A Teacher

Actually, it was he who found me when I wandered one evening into the traditional minyan where he served as gabbai. The only thing I knew about yiddishkeit was that I didn’t know anything about yiddishkeit. I do not know why Mr. Irwin Parker took a personal interest in me but I am thankful he did. Perhaps I reminded him of someone he had lost in his first life. An apothecary by training in pre-war Poland, who later survived Mauthausen, Reb Isser, as I affectionately came to call him, stooped forward, a result of the beatings the kapos had inflicted. The same perpetrators broke his nose repeatedly. Never reset properly, it became permanently misshapen, its tip misaligned with a crushed bridge. Other beatings damaged his eyesight, causing his left eye to float.

One afternoon he took out a small blue velvet bag from inside the portable bima.

“Roll up your sleeve,” he nodded toward my left arm. “Slip your arm through this loop and slide it up to your bicep.”

“Like this?’ I wondered, my legs shaking.

“No, no. You see this knot? It has to be on the inside facing your heart.”

“Oh, okay. I got it.” We tightened the slip knot to my bicep and wound the black leather strap seven times around my forearm.

“Nu?” he waited. “Mach a brocho …”

“ … al mitzvas tefilin?” I asked reluctantly.

“No no!”“ … le haniach tefilin, right?”

“Yes. Now the Rosh. Remember? Bein einecha.”

“Okay, got it. How’s this?” hopeful I had gotten it right.

“Ach, a yiddishe man!’ he kvelled.

I felt like such a kid. Being shown the ways of our fathers by a righteous man who had survived their worst travails was a humbling experience. Reb Isser bore the moral authority of one whose quiet tenacity to overcome permanent injuries provided indisputable proof that a new pharaoh had, in fact, arisen to destroy us a generation of years before. Being with and learning from older men had never been a problem for me. As a boy, I had been taught to rise up before the hoary head. What struck me though at first about Reb Isser was his uncanny resemblance to my grandpa Harry Austin (Astrinsky).

I invited him home one afternoon for a cup of tea. When I showed him a photo of my Grandpa Harry, he was nearly speechless, but it wasn’t his likeness alone that attracted me. Exactly as I had seen my grandpa do years before, Reb Isser put a sugar cube between his lower lip and gum before he sipped his tea. More than merely a quaint custom, I knew it represented nothing less than a sweet fragment of an old world.

Reb Isser once likened the tefilin shel yad to a telephone hand set and the shel rosh to itsreceiver. Our tefilos, extending the metaphor, are long distance calls which, he hastened to emphasize, become less costly if dialed frequently-a divine telephone service package if you like.

Whether one views the mitzvah of tefilin as did Reb Isser or as a bridge that joins us through avodas Ha Shem to the Exodus and forward to today’s tomorrow, Reb Isser was the handiwork of The One Above, one of His original prototypes of which there have been few copies.

Alan D. Busch
2/9/09

“

2009-02-09T14:25:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Tefilin and Teacher

I was running several minutes behind.

I feared I was going to miss the Rabbinical Kaddish for my dad who had passed away several weeks before. In my rush to be on time, I made a mental note to take my Parkinson’s meds before I ran out the door. I had begun to slow down, my movements were becoming labored and I sensed a slight increase in what I call my "trembling index" which, should it exceed a certain level without additional medicine-makes it virtually impossible for me to put my tefillin on.

"Oh no! 6:03!" I glanced at the time on my cell phone. Brochos had begun promptly at 6:00.If there were already a minyan, I had approximately four minutes before it reached the Rabbinical Kaddish. If I cut through the alley, I could be in shul in less than a minute. I rushed over and down the hallway to the beis medrash."Al Yisroel v'al rabbonam …” I tried to catch up, but my heart was pounding, my legs and left hand trembling rather noticeably.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened. The worst part is not the temporary physical incapacity but the self-consciousness I feel. I don’t want anyone’s pity or assistance although Rabbi Louis has helped me to rewind my tefilin and fold my tallis on more than several occasions.“Calm down a bit,” I muttered to myself, only then realizing I had forgotten my meds.

Minyan was crowded that morning. Two new fellows had shown up to my right. Ordinarily a table of three, we had grown to five. I felt cramped. “This is not going to work,” I thought, clumsily trying to unfold my talis. My fingers were stiff and uncooperative. I gathered up my stuff. “I need lots more room,” I thought while opening the door to the main sanctuary. I could hear the chazzan …"Yishtabach shimcha ..." “I’ve got to get back in there before “Shema” I thought, managing finally to get my talis and tefilin on after ten minutes.On such mornings, the privacy does help.“Borechu es …”I checked my Rosh quickly and reentered the beis medrash in plenty of time for Shema. “…ukshartam l’os al yadecha v’hayu letotafos bein einecha …” I felt better. I had really earned it.

Find Thyself A Teacher

Actually, it was he who found me when I wandered one evening into the traditional minyan where he served as gabbai. The only thing I knew about yiddishkeit was that I didn’t know anything about yiddishkeit. I do not know why Mr. Irwin Parker took a personal interest in me but I am thankful he did. Perhaps I reminded him of someone he had lost in his first life.

An apothecary by training in pre-war Poland, who later survived Mauthausen, Reb Isser, as I affectionately came to call him, stooped forward, a result of the beatings the kapos had inflicted. The same perpetrators broke his nose repeatedly. Never reset properly, it became permanently misshapen, its tip misaligned with a crushed bridge. Other beatings damaged his eyesight, causing his left eye to float.

One afternoon he took out a small blue velvet bag from inside the portable bima.“Roll up your sleeve,” he nodded toward my left arm. “Slip your arm through this loop and slide it up to your bicep.”“Like this?’ I wondered, my legs shaking.“No, no. You see this knot? It has to be on the inside facing your heart.”“Oh, okay. I got it.”We tightened the slip knot to my bicep and wound the black leather strap seven times around my forearm.“Nu?” he waited. “Mach a brocho …”
“ … al mitzvas tefilin?” I asked reluctantly.“No no!”“ … le haniach tefilin, right?”
“Yes. Now the Rosh. Remember? Bein einecha.”“Okay, got it. How’s this?” hopeful I had gotten it right. “Ach, a yiddishe man!’ he kvelled. I felt like such a kid. Being shown the ways of our fathers by a righteous man who had survived their worst travails was a humbling experience.

Reb Isser bore the moral authority of one whose quiet tenacity to overcome permanent injuries provided indisputable proof that a new pharaoh had, in fact, arisen to destroy us a generation of years before. Being with and learning from older men had never been a problem for me. As a boy, I had been taught to rise up before the hoary head.

What struck me though at first about Reb Isser was his uncanny resemblance to my grandpa Harry Austin (Astrinsky). I invited him home one afternoon for a cup of tea. When I showed him a photo of my Grandpa Harry, he was nearly speechless, but it wasn’t his likeness alone that attracted me. Exactly as I had seen my grandpa do years before, Reb Isser put a sugar cube between his lower lip and gum before he sipped his tea. More than merely a quaint custom, I knew it represented nothing less than a sweet fragment of an old world.

Reb Isser once likened the tefilin shel yad to a telephone hand set and the shel rosh to itsreceiver. Our tefilos, extending the metaphor, are long distance calls which, he hastened to emphasize, become less costly if dialed frequently-a divine telephone service package if you like. Whether one views the mitzvah of tefilin as did Reb Isser or as a bridge that joins us through avodas Ha Shem to the Exodus and forward to today’s tomorrow, Reb Isser was the handiwork of The One Above, one of His original prototypes of which there have been few copies.

Alan D. Busch
2/9/09

“

2009-01-21T15:53:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

“Al Ha Nissim"- A True Short Story About a Purim Miracle
,
(This story will be published in The Jewish Press (NY), the Largest Independent Jewish Weekly in America) in late February or early March before the Jewish holiday of Purim.)

The entire downtown business district would pour into the streets around 5:30 P. M. clogging the already congested traffic lanes of Chicago’s bustling “Loop”. Blaring horns of Checker taxicabs and city buses made it hard to hear one’s voice, but my father’s voice … I always heard.
As a kid, I fondly recall his homiletic teachings that he’d say “were not worth a hill of beans” if unaccompanied by good deeds. “Words alone are cheap son. Actions speak louder. Remember that!”

One bitterly cold afternoon stands out in particular. A dusting of powdery snow had made everything look so pure. My father and I were on our way home from his office when a shivering, bedraggled man approached us. The butt of a cigarette hung from his cracked lips. His thin, dirty jacket reeked of tobacco and alcohol. “Here, my man. Take this,” my father reassuringly said while removing his long coat and draping it around the trembling shoulders of this fellow. “Be well,” he added with a faint smile. He took me by the hand and headed to the underground garage where he had parked his car. “Daddy, aren’t you cold?”“A bit son, but I would have frozen had we walked past that man without responding. Giving is more blessed than receiving, sonny boy.”

A Generation Later

“That’s it!” I declared after stumbling upon a hamantashen recipe “for dummies” in the Purimshpil edition of my shul’s newsletter.

“Hey Ben … you ‘wanna’ help me with this?” I asked my first born.
“Sure,” he agreed enthusiastically, “but can we save some for us too?”
“No problem! We’ll make an extra dozen.”

Sure. I could have gone to the kosher bakery, but that was not the lesson I wanted Ben to learn. Besides, I had already signed us up to deliver matanot l’evyonim for The Ark, a Jewish social service agency. By late afternoon, Ben and I had helped twelve Jewish families to enjoy a chag Purim sameach.

Six Years Later

Ben offered to help me with Purim deliveries but on one condition-that we not bake hamantashen again. He asserted that at eighteen years of age, he was way too old for “that kid stuff”. We had had a great morning and were heading back to The Ark when an alarming pause interrupted our conversation. Not having answered my previous question, I turned to Ben and saw something I had never seen before. He had seized up and began jerking spasmodically like a steam pump grinding to a halt for lack of oil. Trapped in his own body, Ben turned to me in desperation, bewildered yet hopeful as if to say: “Dad, I sure hope you know how to deal with this!” Truth be told, I didn’t.

