http://www.aish.com/spirituality/odysseys/Stepping_into_the_Sukkah.asp
Dear Readers,
Please go to the above site at aish.com, read my article and don't forget to leave a message in the bottom window of the article.
Many thanks,
Alan
p.s. there are seven comments there already. We can do better than that, can't we? :)
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
“Portrait of a Righteous Man”
In memory of my late friend and teacher Mr. Irwin Parker, Isser ben Avrum, Z'L whom I believe was one of the Lamed Vuvniks of this generation.
He stooped forward. The kapos at Mauthausen beat
him severely. The same perpetrators broke his nose
repeatedly. Never reset properly, his nose became
permanently misshapen, its tip out of alignment
with the bridge. Other beatings caused his left eye to
appear as if he were looking at someone else when, in
fact, he was looking at you, but for which one had to
look at his right eye.
Do we ever consider where the other person was
yesterday? What may have happened, what amalgam
of circumstances congealed to bring that person into
our lives today and tomorrow?
I did not meet him the first day I attended, but
within the minyan sat Isser ben Avrum whose
acquaintance I would soon make and friendship
I would cherish forever. Outside the tiny, picturesque
refuge of the minyan, he was called Mr. Irwin Parker,
but he allowed me to call him Reb Isser. Though small
of stature and slight of frame, he was a lion of a man.
Like others of his generation, his life changed
irreversibly when the German blitzkrieg overwhelmed
the Polish defense forces in the weeks following
September 1, 1939. Although Reb Isser survived
Mauthausen, his wife and children did not, but a
handful of souls among the incalculable kedoshim.
He immigrated to America in the early 1950s and
began life anew, remarrying and raising a second
family.
Our friendship may have seemed odd to some, I
suppose, but as a boy, I had learned to rise up before
the hoary head. I brought Reb Isser home one day to
meet my family as if he were a new school chum.
While we sipped tea in the kitchen, I showed him a
photo of my Grandpa Austin to whom he bore an
uncanny likeness. Like my grandfather, he too placed
a sugar cube or two between his lower lip and gum
where it functioned as a filter through which the tea
passed on its way down. More than simply amused by
this quaint custom, I knew it represented nothing less
than a sweet fragment of an old world.
Reb Isser, who had been trained as a
pharmacist in Poland in the years before WW2,
was not, I suppose, an untypical Jew of his day.
Neither a yeshiva bocher by education nor a great
chochem of Gemara, he did attend cheder and
graduated … a mensch. A prototype of chesed, there
were a few in the congregation who did not like him,
many who loved him, but I dare say not a single soul
who did not respect him. Had you known him as I did
and seen how he interacted with other members of the
shul, how he commanded their respect-not by the
arrogance of scholarship or the external, often
superficial signs of piety-but by the kavod they
accorded him and which he characteristically
rejected, you would have concurred that his was a
yiddishe kop but never a swollen head.
His middot were such that he naturally greeted
everyone with a smile and an extended hand. I
gravitated toward him like an iron filing in search of a
magnet. He became my teacher in the ways of
Yiddishkeit when I was forty years old and he in his
late seventies or early eighties. For reasons he never
explained, he took me under his wing and taught me
siddur, tallis and t’filin. Though I would have preferred
to learn in private, what he may have lacked in
delicacy he more than made up in generosity.
One summer evening before Mincha, Reb Isser
reached into the cabinet below the reading table and
pulled out a small blue velvet bag containing an aged
pair of t’filin.
“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, wound the
black leather strap seven times around my forearm
and recited the brocho. In comparison, donning the
rosh was much easier.
How does one dispute such a man or turn down his
invitation to impart treasures from the old world?
I was being shown the ways of our fathers by a
righteous man who had survived their worst travails.
How did I merit this gift? Perhaps Reb Isser saw in me
a fledgling fallen from the nest or a reminder of
someone he had lost in his first life. Frankly, I do not
know, but I remain grateful to this man and his
memory.
Even the most cursory of examinations would
demonstrate that Reb Isser bore the weight of moral
authority-in whose person resided indisputable proof
that a new pharaoh arises to destroy us in each
generation. He was the handiwork of The One Above
whose unfathomable ways are revealed in individuals,
such as Reb Isser. His amazing life of courage and
survival would be otherwise inexplicable. A tough,
gentle soul, he was, I believe, one of His original
prototypes of which there have been few copies.
“ukshartam l'os al yadecha v'hayu letotafos bane einecha.”
So reads the memorial leaf I dedicated to his memory
on the Etz Chaim in my shul. Isser ben Avrum, Z’L
passed away on erev Rosh Ha Shanah, 2000.
In memory of my late friend and teacher Mr. Irwin Parker, Isser ben Avrum, Z'L whom I believe was one of the Lamed Vuvniks of this generation.
He stooped forward. The kapos at Mauthausen beat
him severely. The same perpetrators broke his nose
repeatedly. Never reset properly, his nose became
permanently misshapen, its tip out of alignment
with the bridge. Other beatings caused his left eye to
appear as if he were looking at someone else when, in
fact, he was looking at you, but for which one had to
look at his right eye.
Do we ever consider where the other person was
yesterday? What may have happened, what amalgam
of circumstances congealed to bring that person into
our lives today and tomorrow?
I did not meet him the first day I attended, but
within the minyan sat Isser ben Avrum whose
acquaintance I would soon make and friendship
I would cherish forever. Outside the tiny, picturesque
refuge of the minyan, he was called Mr. Irwin Parker,
but he allowed me to call him Reb Isser. Though small
of stature and slight of frame, he was a lion of a man.
Like others of his generation, his life changed
irreversibly when the German blitzkrieg overwhelmed
the Polish defense forces in the weeks following
September 1, 1939. Although Reb Isser survived
Mauthausen, his wife and children did not, but a
handful of souls among the incalculable kedoshim.
He immigrated to America in the early 1950s and
began life anew, remarrying and raising a second
family.
Our friendship may have seemed odd to some, I
suppose, but as a boy, I had learned to rise up before
the hoary head. I brought Reb Isser home one day to
meet my family as if he were a new school chum.
While we sipped tea in the kitchen, I showed him a
photo of my Grandpa Austin to whom he bore an
uncanny likeness. Like my grandfather, he too placed
a sugar cube or two between his lower lip and gum
where it functioned as a filter through which the tea
passed on its way down. More than simply amused by
this quaint custom, I knew it represented nothing less
than a sweet fragment of an old world.
Reb Isser, who had been trained as a
pharmacist in Poland in the years before WW2,
was not, I suppose, an untypical Jew of his day.
Neither a yeshiva bocher by education nor a great
chochem of Gemara, he did attend cheder and
graduated … a mensch. A prototype of chesed, there
were a few in the congregation who did not like him,
many who loved him, but I dare say not a single soul
who did not respect him. Had you known him as I did
and seen how he interacted with other members of the
shul, how he commanded their respect-not by the
arrogance of scholarship or the external, often
superficial signs of piety-but by the kavod they
accorded him and which he characteristically
rejected, you would have concurred that his was a
yiddishe kop but never a swollen head.
His middot were such that he naturally greeted
everyone with a smile and an extended hand. I
gravitated toward him like an iron filing in search of a
magnet. He became my teacher in the ways of
Yiddishkeit when I was forty years old and he in his
late seventies or early eighties. For reasons he never
explained, he took me under his wing and taught me
siddur, tallis and t’filin. Though I would have preferred
to learn in private, what he may have lacked in
delicacy he more than made up in generosity.
One summer evening before Mincha, Reb Isser
reached into the cabinet below the reading