I had to be on alert at all times with Ben. Diagnosed with juvenile diabetes when ten and a half years old, he often suffered from hypoglycemia unexpectedly in the course of conversation. You could be chatting with him one moment and, in the next, he might be writhing in the throes of low blood sugar. That’s how frightfully unpredictable it is, but what I saw that morning was unlike any of his hypoglycemic episodes. I had seen enough of them to know. Terrorized by this unfamiliar demon, I rushed to a nearby restaurant panic-stricken. “I need a regular cola now,” I shouted to the counter person. “Please hurry. It’s an emergency!” I ran back to Ben and forced his mouth open. He began to suck on the straw. I feared it wasn’t doing him any good because he had eaten lunch an hour before the attack, but it was the only thing I knew to do. If nothing else, the cola would spike his blood sugar. The nightmare ended after five minutes. We drove home exhausted, bewildered and scared.

Ben’s mom and I agonized for several interminable hours. The attacks kept on recurring. I lost count after a while. Whenever it started up, I’d restrain Ben with a gentle bear hug to protect him from himself. I whispered in his ear quite a lot that terrible day. “What was happening to him?” we asked each other while awaiting a referral call from Ben’s doctor. It never came. Afraid for our son, our patience exhausted, we left for the emergency room. We’d deal with the insurance company later.

As for Ben, not one complaint! He never became despondent or depressed. On the contrary, Ben embodied the virtues of self-reliance and courage-the sort of person to remount his bicycle quickly if he fell off, always ready for the next patch of rough road. Yet, as strong as he was, I am sure the tireless presence of chronic illness wore him out at times.

After waiting six hours for the results of a battery of tests, the doctors diagnosed Ben with Epilepsy. Epilepsy! We were devastated. His seizures continued inexorably for several days during which Ben’s doctors sought the right combination of medications with which to treat him.

Gleanings

Fearful his son had fallen off the derech and set out on an unchartered journey, a father traveled a great distance to visit a renowned talmid chochem.

“What should I do Rebbe?” the father pled.
“Love him now more than ever before!” he responded.

"Dad, I don’t ‘wanna’ do this,” Ben stated unequivocally.
“Me neither Son,” I quickly added, “but we have no choice.”
“What if I don’t do it?” Ben asked threateningly.
“You’ll get very sick!” I hastened to respond. “You ‘gotta’ do it, but I’ll help you.” Ben shuffled along kicking stones, his shoulders hunched, both hands thrust into his pants pockets.“Why me, Dad?” he complained bitterly.
“I don’t know Ben. I just don’t know.” I felt helpless and ashamed. Aren’t dads supposed to have all the answers?

The strength of faith rests upon our belief that … all things do happen for the good. Ben would eventually fashion his own cheshbon. I helped him as much I could oftentimes with questions rather than answers.

Ben, for his part, in refusing to despair of a life of hope, reminded the rest of us to acknowledge the divine paradigm of spiritual strength within ourselves, and thereby see the miracle of Purim revealed.

Glossary:

Purim-a Jewish holiday based on the Biblical Book of Esther
Hamantashen-traditional Purim cookies
matanot l'evyonim-giving of gifts to the poor
chag Purim sameach-Happy Purim
talmid chochem-Torah scholar
rebbe-(Yiddish) rabbi
cheshbon-reckoning

Alan D. Busch

1/19/09

2009-01-08T00:11:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends,

Please read my latest published story in the January 7th edition of the Jewish Press (NY) or

January 9th (hard copy) and, if you are so inclined, leave a brief comment ...

http://www.jewishpress.com/pageroute.do/37745

Sincerely,

Alan D. Busch

2008-12-30T19:31:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

“Al Ha Nissim”

For better or worse, Ben, my first-born son, had always been like his father, as was I like mine. As a kid I fondly recall my father’s homiletic teachings about which he remarked “aren’t worth a hill of beans” if not attached to good deeds. “Words are cheap son. Actions speak louder. Remember that!” We had just left his office and were on the way home when a bedraggled, shivering, gaunt man with the butt of a cigarette hanging from his lips approached us. His thin, dirty jacket reeked of tobacco and alcohol. “Here, my man. Take this,” my father reassuringly said while removing his long coat and draping it around the shoulders of this fellow. “Be well,” he added with a faint smile. He took me by the hand and headed to the underground garage where he had parked his car. “Daddy, aren’t you cold?”“A bit son, but I would have frozen had we walked past that man without responding. Giving is more blessed than receiving, sonny boy.”

A Generation Later

It was that time of year, the month of Adar, when we are bidden to be joyful. Purim lay just around the corner, affording us an opportunity to help needy Jewish families enjoy a “chag sameach” by performing the mitzvah of “matanot l’evyonim”.

I ran across an easy hamantschen recipe while flipping through the pages of the Purim edition of the JUF news magazine. “That’s it!” I declared. After Ben and I picked up a few items at the market, we set out immediately to mix and knead enough dough for five dozen hamantaschen, each filled with a half teaspoon of jam. Though I could have easily bought them ready-made, choosing the easier path was not the lesson I wanted Ben to learn. Besides, isn’t homemade always better? We divided up the hamentaschen into twelve plastic bags, tied them off with those “twisty” ties you get with the trash bags and drove to The Ark, a Jewish social service agency in Chicago, that had organized the delivery of holiday food baskets to the Jewish needy. By the early afternoon, Ben and I had brightened the prospects of a chag Purim sameach for twelve families.

Six Years Later

That year I volunteered once again to deliver Purim food baskets. Ben agreed to accompany me on one condition- that we not bake hamantaschen as we had done six years before. He asserted that at eighteen years of age, he was way too old for that “kid stuff” We had had a great morning albeit without homemade hamentaschen and were on our way back to The Ark when an alarming pause abruptly ended our conversation. Not having answered my previous question, I turned to Ben and saw something unlike anything I had ever seen before. Ben’s body had stiffened and begun jerking spasmodically like a steam pump grinding to a halt for lack of oil. Looking bewildered and trapped in a body from which he could not escape, he turned to me in desperation, bewildered yet hopeful as if to say: “Dad, I sure hope you know how to deal with this!” Truth be told, I didn’t. I had to always remain on alert with Ben, diagnosed with juvenile diabetes when ten and a half years old, because he often suffered from hypoglycemic shock unexpectedly in the course of conversation. You could be chatting with him one moment and, in the next, he might be writhing in the chaos of low blood sugar. That’s how frightfully unpredictable it was, but what I had seen that morning was unlike any hypoglycemic episode of Ben’s I had ever witnessed. I had seen enough of them to know. What’s more? He had eaten lunch not more than an hour before the attack.

They say the first time is the worst. Terrorized by this unfamiliar demon, I responded to it the only way I knew. I rushed into a nearby restaurant panic-stricken. “I need a regular cola now,” I shouted to the counter person. “Please hurry. It’s an emergency!” I ran back to Ben. Forcing the straw between his lips, I hoped, probably unrealistically, that if it were diabetes related, the cola would at least spike his blood sugar. He instinctively began to suck on the straw although, I feared, it wasn’t doing him any good. The nightmare ended after five minutes. We drove home exhausted, bewildered and scared. The attack kept on recurring so often that I lost count. Whenever it started up, I’d hold on to Ben with a gentle bear hug to restrain his arms so that he not hurt himself and to let him know I was there. I whispered in his ear quite a lot that terrible day. Ben’s mom and I agonized for several interminable hours. “What was happening to him?” we wondered while awaiting the one call from Ben’s doctor that would have authorized our son’s referral to the hospital. It never came. When our patience had nearly exhausted itself, we left for the emergency room. We’d deal with the insurance company later. As for Ben, not one complaint! He never became despondent or depressed though, as strong as he was, I am sure the tireless presence of chronic illness wore him out at times. Ben lived without self-pity. Embodying the virtues of self-reliance and courage, he was the sort of person to remount his bicycle quickly after he had fallen off, always ready for the next patch of rough road. After some six hours in the treatment room while Ben, his mother and I awaited the results of a battery of tests, the doctors diagnosed him with Epilepsy. Epilepsy! As if Ben were not burdened enough by diabetes. We were, naturally, devastated. The seizures continued inexorably for several days. Not until after a series of trial and error, did Ben’s neurologist, an arrogant man whom I disliked, find the right dosage to treat Ben’s seizures.

In the spirit of the joy and miracles of Purim, I’ve looked for the silver lining of that day twelve years ago when Ben experienced his first epileptic seizure. It may seem paradoxical, but what I do know is that Ben’s epilepsy strengthened his spirit even more than had the juvenile diabetes with which he had been diagnosed when only ten and a half years old. He was a young man who showed us how to endure chronic illness with dignity and grace in the too few years that were ours to be with him. Perhaps there was some hidden significance that his mom and I had named him “Benjamin”. Like Mordechai Ha Yehudi, of the tribe of Benjamin, my son taught us-by his refusal to bow down to a false god, whether it be chronic illness or Haman Ha Rasha-to discover therein the paradigm of our spiritual strength.

Glossary

Al Ha Nissim

Adar-Hebrew month of Purim

Purim-Jewish holiday based on biblical Book of Esther

chag sameach-happy holiday

chag Purim sameach-happy Purim

matanot l'evyonim-gifts to the poor

hamantaschen-traditional Purim cookies

Mordechai Ha Yehudi-Morcdechai the Jew, hero of the story of Purim

Haman Ha Rasha-Haman the Evil One, who sought to destroy the Jews of Persia.

2008-12-21T08:30:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends,

PLease click on http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewshortstory.asp?id=38992 , read the short introduction, then click on http://www.aish.com/family/ to read Alan latest publication at Aish.com.

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

2008-12-16T11:48:00.000-08:00

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CONGREGATION KESSER MAARIV

PRESENTS

MICHAEL MEDVED
Author of The 10 Big Lies About America

NATIONALLY ACCLAIMED RADIO HOST
JANUARY 17, 2009
at CONGREGATION KESSER MAARIV
4341 GOLF RD. SKOKIE, IL. 60076
PHONE (847) 679-9800 FAX (847) 679-5041

SATURDAY NIGHT at 7:30 P.M., JANUARY 17, 2009 WITH MICHAEL MEDVED

Members = $25.00/ Person, Non-Members = $50.00/ Person
SPONSORSHIP = $100.00 ADDITIONAL PER PERSON
Light Refreshments Served and book signing of Michael’s new book
CALL THE SYNAGOGUE OFFICE AT (847) 679-9800 WITH YOUR RESERVATIONS OR ALAN D. BUSCH AT (847) 894-1001. YOU MAY EMAIL ME AT alandbusch@aol.com.

2008-12-13T16:05:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together

Upcoming Publications by Alan D Busch here.

Here is a summary of my upcoming publications ...

"These Lights We Kindle" to be published by Aish.com this Hanukkah.

"A Father Muses As His Son's Eighth Yahrzeit Nears" (prose and poetry) to be published by Living With Loss Magazine.

"Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me" (chapter 11, short version) to be published by the Jewish Press (newspaper) NY, January of 2009.

"Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me" (chapter 11, LONG version) to be published by Poetica.com magazine.

"Shacharis Musings" (poetry) to be published by Poetica.com Magazine.

Thank you for your readership.

Alan D. Busch

2008-12-11T12:36:00.000-08:00

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Michael Medved Speaking in Skokie, Illinois at Kesser Maariv Synagogue on January 17, 2009 [skokie-illinois-synagogue-hosting...

2008-12-10T07:39:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

http://skokie-illinois-synagogue-hosting-medved.blog-city.com/michael_medved_speaking_in_skokie_illinois_at_kesser_maariv.htm

All Michael Medved fans click on this link!

2008-12-03T11:19:00.000-08:00

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Who Bestows Good Things …

Do you have one of those special photos? You know … the one of you and your five-year old daughter doing the dishes together, from long ago when her mom braided her hair and Strawberry Shortcake was her favorite doll. I do.

As parents, we recognize that when our children leave the nest, we rely on our faith in Ha Melech Malchei Ham'lachim Hakadosh Baruch Hu to sustain us through the trials of this world. We acknowledge that He alone governs it.

I was at work when the call came in.

“Mr. Busch?” a stranger’s voice inquired in a tone that made me tremble.
“Please God. No! This can’t be happening,” I silently pled, recalling a similar call from several years before, when my son Ben died in a traffic accident.
“Yes, this is Mr. Busch,” I acknowledged reluctantly.
“My name is Ann and I have just left your daughter Kimberly,” she said calmly.
“Kimberly! Is she alright, is she hurt, tell me where she is,” I nearly panicked.
“Mr. Busch, she is fine. Really! We’re about an hour south of Chicago at mile marker “80”. Kimberly was involved in an accident, but she is unhurt, not a scratch."
“Kimmy, in an accident! Unhurt! Thank God!”
“Yes, that’s right. She’s fine. I’ve already left the scene, but I promised her I’d call you as soon as the police arrived.”

Only two hours earlier Ann pulled off the interstate to help out after she had witnessed a collision on her way to Chicago. That is how she ran across my daughter Kimberly whom, we later learned, had lost control of her steering wheel while trying to pass a truck when its driver unexpectedly shifted into the passing lane. She was forced onto the shoulder and across the grassy median into oncoming traffic whereupon she struck a van.

“Listen Ann, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You can’t imagine how much your news means to me.”

I hung up the telephone so hurriedly that I forgot to get her phone number. I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I could feign, I cut to the end of the story.

“Jan, hi. It’s Alan. Sorry to call at work but it’s urgent,” I stressed.
“What is it?” she asked haltingly.
“Jan, Kimmy’s been in an accident, but she’s fine, completely unhurt,” I hastened to emphasize.
“Kimmy, what? An accident? No, not Kimmy!” she cried out, her voice choked with emotion.
“Listen Hon,” I interrupted, addressing her with an old term of endearment. “Kimberly is safe and unhurt. She’ll tell you everything later. Listen I’m leaving to get her right now. Talk later,” I said, gathering my things, ready to run out. I looked at the clock. Already after 3:00 and with barely the time and breath to inform my co-workers about what had happened, I sped away. Although I knew Kimmy had not been injured, I couldn’t help but call the Illinois state trooper’s cell phone Ann had given me. I guess I could not be reassured enough.

I found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the service station that had towed her car. She was anxious to leave immediately, but I needed a few minutes to wrap my head around this. I walked over to Kimmy’s car. Would you believe me if I told you that the entire front end looked like an accordion? The collision crushed the front end of the car within several inches of the dashboard. I grasped hold of the driver’s side door. To my amazement, it opened cleanly. I sat in the driver’s seat and put both hands on the steering wheel. I slumped down, nearly in tears, gapping incredulously at what could well have been the place where my daughter might have died that day. “Dad, are you ready?” Kimmy asked with the slightest bit of impatience. The moment was for her one from which she wanted to flee. For me it was the scene of the reenactment of my son Ben’s fatal injuries in a traffic mishap several years before.

I “saw” Ben’s unresponsive body lying atop the surgical table.

“Yes Sweety,” I replied, struggling as best I could to avoid an emotional breakdown in front of my daughter. I was quite simply overwhelmed. We drove home mostly in silence. Understandably, Kimmy was skittish. She gasped every time I braked or switched lanes. Who knows how many times she must have rerun the whole thing in her mind on our way home?

“Kimushkele?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, Dad, just beat,” she exhaustively uttered.I dropped her off at her mom’s house. Our time together was over for theday. I wanted to have more time with her, but I knew her mom anxiously awaited her arrival. My heart sank but here she was … safe and sound.

Why was Kimberly saved? I can’t answer that question any better now than I could before when I wondered why Ben had not been. The following Friday, I invited Kimmy over for dinner on Erev Shabbat. My younger son Zac was there too as was my fiancé. A beautifully set table awaited us, its candles aglow for each of my three children. We gathered around the table.
“Kimushkele,” I turned to my daughter, my voice cracking as I tried to articulate the words of a short speech. “Yes Dad,” she responded laughingly while drying a few tears.

“This Shabbat is extra special. We say ‘Hodu la HaShem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’-Praise Hashem because He is good, His kindness is eternal.On this night especially, I am thankful to have you by my side.” I lifted the kiddush cup. A slight tremble animated my right hand. I let a moment pass during which not a peep was uttered. Ben’s candles seemed to flicker more brightly at that instant, illuminating the serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my hand.

“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker …” I sanctified the wine.

Next morning in shul for parashat Vayigash, Rabbi Louis spoke admiringly of Yaakov Avinu who recited Shema upon being reunited with his long lost, beloved son Joseph. At that very moment, I felt a special bond to Yaakov Avinu as a fellow Jewish father thankful for the life of his child.

Alan D. Busch
Revised 12/2/08

2008-12-01T08:58:00.000-08:00

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"Who Bestows Kindnesses ..."

Do you have one of those special photos? You know … the one of you and your five-year old daughter doing the dishes together,when her mom braided her hair in pigtails and Strawberry Shortcake was her favorite doll . I do.

As parents, we recognize that when our children leave the nest, we rely on our faith in Ha Melech Malchei Ham'lachim Hakadosh Baruch Hu* to sustain us through the trials of this world. We acknowledge that He alone governs it.

I was at work when the call came in.

“Mr. Busch?” a stranger’s voice inquired in a tone that made me tremble.“Please God. No! This can’t be happening,” I silently pled, recalling a similar call from several years before, when my son Ben died in atraffic accident. “Yes, this is Mr. Busch,” I acknowledged reluctantly.“My name is Ann and I have just left your daughter Kimberly,” she said calmly.

“Kimberly! Is she alright, is she hurt, tell me where she is,” I nearly panicked.

“Mr. Busch, she is fine. Really! We’re about an hour south of Chicago at mile marker “80”. Kimberly was involved in an accident, but she is unhurt, not a scratch."

“Kimmy, in an accident! Unhurt! Thank God!”

“Yes, that’s right. She’s fine. I’ve already left the scene, but I promised her I’d call you as soon as the police arrived.”

Only two hours earlier Ann pulled off the interstate to help out after she had witnessed a collision on her way to Chicago. That is how she ran across my daughter Kimberly whom, we later learned, had lost control of her steering wheel while trying to pass a truck when its driver unexpectedly shifted into the passing lane. She was forced onto the shoulder and across the grassy median into oncoming traffic whereupon she struck a van.

“Listen Ann, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You can’t imagine how much your news means to me.”

I hung up the telephone so hurriedly that I forgot to get her phone number. I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I could feign, I cut to the end of the story.“Jan, hi. It’s Alan. Sorry to call at work but it’s urgent,” I stressed.

“What is it?” she asked haltingly.

“Jan, Kimmy’s been in an accident, but she’s fine, completely unhurt,”
I hastened to emphasize.

“Kimmy, what? An accident? No, not Kimmy!” she cried out, her voice choked with emotion.

“Listen Hon,” I interrupted, addressing her with an old term of endearment. “Kimberly is safe and unhurt. She’ll tell you everything later. Listen I’m leaving to get her right now. Talk later,” I said, gathering my things, ready to run out. I looked at the clock. Already after 3:00 and with barely the time and breath to inform my co-workers about what had happened, I sped away. Although I knew Kimmy had not been injured, I couldn’t help but call the Illinois state trooper’s cell phone Ann had given me. I guess I could not be reassured enough.

I found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the service station that had towed her car. She was anxious to leave immediately, but I needed a few minutes to wrap my head around this. I walked over to Kimmy’s car. Would you believe me if I told you that the entire front end looked like an accordion? The collision crushed the front end of the car within several inches of the dashboard. I grasped hold of the driver’s side door. To my amazement, it opened cleanly. I sat down, putting both hands on the steering wheel. I slumped down in the driver’s seat dumbfounded, nearly in tears, gapping incredulously at what could well have been the place where my daughter mighthave died that day. “Dad, are you ready?” Kimmy asked with the slightest bit of impatience. The moment was for her one from which she wanted to flee. For me it was the scene of the reenactment of my son Ben’s fatal injuries in a traffic mishap several years before.

I “saw” Ben’s unresponsive body lying atop the surgical table.

“Yes Love,” I replied, struggling as best I could to avoid an emotional breakdown in front of my daughter. I was quite simply overwhelmed. We drove home mostly in silence. Understandably, Kimmy was skittish. She gasped every time I braked or switched lanes. Who knows how many times she must have rerun the whole thing in her mind on our way home?

“Kimushkele?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, Dad, just beat,” she exhaustively uttered. I dropped her off at her mom’s house. Our time together was over for the day. I wanted to have more time with her, but I knew her mom anxiously awaited her arrival. My heart sank but here she was … safe and sound.

Why was Kimberly saved? I have no more of an answer now than before when I wondered why Ben had not been. The following Friday, I invited Kimmy over for dinner on Erev Shabbat. My younger son Zac was there too as was my fiancé. A beautifully set table awaited us, its candles aglow for each of my three children. We gathered around the table.

“Kimuschkele,” I turned to my daughter, my voice cracking as I tried to articulate the words of a short speech.

“Yes Dad,” she responded laughingly while drying a few tears.

“This Shabbat is extra special. We say ‘Hodu la HaShem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’-Praise Hashem because He is good, His kindness is eternal.On this night especially, I am thankful to have you by my side." I lifted the kiddush cup. A slight tremble animated my right hand. I let a moment pass during which not a peep was uttered. Ben’s candles seemed to flicker more brightly at that instant, illuminating the serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my hand.

“Vayahe erev vayahe voker,” I sanctified the wine.* Next morning … I “bentched” Gomel.**

Alan D. Busch

*Ha Melech Malchei Ham'lachim Hakadosh BaruchHu (Hebrew) The King, King of Kings, The Holy One, Blessed Be He

* "Vayahe erev, Vayahe voker" (Hebrew): And there was evening and there was morning. Part of the Sabbath Eve Kiddush, chanted on Friday night.

** "bentched" (Yiddish) prayed; Gomel (Hebrew) prayer recited upon surviving a dangerous situation.

2008-11-27T08:49:00.000-08:00

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Dear Friends,

Click on this link to listen to my interview on Israel National Radio by Tamar Yonah of the Tamar Yonah Show....

http://www.israelnationalnews.com/Radio/News.aspx/317

Thank you,

Alan Busch

2008-11-18T11:17:00.000-08:00

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Dear Friends,

I am pleased to announce that I received notice from the editor of Bereavement Publications, Living With Loss that my article "Musings of A Father ..." will be published in either the 2009 Summer or Fall edition of Living With Loss Magazine.

They say "timing is everything." Today, 11/22/08 and on the Hebrew calender the 24th of Heshvan-which this year fell out on the Jewish Sabbath-marked Ben's eighth yahrzeit, the anniversary of his death .... I learned after coming home from synagogue that my article had been accepted-an appropriate tribute to my son Benjamin whom I miss emormously ...

A father muses as the eighth anniversary of his son's death nears ...

For Ben’s sake whose life I love, may I merit the strength to live life free from bitterness, anger and cynicism. May you Son dwell on high, enough to look down from above the clouds and see us searching the heavens for your shadow.

I became misty in synagogue today while attending morning services. Rabbi had taken hold of the Torah scroll and chanted the “Kel Mole Rachamim”, a prayer that pleads for divine watchfulness over the souls of our loved ones in the “olam haba”, the world to come. While listening, I remembered that the twenty-fourth day of Heshvan, the Hebrew date of Ben’s death, is only two weeks away, and this year will mark the eighth anniversary of his passing.

When a Jew dies, his soul ascends. It makes “aliyah”, we say, to the higher plane of the world to come, floating like a feather caught up in the draft of God’s exhalation. A Jew of faith quietly utters “Baruch Dayan Ha Emes”-Blessed is the True Judge-upon learning of a death. It reflects his acceptance that God “runs the world”. For him it is an unalterable reality.

The “living” remain behind, struggling with our faith which, if heretofore untested, is likely not to be as strong as we think. Untested faith is like a first layer of clothing which, by itself, is inadequate to shield one against the cold wind of loss. We add layers of “protective insulation” to faith by prayer, the reading of psalms and the recitation of Kaddish. It’s not a panacea, however. The struggle to cope, to “make sense out of it all”, continues. The pain remains. By reinforcing our faith, we hope to manage the pain of grief more effectively.

The approach along the winding path to Ben’s grave fills me with dread.
I stand before his parcel of earth numbed by the irreversible reality of his death. It is a curiosity of human behavior that the bereaved speak to their departed ones while standing before their graves. I do it too although Ben remains silent. Even if the comfort we experience lasts but a moment, our nature compels us to reconnect through imagination.

“Ben, it’s been a while. I apologize, Son.”

“Oh, that’s okay, Dad. No problem,” he said, generously letting me off the hook.

“You know Ben … while standing here, I think back to some of my favorite moments and picture you as you were, as we used to be.”

“Like what? Oh, wait! I bet you’re thinking of the Radio Flyer red wagon when it was just me and Kimmy, right? Remember how she sat in front and I held on to her from behind,” he asked.

“Yea, I do ‘Member’ how I used to fix her hair like Pebbles on The Flintstones?” I reminisced.

“Yea, that was funny. You really liked dragging us around a lot, especially to the
library, didn’t you?”

“I sure did. I would seek out clumps of people on the way there who would tell me how beautiful my kids were. Then we’d read stories for an hour or so.”

Ben blushed.

“Listen Ben, I ‘gotta’ go. Talk again?”

“Sure, Dad.”

Sometimes you come away feeling better …

Leaving the cemetery, especially the first time, is a difficult step. After all, we
brought so much but leave with so little, nothing more than memories. Although we may “feel” the presence of our loved one, it is somehow never enough.

A Poem in Memory of Benjamin Eight Years Ago
Since we bid thee farewell eight years ago,
that bleak morning many tears did shed.
Into cavernous depths we lowered thee …
to souls long before art thou wed.

I want you to know I’ve lived as well …
as best I could … I have tried.
Nary a morn, noon or night has passed
couldn’t ever help myself but cried.

I've felt so bad all these years,
when your days of youth deprived
with sickness that stole so much of your strength
from our well that might otherwise have thrived.

Much like you, what could we do
when alone we left you to lie ...
Living our lives lest we stray
from our faith well worn and tried.

It is hard to explain these feelings I have
without you eight years I live.
As each day passes, I can’t but think
My life for yours I wouldst give.

Alan D. Busch
11/17/08

2008-11-16T15:41:00.000-08:00

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stories from shul ...

the day had been mediocre at best. i felt cold all day-no matter the heat was on, had taken my meds on schedule but still felt poorly. all in all, not a 5-star day.

i was to meet my wife at our favorite starbucks after minyan. had to drag myself, really could have convinced myself to stay home but i went and you know what?

I am exceedingly glad i did. yes, the weather was undesirable, i still felt cold, stiff. a tad off balance (pretty much par for the course for a middle-aged man with PD (oh! sorry ... parkinson's disease)

happily, we had a big crowd for minyan. rabbi louis taught from medrash tanchuma between mincha and maariv; a nice d'var Torah sprinkled with a few light-hearted remarks, pretty much par for the course for Reb Louis. this man has kept me going for nearly fifteen years with his friendship, his Torah and good humor.

we finished maariv; the guys were getting ready to leave. the customary handshakes, yasher koachs, you know the usual stuff. i was chatting with walter when comes up to me this man ...

"excuse me sir, are you alan busch?"

not to worry, my interlocutor was a yid from new york. we were in an orthodox shul in its beis medrash.what? i should worry?

"yes, i am."

" i just wanted to let you know i read your book. haven't been here for a year or so, but last time i picked up a copy, cried all the while i was reading. thank you for sharing these stories of your beloved son!"

"thank you, thank you very much, your kind words, i ..."

"as a parent, well i can't imagine it but your sensitivity, the way you wrote it, your language, rabbi was there too, " he said, pointing to Reb Louis.

"yes, my dearest friend."

well, i must tell you, this gentleman went on for another three minutes. i took his hand.

"i wasn't sure you'd be here, but i was hopeful. i'm in town for a few days. will you be here?"

"yom yom, " (every day) i responded genuinely touched by this kind man's generosity of praise.

and then ...

"my name is Benjamin."

my heart nearly flew out of my chest!

"well, thank you Ben," i couldn't restrain this enormous smile i felt overtaking my face. it had been such a crummy day.

"hey ... Ben, that right," he realized. "that was your son's name. i forgot and was trying to remember it."

"thank you Ben," i did not want the moment to end. i let go of his hand reluctantly. Ben turned to leave.

The "Aibishter" sends messengers. He really does, believe me. one of mine has been called "Benjamin" twice ...

"walter, you need a ride home?"

"sure," he responded. walter walks with a cane. i left shul with that same smile.

"see you tomorrow walter after minyan?" i asked."

"i'll try to make it," he said closing the car door. "oh," he said, reopening the door, "coffee tomorrow after shul?"

"it's a date," i gladly accepted. you see? i almost did not go to shul tonight, feeling poorly as i had been, but the "Aibishter" sent me a "refuah". Baruch Ha Shem! so who am i to complain?

2008-11-13T09:30:00.000-08:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Revision of my poem "For Zac", my son more precious than rubies ...

For Zac, My Younger Son and Youngest Child

“May He Become A Teacher"

I see him back then, as a boy I did teach,
I pray Son a human being I helped you become.
Remind us to reflect the divine spark in each
when the miscreance of others leaves us benumb.

Teary-eyed respite sighs, when on cloudy days I recall,
a boy whose freckled face I see crestfallen became ...
for plucking orange lilies off sun craning stems,
who boyishly felt neither remorse nor shame.

A lesson he learned from that day hence …
until forever arrives, may his days be long last.
What good endureth, what measure this hath,
if allowed to fade silently into our past?

Respect life all, from greatness to small,
guard this lesson's value pristine,
Tend your garden until like a school it becomes
when tomorrow’s children, of lilies they have seen.

Alan D. Busch
11/13/08

2008-10-29T13:51:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

A Chapter of Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me to be published.

10/29/2008 12:10:00 PM

by Alan D Busch

The Jewish Press (NY), America's largest Jewish independent weekly, will publish this
abbreviated revision of Chapter 11 of Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me in January of 2009. See below.

__________________________

Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me

Struggling To Do The Right Thing

It wasn’t so much my father’s problem as it was mine.

The commandment to honor one’s parents had always been for me simply …
the right thing to do. Jewish tradition characterizes it, however, as the most
challenging of the Taryag Mitzvos. Anyone who has ever cared for a
terminally ill parent appreciates the difficulty of performing this mitzvah well.

With the approaching Aseres Y’mai Teshuva, I found myself struggling with
how best to honor my father who had been battling colon cancer for two years.
Hospitalized twice since July of 2008, we moved him to a skilled nursing
facility. He lived there for fifteen days before he died on Shabbos. I was at his
bedside.

My father’s condition made it impossible for him to attend high
holy day services this year as he had in years past. I was unsure whether to
attend services or be at his hospital bedside. I wanted to do the right thing, to
decide upon the right path and soon. “I’ll be staying here with Dad for Rosh Ha
Shana,” I told my older brother Ron who had already postponed his flight
several times. However, after two weeks with Dad, he had to return home.
“I cannot in good conscience go to shul,” I added. Ron’s face brightened as
if to say ‘You’ve made the right decision little brother’.

“Well,” he observed pithily, “if you can’t take care of your father at a time like this,
religion isn't worth much, is it?"

“I couldn’t agree more Ron,” I replied, smiling at my brother’s roughly hewn
pshat of the Fifth Commandment. I had never seen my older brother weep
before. I guess there is a first time for everything. I turned aside. “Hey,” he said,
gently draping his forearm on the back of my neck and shoulders. “Thank you.”

If my father could not come to Rosh Ha Shana, I’d bring Rosh Ha Shana to him. Hoping to elevate my family’s mitzvah of bikkur cholim to a Kiddush Ha Shem, I brought a holiday meal to the hospital for my family. My daughter Kimberly cried. Perhaps the festive food would help to strengthen our emunah that The Aibishter might still inscribe and seal my father in the
Book of Life.

The eve of Yom Ha Din approached. Who would live? Who would die? Who
would be sealed in the Sefer Ha Chaim? I found myself wrestling with a more
intense moral dilemma than the one I had faced several days earlier. The
awesome finality of Yom Kippur filled me with greater uncertainty and
dread. My father continued to decline. How would I live with myself tomorrow
if I were not at my father’s bedside today? Would I have to plead for my father’s
life before the Aron Kodesh? I needed guidance.

I called Rabbi Louis. We chatted for an hour. I learned how he had cared for his dying father years before but could not bring myself to ask him what he would have done had his father been dying on the eve of Yom Kippur.

I went early next morning to visit my father. Time was running out just hours
before Kol Nidre. While my father slept, I called my friend Ephraim, a halachic
Jew, who hosts an on-line yeshiva where I have read some of my poetry and
prose. Preoccupied with his eighty-six year old mother who, like my father, was
terminally ill with stage four cancer, he told me he'd be staying at home with
her for yontif. I was thunderstruck. His timely story of hashgacha pratis
resolved my dilemma.

Rabbi Louis called me motzai yontif. I relayed Ephraim’s story. “Baruch Ha
Shem!” he responded, once more validating his belief that “Got firt da velt.”
“The Aibishter sends messengers to help us make the right decision,” Rabbi counseled.
My right decision enabled my dad and me to reach closer to The One Above than either of us could have done separately.

I was called to his bedside late Shabbos morning, My father’s neshuma was readying itself to
depart. A sound came from his throat as he drew his last breaths. A final calm blanketed him.
He was warm and at ease.

A part of my father had gone missing eight years before when his twenty-two year old grandson, my son Ben, departed this world. It's hard to pin down, but I suspect it left at the same time as
Ben's neshuma. Like Jacob who had clung to Esau's heel, it attached itself to Ben's ha akev shel
ha nefesh, the heel of his soul, taking a little bit of my father with him.

Now on this Shabbos Kodesh, my father would at long last be whole again.

Revised 10/27/08

2008-10-09T09:39:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

dear friends, please see my newly published story in the Jewish Press of New York

http://www.jewishpress.com/pageroute.do/36604/Lamentations.html

2008-09-16T05:51:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Tka B' Shofar

Express Mail to Ben on the first day of Elul ...

Letter to Ben and Related Thoughts (resent express mail) this first day of Chodesh Elul in anticipation of the New Year 5769.

(with an addition to the original "Letter to Ben" written Thursday night and early Friday morning just a few days before Erev Rosh Ha Shana 5766) ...

There are many greetings for the Yomin Noraim, the Jewish high holidays: A Gut Yontif, A Gut Yor, Chag Sameach, Shana Tova, among several others, but regardless of whichever one we choose, their common feature is they can be effectively answered by responding "Amen!"
Such a wonderful word this "amen"! It's short, clean and efficient and, in effect, says: "Yes! I subscribe to everything you have said!"Beyond this, we pray that each of us will be inscribed in the "Sefer Ha Chaim"-the Book of Life-for the coming year-that we may be worthy enough to enjoy the mazel, brocho and hatzlacha, luck, blessing and success that the New Year affords!

As a boy, I remember hearing that without good health, all the riches in the world ... well, you know the rest ...We are all "basar v' dam"-flesh and blood-mortal beings for whom death-however untimely and premature as it so often seems-is as integral to life as is birth itself; dialectical opposites each requiring the other lest what we euphemistically call "nature" gives way to chaos.

None of this however soothes the bereaved parent! That much I know very well. As a matter of fact, I have often found myself examining my own deeds-both present and past-in an attempt to uncover what may be a possible linkage between the absolute calamity of losing Ben and my own considerable failings and flaws. Then I "awaken" because I know in my heart that He does not rule over the universe in such a fashion that a child is sacrificed for the misdeeds of a parent! For as immeasureably much as I miss Ben, I blame no one and certainly not God Himself or ... for that matter the driver of the truck whose failure to signal a right turn led to ...I even know his name and where he lives, but for the sake of Ben whose life I love(d), may I merit the strength to live life free from bitterness, anger and cynicism, and may you Ben dwell on high, high enough to look down through the clouds and see us.

On this the first day of Chodesh Elul, on the "almost eve" of the New Year, 5769 I send you these few reflections ...

Dear Ben,

It's now approaching eight years ago that you left us son. That Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving, November 22, 2000, our last morning together, those few minutes we spent chatting while I drove you to the train ... how grateful I am the vivid memory of that brief moment is mine.Life without you has been and continues to be difficult. There isn't a day when I don't think of you while pondering the many "what might have beens". I smile recalling how close you and I were! Sure we had our many differences and struggles, but what father and son don't?

We've all had to get on with our lives. We grow older while you remain forever as young as the day you were taken from us. Believe it or not ... today, September 1, 2008 is Zac's 21st birthday.Over these several years, I have spoken to many parents who have lost a child, and learned each copes in his own way. I don't know how your mom has managed, but I imagine she has in her own way-not unlike your sister and brother and all who love you. While searching for the right words, Ben, my hope is they'll not only have particular meaning for you but a more universal message as well for others who grieve as do we.

First off ... know that I love(d) you and will always unconditionally. As the older of my two sons and the eldest of my three children-though I take much pleasure in watching your sister and brother take their places in the world, I feel great anguish when I see the grownup sons of other men. We were all deprived of you Ben. It is just somehow so unfair! I recall one night when you, your sister, brother and I were together; it might even have been a Shabbat or yom tov-maybe one of our Passover seders. When the three of you were about to leave on your way back to mom's house, I kissed you on your cheek and felt the stubble of your whiskers on my lips. Funny what each of us remembers.

Be well,

Dad :)

9/1/08

2008-09-09T06:03:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends,

Here is chapter 1 of Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me, a memoir about my father who is telling me his story. I question him, he answers, I listen, he grows weary, I run home to write it all down. It is his way of fashioning a "cheshbon ha nefesh", an accounting of his life. My father suffers from stage 4 cancer ... may he merit length of days.

“Stuff My Father Won’t Tell Me …”

Part 1

I feared for my father’s life.

"Alan, it’s Bobbie,” my dad’s wife called me early one morning."
“Yes, Bobbie, Good morning.”
"I’m taking your father to the hospital. Please come down.”
“Okay, okay. I’m leaving right now.” I had told Bobbie she should call me if ever she needed any assistance with my father-no matter what time or day it was. You were right,” I admitted.
“About what …?”
“About me picking up the phone.” It was Shabbat morning when I do
not make or accept any phone calls. I make one exception, however. I
will answer calls from my parents and my children.“Well, I had a feeling,” she responded while ably making her way through traffic.
“Well, thank you for that feeling.”

We arrived at Northwestern University’s Prentice Women’s Hospital about forty minutes later. I entered through the emergency room while my wife parked our car in the lot.
“Good morning,” I greeted the receptionist.
"Good morning,” she replied.
“My father is here, Dr. Albert Busch.” She typed quickly.
“Yes, Dr. Busch. Exam room four. Right around the corner,” she turned around in her chair. “There. Right down the hall.” I hurried away. I met Bobbie standing outside exam room four.
“Bobbie.”
“Hi. Your dad is inside,” she said, gesturing toward the door. Her expression looked foreboding. I did not know what to expect, but it couldn't be anything good. I went in. I saw my father, already changed into a hospital gown, lying down atop a gurney, several nurses attending him. He was dehydrated. Fighting unrelenting diarrehia and fever from a urinary tract infection, my father’s skin was yellowish. I had seen that skin tone before when, as a volunteer for
the Jewish Sacred Society, I used to help wash and dress bodies before
burial. I had never seen my dad like this. I feared for his life.“Good morning. Dr. Busch?” a young ER resident entered the room. “Yes, I’m Alan Busch. Dr. Busch is my father.” He was “thirtyish something” unshaved, short in stature and sporting a black suede
Kippah. One bobby pin.
“Good Shabbes. Sholem Aleichem,” I greeted him.
“Good Shabbes to you. Aleichem Sholem, he responded. “How is your Shabbos going?” he asked me tongue in cheek. I liked him. He understood.
“I’ve had better,” half-smilingly.
“We’ll be admitting your father shortly as soon as the paperwork is processed.
“Thanks, doc,”
“You’re welcome. Be well.”

I am here in Room 1616, Prentice Women’s Hospital. It has been a rough first few hours. I’m doing as much as I can. I don’t want to let him down. He’s mostly asleep except when the diarehia makes its presence felt. It comes so fast that there is no chance of making it to the bathroom. I help the nurses clean up. After all, this is my father we’re talking about here. He falls back asleep within seconds.

I look at his face. It’s drawn, his skin sagging under his chin. His neck
is wrinkled. He’s lost so much weight. It’s as if he’s extra skin. I can’t
help it but it reminds me of a turkey’s neck. You know what I mean.
‘This is how he’ll look, I suppose.’ I try to block these thoughts out. I
can’t. There he lies and I can’t help but think. God and my dad should
forgive me. Watching his life come to an ignominious end, ravaged by cancer
attacking his bowel. His intestines are at war against us. He’s lost
control of them. They control him now and are making his life miserable.
"Call the nurses Alan. Please, please don’t do any more.”
"Dad, let me. I'll clean this up myself.” Determined to care of my
father, I lost count of the number of times I changed his gown and
bed sheets. The nurses are giving, wonderful people, but I was frankly
embarrassed for them and my father. “I understand son but the nurses are faster.
Let them do their job.” He was adamant. I stayed over the first two nights.
We must have called the nurses four or five times during the early morning hours to help
us clean up. The unrelenting nature of the diarrhea was demoralizing us.

I watched my father fade away. He had become frightfully thin. After
more than forty-eight hours at the hospital, I reached my limit. I had
to go home. My wife, Heather, came down to pick me up. I was
exhausted physically and emotionally. Bobbie had arrived earlier so I
did not feel guilty about leaving.
“Dad, I’ll be back on Thursday.”
“No problem, son. Go home and rest." Even had I protested, my
father would have kicked me out. He seldom if ever thinks of himself.
“Heather, let’s go for a drink.” I felt ready to collapse not so much
from physical fatigue as from emotional exhaustion.
“I saw a nice little place at the corner. What do you say?” She was
agreeable.“This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do,” I said
while sipping a martini. My wife ordered a diet pop.
“Come on. Finish up and let’s go home. I’ll fix something for dinner,”
she said. Now that was really welcome news because for two days, I
had eaten nothing but cereal with milk, pudding, chips and fresh fruit.
Mind you, I was not going to starve but the hospital’s “food market”
had a limited supply of kosher items.

We arrived home. I collapsed on the couch. My wife lit some candles,
closed the blinds and put on some James Taylor “cds”. She knows how
much I like him. I cannot really account for it, but there is something
about his music that affects me emotionally. I felt I was just about
ready to burst. By the end of his song “Mean Old Man” (which, by the
way,, my father is not!) I broke down sobbing, my shoulders heaving.
I covered my head with the towel my wife had put on the back of my
neck for extra comfort and simply … wept.

I woke up next morning feeling sluggish, still worn out.
"I'll be down there tomorrow. It's too darn hot. The expressway is a
parking lot,” I tried to assuage my guilty conscience. I spent the better
part of the day trying to fool myself, looking for and finding every
excuse not to visit my father that day. I called my brother Ron
around 7:30 p.m. He had flown in from St. Louis that morning and
been with our father all day.
"Hi, Ron, so how was today?"
"Not so good," he sounded worn out.
"Oh ...?" I wanted him to continue.
"Can you come on down now?" he asked, barely masking an order to
do so. Frankly, I was glad he did. Even though my father had been
having a bad day, Ron's request relieved me of my self-inflicted guilt.
I drove down.
"It's just that I've not seen him cry before except when he thinks
about Ben (my dad’s first grandson, my first-born son who died
almost eight years ago).
"It's so darn pitiful," my brother remarked.
Tears. My father was crying while sitting on the commode.
Disappointment. Let down. Ten days in the hospital and the diarrhea
is still unabated. No warning, no bodily signals. It just comes when it
pleases. I kept silent. What response is there? Here is a man who does
not care about his cancer. He can deal with that.

"It's not the cancer. I accept that. It's this diarrhea that is taking me
downhill," he said to his nephew Robert, my first cousin who is a soon
retiring professor of medicine in Michigan. Do you remember what
General MacArthur said about old soldiers not dying but fading away?
As a matter of fact, my father is an old soldier, United States Army,
brigadier general, retired. And as with old soldiers, especially those
who wear stars on their epaulets, there is no crying. Reminds me of
that Tom Hanks line in A League of Their Own. “There is no crying in
baseball!”

Think about what my father said about the diarrhea taking him
downhill, and ask yourself this question: When we are just babies,
what do our parents train us to do which is our first really great
accomplishment? No, it's not "Da-da, ma-ma" or our first step
without holding on. The answer is ‘toilet training”-achieving mastery
over our bodies, controlling one of its most basic functions which
first defined us as kids and no longer babies. One of two lead doctors
treating my father told me tonight he has tried everything he knows,
but he DOES NOT know how to stop the diarrehia. "There is nothing more
we can do for your dad in the hospital," admitted my Dad's oncologist.
My father was scheduled to be sent home. After nearly two weeks in the hospital, he came out
"swinging", as I described him to several friends. It appears the
"Aibishter" has other plans for my father. He summed it up rather
nicely when he told his brother: “Don''t worry Hirshy, I'm not ready
to die yet."

If you're looking to measure a man''s mettle, witness how he copes
with physical affliction. It is ultimately a test of the substance and
depth of his dignity. My father is the paradigm of a man who survived
a plethora of indignities not only with his dignity intact but admired
by the many family members and friends to whom he provided a
remarkable example of stubborn courage. Now that he is home, we spend
much of our time talking and playing gin rummy. He tells his story and I listen.
"So Dad I''ve a few questions to ask you."
"Okay, go ahead. Ask away."
"I wanna know the stuff you won't tell me."

(end part 1)

2008-09-05T16:45:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends,

Please click on Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me ... Part 4 (short story) by Alan D Busch on AuthorsDen

posted and revised 9/5/08

Alan D. Busch

2008-09-03T10:27:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

“Stuff My Father Won’t Tell Me …”

Part 1 Revised 9/3/08

I feared for my father's life.

“Alan, it’s Bobbie,” my dad’s wife called me early one morning.

“Yes, Bobbie, good morning.”

"I’m taking your father to the hospital. Please come down.”

“Okay, okay. I’m leaving right now.”

I had told Bobbie she should call me if ever she needed any assistance with my father. It wouldn’t matter what time or day it was. My wife and I arrived at the hospital about forty minutes later. I entered through the emergency room while my wife parked our car in the lot.

“Good morning,” I greeted the receptionist.

"Good morning,” she replied.

“My father is here, Dr. Albert Busch.” She typed quickly.

“Yes, Dr. Busch. Exam room four. Right around the corner,” she turned around in her

chair. “There. Right down the hall.” I hurried away. I met Bobbie standing outside exam room four.

“Bobbie.”

“Hi. Your dad is inside,” she said, gesturing toward the door. Her expression looked foreboding. I did not know quite what to expect, but it couldn't be anything good. I entered. I saw my father, already changed into a hospital gown, lying down atop a gurney, several nurses attending him. He was dehydrated. Fighting unrelenting diarrehia and fever from a urinary tract infection, my father’s skin was yellowish. I had seen that skin tone before when, as a volunteer for the Jewish Sacred Society, I used to help wash and dress bodies before burial. I had never before seen my dad like this. I feared for his life.

I am here. Room 1616. Prentice Women’s Hospital. Watching his life come to an ignominious end, ravaged by cancer attacking his bowel. His intestines are at war against us. He’s lost control of them. They control him now and are making his life miserable.

"Call the nurses Alan. Please, please don’t do any more.”

"Dad, let me. I'll clean this up myself.” Determined to care for my father, I lost count of the number of times I had changed his gown and bed sheets. The nurses are giving, wonderful people, but I was frankly embarrassed for them and my father.

“I understand son but the nurses are faster. Let them do their job.” He was adamant. I stayed over the first two nights. We must have called the nurses four or five times during the early morning hours to help us clean up. The unrelenting nature of the diarrehia was demoralizing us.

I watched my father fade away. He had become frightfully thin. After more than forty-eight hours at the hospital, I reached my limit. I had to go home. My wife, Heather, came down to pick me up. I was exhausted physically and emotionally. Bobbie had arrived earlier so I did not feel guilty about leaving.

“Dad, I’ll be back on Thursday.”

“No problem, son. Go home and rest." Even had I protested, my father would have kicked me out. He seldom if ever thinks of himself.

“Heather, let’s go for a drink.” I felt ready to collapse not so much from physical fatigue as from emotional exhaustion.

“I saw a nice little place at the corner. What do you say?” She was agreeable.“This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do,” I said while sipping a martini. My wife ordered a diet pop.

“Come on. Finish up and let’s go home. I’ll fix something for dinner,” she said. Now that was really welcome news because for two days, I had grown tired of cereal and milk, pudding, chips and fresh fruit. Mind you, I was not going to starve but the hospital’s “food market” had a limited supply of kosher items.

We arrived home. I collapsed on the couch. My wife lit some candles, closed the blinds and put on some James Taylor “cds”. She knows how much I like him. I cannot really account for it, but there is something about his music that affects me emotionally. I felt I was just about ready to burst. By the end of his “Mean Old Man” (which by the way, my father is not!) I broke down sobbing, my shoulders heaving. I covered my head with the towel my wife had put on the back of my neck for extra comfort and simply … wept.

I woke up next morning feeling sluggish, still worn out.

"I'll be down there tomorrow. It's too darn hot. The expressway is a parking lot,” I tried to assuage my guilty conscience. I spent the better part of the day trying to fool myself, looking for and finding every excuse not to visit my father that day. I called my brother Ron around 7:30 p.m. He had flown in from St.Louis that morning and been with our father all day.

"Hi, Ron, so how was today?"

"Not so good," he sounded worn out.

"Oh ...?" I wanted him to continue.

"Can you come on down now?" he asked, barely masking an order to do so. Frankly, I was glad he did. Even though my father had been having a bad day, Ron's request relieved me of my self-inflicted guilt. I drove down.

"It's just that I've not seen him cry before except when he thinks about Ben (my dad's first grandson, my first-born son who died almost eight years ago).

"It's so darn pitiful," my brother remarked.

Tears. My father was crying while sitting on the commode. Disappointment. Let down. Ten days in the hospital and the diarrhea is still unabated. No warning, no bodily signals. It just comes when it pleases. I kept silent. What response is there? Here is a man who does not care about his cancer. He can deal with that.

"It's not the cancer. I accept that. It's this diarrhea that is taking me downhill," he said to his nephew Robert, my first cousin who is a soon retiring professor of medicine in Michigan.

Do you remember what General MacArthur said about old soldiers not dying but fading away? As a matter of fact, my father is an old soldier, United States Army, brigadier general, retired. And as with old soldiers, especially those who wear stars on their epaulets, there is no crying. Reminds me of that Tom Hanks line in A League of Their Own. “There is no crying in baseball!”

Think about what my father said about the diarrhea taking him downhill, and ask yourself this question: When we are just babies, what do our parents train us to do which is regarded as our first really great accomplishment? No, it's not "Da-da, ma-ma" or our first step without holding on. It's "toilet training”-achieving mastery over our bodies, controlling one of its most basic functions. My father has lost that! And to lose control over that which first defined us as kids and no longer babies, is emotionally devastating.

One of two lead doctors told me tonight that he has tried everything he knows, but he DOES NOT know how to stop the diarrehia. "There is nothing more we can do for your father
in the hospital," admitted my Dad's oncologist. My father was scheduled to be sent home. After nearly two weeks later, he came out "swinging", as I described him to several friends. It appears the Aibishter has other plans for my father. He summed it up rather nicely when he told his brother: “Don't worry Hirshy, I'm not ready to die yet."

If you're looking to measure a man's mettle, witness how he copes with physical affliction. It is ultimately a test of the substance and depth of his dignity. My father is the paradigm of a man who survived a plethora of indignities not only with his dignity intact but admired by the many family members and friends to whom he provided a remarkable example of stubborn courage.

Now that he is home, we spend much of our time talking and playing gin rummy. He tells his story and I listen.

"So Dad I've a few questions to ask you."

"Okay, go ahead. Ask away."

"I wanna know the stuff you won't tell me."

(to be continued ...)

2008-09-01T10:33:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Letter to Ben and Related Thoughts (resent express mail) this first day of Chodesh Elul in anticipation of the New Year 5769.
(with an addition to the original "Letter to Ben" written Thursday night and early Friday morning just a few days before Erev Rosh Ha Shana 5766) ...

There are many greetings for the Yomin Noraim, the Jewish high holidays: A Gut Yontif, A Gut Yor, Chag Sameach, Shana Tova, among several others, but regardless of whichever one we choose, their common feature is they can be effectively answered by responding "Amen!"

Such a wonderful word this "amen"! It's short, clean and efficient and, in effect, says: "Yes! I subscribe to everything you have said!"Beyond this, we pray that each of us will be inscribed in the "Sefer Ha Chaim"-the Book of Life-for the coming year-that we may be worthy enough to enjoy the mazel, brocho and hatzlacha, luck, blessing and success that the New Year affords!

As a boy, I remember hearing that without good health, all the riches in the world ... well, you know the rest ...We are all "basar v' dam"-flesh and blood-mortal beings for whom death-however untimely and premature as it so often seems-is as integral to life as birth itself; dialectical opposites each requiring the other lest what we euphemistically call "nature" gives way to chaos.

None of this however soothes the bereaved parent! That much I know very well. As a matter of fact, I have often found myself examining my own deeds-both present and past-in an attempt to uncover what may be a possible linkage between the absolute calamity of losing Ben and my own considerable failings and flaws. Then I "awaken" because I know in my heart that He does not rule over the universe in such a fashion that a child is sacrificed for the misdeeds of a parent! For as immeasureably much as I miss Ben, I blame no one and certainly not God Himself or ... for that matter the driver of the truck whose failure to signal a right turn led to ...

I even know his name and where he lives, but for the sake of Ben whose life I love(d), may I merit the strength to live life free from bitterness, anger and cynicism, and may you Ben dwell on high, high enough to look down through the clouds and see us. On this the first day of Chodesh Elul, on the "almost eve" of the New Year, 5769 I send you these few reflections:

Dear Ben,

It's now approaching eight years ago that you left us son. That Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving, November 22, 2000, our last morning together, those few minutes we spent chatting while I drove you to the train ... how grateful I am the vivid memory of that brief moment is mine. Life without you has been and continues to be difficult. There isn't a day when I don't think of you while pondering the many "what might have beens". I smile recalling how close you and I were! Sure we had our many differences and struggles, but what father and son don't?

We've all had to get on with our lives. We grow older while you remain forever as young as the day you were taken from us. Believe it or not ... today, September 1, 2008 is Zac's 21st birthday. He was only thirteen when you left. Over these several years, I have spoken to many parents who have lost a child, and learned each copes in his own way. I don't know how your mom has managed, but I imagine she has in her own way-not unlike your sister and brother and all who love you. While I search for the right words, Ben, my hope is they'll not only have particular meaning for you but for others who grieve as we do.

Please know that I love(d) you and will always unconditionally. As the older of my two sons and the eldest of my three children-though I take much pleasure in watching your sister and brother take their places in the world, I feel great anguish when I see the grownup sons of other men. We were all deprived of you Ben. It is just somehow so unfair! I recall one night when you, your sister, brother and I were together; it might even have been a Shabbat or yom tov-maybe one of our Passover seders. When the three of you were about to leave on your way back to Mom's house, I kissed you on your cheek and felt the stubble of your whiskers on my lips. Funny what each of us remembers.

Be well,

Dad :)
9/1/08

2008-08-31T19:15:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends,
It would be helpful to you if you first read the second installment of my series "Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me, A Continuation", which you'll find by scrolling down a bit. My intent and hope is to write and hopefully publish a five part series. More to come ...

“Stuff My Father Won’t Tell Me” Part 3

“Hello,” I picked up the phone.

“Hi Albert. It’s Marge.”

“No. This is Alan.”

“Alan? You sound just like your dad.”

“Well, I guess it’s in the genes. One moment, please. Dad, it’s for you.”

Not too surprisingly, I look like my father, dress like him, emote like him and, as you just learned, sound like him. In other words, I am my father’s son. Then again, so is my brother Ron with whom I have reconnected after a long hiatus these past two months due entirely to our father’s illness. Ron flew in on Sunday afternoon. He called me when he got to my dad’s apartment.

“Ron, can you fill in for me tomorrow? I can’t make it down.”

“Sure. How’s Tuesday for you?”

“Nope, I can’t make it then either. I’ve got some other stuff to do.”

Ron is anxious for the three of us to spend time together before he has to return to St. Louis.

“I’ll be down tomorrow, Ron. See you around noon?

“Hey, that sounds good. See you then.”

There is nothing more “nachasdik” for my Dad than to be with his sons. Personifying an amazing juxtaposition of “opposites”, my dad is a “tough guy” who has never stopped chaffing my cheeks when he kisses me. As a matter of fact, I attribute much if not all of my emotional make up to my father whose example taught me to kiss my children. In public, in private, it doesn’t matter. He’s always enjoyed showing us off- kind of like what I used to do when I would drag my kids around in a red Radio Flyer wagon on our way to the public library. We spent the better part of Wednesday afternoon together with my father at his office. He’s closing it down after more than a half century of business. Though my father has recovered remarkably well since leaving the hospital, he knows he can no longer treat patients. My father has been practicing dentistry in Chicago since 1953.

“One of these days, I’ll get it right,” he often quips with an irrepressible smile. Around 5 o’clock or so, I was getting ready to head back home. Ron walked me to the front door, opposite the kitchen. I could see our father sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. His wife, Bobbie, sat across from him.

“So, Alan, any words?” Ron asked.

“None at the moment,” I responded, hoping to preclude an emotional scene.

“God, I feel so … so guilty about leaving, but I’ve got to get home,” Ron confessed in an undertone.

“I understand,” I reassured him. My brother Ron feels bad. He’s got it tougher than I do. I can see Dad anytime I wish and do. I visit with him three days a week, and I think he’d agree this has been the best time we’ve ever spent together. Ron, however, lives in St. Louis. Not far away, to be sure. A one hour flight. Still, it worries him.

“What if … what if this is the last time?” Ron wonders.

“No, no. Not going to happen. Not now,” I assuredly insisted. “Dad is a pugilist, Ron, remember? He’s a boxer, a fighter, you know.” (As a matter of fact, my father was a “golden gloves” boxer in his youth).

Though Ron is only eighteen months older, it has always defined our relationship. It was an odd moment. I sensed a shift between us. For the first time, I was “taking care” of Ron-a good, big brother much like my son Ben had been to his younger siblings, Kimberly and Zac.

“Hey listen, call me if you want to get together tonight,” I clumsily changed the topic.

“I’d like to but I’d better not.”

“Listen, we’ll talk,” I reassured him. I picked up my computer bag. “Dad and Bobbie, I’ll talk to ya.”

My father’s grief and “atheism” revisited …

My father is not an atheist-no matter what he says. He’s a grieving grandpa whose concept of God-as a beneficent and indulgent parent-not only failed to shield him but shattered when he desperately needed the “bitachon”, faith, that personal tragedy demands and “emunah”, belief, affords.

“I just don’t understand how you’ve done it,” my father has said to me on more than one occasion. “Ron and I were talking about you the other day,” he added, “and we both agree that neither of us could have done what you did.”

My father is referring to the fact I chose life after the death of my son Ben. I don’t mean to dismiss his praise of me, but a grieving parent has a very restricted range of choice in these matters: either he consciously and decidedly determines to choose life-albeit having to accept the presence of grief as a constant in his life from then on, or he becomes busy with dying. Contrary to my father’s generous appraisal, my decision to choose life was not a heroic one-simply necessary.

Losing a grandson … well, I just don’t know how that feels. Is it any different from losing a son? Like me, my father hasn’t been the same since November 22, 2000 when we stood almost within arm’s reach of Ben during his waning moments while a trauma team fought desperately to save his life. Something that day went missing in both of us. I don’t know what to call it or how to define it, but I suspect it left simultaneously with Ben’s neshuma-attaching itself as it were to Ben’s “ha'akev shel hanefesh”, the "heel of his soul", taking a little bit of us with him. And, as I can speak for my father in this matter, that is okay with us.

“Hirshy, I understand that,” my dad said to my Uncle Hirsh, his slightly younger brother with whom he has partnered their dental practice for fifty-five years. I stood by. Couldn’t help but hear the conviction of my father’s voice. “I’ve my grandchildren to live for, Hirsh. The ‘chemo’ can go straight to the infernal regions. My oncologist says continuing the chemo is a ’50-50’ proposition, so I’m choosing to live without it.”

There you have it. Despite his assertions to the contrary (that he could not have survived and lived his life well had either of his sons died) my father has proven himself wrong. He has not only survived the death of his grandson, but very unequivocally “chosen life”. Just prior to his most recent hospitalization for fever, a urinary tract infection and severe diarrehia due to chemotherapy, he had continued to practice dentistry for an additional eight years. Hardly a casualty of tragedy, he has been an inspiring presence and example for his grandchildren, my daughter Kimberly and younger son, Zac.

You see … Ben was my father’s “son”-as much a “father” to all of my children as he is to me and my brother Ron.

That is, I suppose, how my father’s spirituality works. By choosing “ … life, so that you will live, you and your offspring, …” he has shown there are really no atheists in foxholes.

Alan D. Busch
8/31/08

2008-08-23T14:24:00.000-07:00

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Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me ... A Continuation

"Sooooo .... Dad, tell me this ... you ready for some questions and answers?" I'm still trying to have him give up the stories of his life I know he's holding back on.

My father has stage four cancer. He is home. I spend the afternoons with him three days a week. It's good for him, me and his wife, Bobbie, gives her a chance to get out and do stuff.

This is hardly the first time my dad and I have prepared for a lengthy disputation. As a matter of fact, we rather enjoy the experience of give and take, trying to better the other with the force of his argumentation. My father gets such nachas (enjoyment) from the experience. He thinks I'm so smart. Fatherly prejudice. As for me, I've always enjoyed bonding with my dad.

"Sure, go ahead." He gears up. I can see it. It's almost as if my father is testing my "sticktoitiveness" before he'll tell me the stuff that I really want to hear. And even then, it's just a "maybe". I may get closer but there will remain, a core of stuff that he'll continue to withhold from me. My goal is to have him tell me as much about himself as possible, before it is too late.

Perhaps, you find this sort of thing hard to read because it may stir up your own comparable memories. It's powerful stuff. Hits close to home, doesn't it?

I did not live with my father for very long at all. I grew up in St. Louis with my mother and grandmother after my folks' divorce. That is why I do this. It's a mutually beneficial sort of thing: I get to ask questions and listen while my father tells his story to his son, the writer. It's really quite dramatic when you think about it.

"Dad, what was your best day?" I asked, hoping to unleash a flow of words.

"Oh, that's easy," he said smilingly. The day you were born."

"No Dad, hmm, not what I want. I knew you were going to say that. Here now, excluding all those easy answers, births, weddings bla bla bla, excluding all of that, tell me about your best day."

Ah, now that seems to have struck a note. His mien changed remarkably. I know that face. I could see he was going back to the war, WW2, digging deep, exactly where I wanted him to go. I had tried before to elicit these memories, but he always stopped short. This time I think I had him.

"My best day was when I realized I was going to survive the war. You see ... that was my primary concern, for me Albert, I was intent on coming home alive! You know the old expression about there being no atheists in the foxholes?

"Sure. I've heard that."

"Well,, I assure you. It's the absolute truth. There were a couple of guys in my company, avowed atheists. We were gearing up for the Battle of the Bulge. Eveyybody and I mean everybody had a role in that. Well, me and these two guys found ourselves in the same foxhole with our heads in the mud. I dont know what it was, a grenade, a shell whatever. In my life, I had never seen so much praying. 'Dear Lord, please get me out of this. I'll be good. I'll never do that again.' You know the usual stuff that comes out under deep stress. So I says to these guys, I says: 'Whistling a different tune now, huh?' (My father has this peculiar grammatical habit of saying "I says". Really annoying but I keep my mouth shut.)

"How about you, Dad?

"What about me?"

"You know ... your belief?" (Finally, I had him right where I wanted him.)

"Me? Naw, I don't believe in God."

I was thunderstruck.

"Huh? What about the 'whistling a different tune' stuff, the foxhole?"

"Oh, I was just trying to 'raz' them."

"But, but ..."

There was definately something wrong with this picture. My father looked tired so I dropped it. He excused himself to take a nap. I thought about this whole thing for a while. His revelation bothered me. It really did.

A day or two later, I think I may have cracked the case, but it's only a theory at this time. Something had happened in his life that not only transformed him but shattered him and his belief as well. I think my father believed in God for the longest time-not religiously because my father is not a religious man, but a man who is (was?) spiritually inclined-just not in some grandly philosophical, ethereal way. In fact, I caught a snapshot of his theology the other day. He argued, as so many do, for the "proof" of the correctness of atheism that 'were there a God-a caring, loving, parent-like God (and it's important to recognize that that is their image of a God which for them pardoxically either does not or no longer exists)-He would not allow the terrible things in life to happen. It is a child's conception of God, an outlook stunted in its growth at an early age but adhered to for years of adult life. But then something happens that just shatters it, like so much glass. It's not a resilient belief so it shouldn't surprise us to discover it cannot weather the storms of life.

What happened?

When my father's first grandson died, my son Ben, nearly eight years ago on November 22, 2000, my father's fragile belief, his glass-like spirituality shattered just outside the operating room in the ER of Cook County Hospital in Chicago. I stood right next to him as he pled with The Almighty. I was there, saw it all ... heard every word.

"Standing by my father, together we witnessed a fiercely desperate scene unfolding no more than ten feet from us. I turned my head momentarily to check on my dad and beheld a
“stranger” praying fervently for the life of my son. While holding his arms overhead with the
palms of his hands flattened against the glass partition, his body slightly angled outward and
feet spread apart, appearing as if he were about to be searched by the police, he pled with The
Almighty for His immediate intervention.

“Hold on Ben! Fight back! Please fight back!” my father, a sensitive though doggedly determined man, called out once, twice, thrice during Ben’s waning seconds, while there was yet a spark of life aglow."*

(to be continued)

*Excerpted from Snapshots In Memory of Ben.

2008-08-20T14:33:00.000-07:00

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"Lamentations"

(to be published by Jewish Press (NY) October 11, 2008)

His clothing caught my attention. Wearing wrinkled slacks with barely a crease, a faded yellow, perspiration-stained shirt and a dirty beige, worn out cap, he bore the appearance of neglect.

“Good evening, Sir,” I greeted him. Smiling broadly, I chatted with him for several minutes. It was the right thing to do and besides, it made me feel better too. The previous several months had been turbulent. Not only had I ridden an emotional roller coaster, but I was stuck at the peak of the ride.

The summer’s heat was unrelenting and we were in the “nine days” before Tisha b' Av. "Good evening," he responded, an elderly man sitting alone in the shul’s social hall, looking sadly troubled. “I was worried. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv,” he said. "Oh, we'll have a minyan. Please don’t worry about that.”

“Your name is, Sir?”

"Irving Talisman.”

He seemed to be reading my lips. He stopped short of answering Yitzhak. I don’t know why he didn’t, but I gave him my undivided attention.

“Reb Talisman, for whom are you saying Kaddish?”

He twisted his left arm with his right hand to reveal six subcutaneous numerals. The dark shadows of his bloodshot eyes seemed as indelible as his tattoo. "My parents,” he whispered, drying his tears with a soiled handkerchief. That instant, I felt closer to the Shoah than ever before. Sure, I had seen the tattoos but never close up enough to become part of a survivor’s life. That was about to change.

I was determined to comfort this grief-stricken Jew. Was it not my obligation? "This way, Reb Talisman,” directing him to the Beis Medrash. We grasped the door handle. He hesitated.

"Should we enter?" he wondered. "Looks like the rebbe is busy with a bar mitzvah boy."

The shul was hectic. Not only was the sisterhood hosting a speaker from the Park District, but the junior minyan was learning mishnayos with the Rabbi’s son. I had never seen the Rabbi look so exhausted. Reb Talisman and I entered. Rabbi rose from his chair, out of kavod for Reb Talisman.

“Shalom Aleichem, Reb Yitzchak,” Rabbi greeted him warmly.

“Aleichem sholem, Rebbe. Another year, eh?"

“Baruch Ha Shem,” Rabbi respectfully responded.

"Abba, it is 8:05. We have a minyan," announced Rabbi’s older son whose four talmidim followed behind him.

I escorted Reb Talisman to a well-cushioned chair, the only one of its kind in the Beis Medrash. It had been the favorite of the Rebbitzen’s father. When I turned to check on Reb Talisman, I saw he had chosen one of the regular seats by the omed.

"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” the minyan intoned.

I looked over again to see how Reb Talisman was doing. He seemed more at ease now that we had begun on time. The usual several minutes for Mincha flew by.

“Yisgadal veyiskadash shmey raba …”.

Rabbi learned the halachos of the “nine days” with the minyan before the evening prayer.

“Al Yisroel v’al rabbonan …”.

He designated one of the younger fellows to daven Ma’ariv. I should have felt good about how smoothly everything was proceeding for Reb Talisman. After all, minyan began on time. I had helped him in my own small way, but somehow … it just wasn’t enough. I closed my siddur.

“V’hu rachum …”. I arose for Borchu, but I was already a world away. I couldn’t help it, but I turned my thoughts to my Kallah. She had left me two months before after only fifteen months of marriage. I struggled to reconcile our differences, but she was adamant.

“I need to find myself,” she was fond of saying. I understood what she meant because I felt lost without her. "Maybe she'll drive by and come in to see me," I mused, staring out the window. I turned around thinking I had heard a feminine voice. “Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered. “Still, she just might be there when I get home.”

Then I heard Reb Talisman’s voice. It brought me back. I had to finish what I had started.

"Oseh shalom bimromav …”. The beis medrash emptied. “Six o’clock tomorrow morning gentlemen,” Rabbi announced while his younger son replaced siddurim and Gemaras on the shelves. A few lingered to schmooze followed by the customary handshakes and yasher koach(s).
I escorted Reb Talisman to his car. I wondered what I could say to this man, but then realized our love of a fellow Jew had already spoken to Reb Talisman's heart.

"Good night, Sir," I smiled.

"Good night," he said.

I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he drove off. I fumbled for my keys. From the alley by my house, I could see she hadn't returned, but I expected as much. I sat for several moments.

“Maybe I’ll see her tomorrow," I thought. And I felt okay with that because I realized The Aibishter had taught me an invaluable lesson– one which, as a matter of fact, I had already learned but was prone to forget occasionally when I became self-absorbed.

He sent Reb Talisman to shul not only to say Kaddish but to remind me of the many Jews who grieve for losses far greater than mine. If I could but step away from my own tsorris, I could do so much good for so many. An act of chesed had brought comfort, friendship and a smile to an elderly Jew.

Chazal teach us we do not know what rewards await us in the next world for the performance of mitzvos in this world. I like to think though some reward may trickle down to us now. Four months after meeting Reb Talisman, my Kallah called me. We made plans to meet for coffee.

My prayers had been answered. “I'm ready to come home,” she said.

Maybe my reward had trickled down, but of one thing I was certain. Meeting Reb Talisman inspired me.

That day had indeed been a yom tov.

Alan D. Busch
author of Snapshots In Memory Of Ben
August 19, 2008

2008-08-20T02:52:00.000-07:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends,

I am pleased to announce that my short story "Lamentations" (scroll down to the previous posting to see a near version of the story though I had to edit it down a bit to 1000 words) will be published in the Lessons In Emunah feature of the Jewish Press (NY) www.JewishPress.com in the coming days. I do not know the exact date, but I'll post it when I find out.

Special thanks to a special friend, writer and editor whose editorial suggestions were invaluble.

Alan D. Busch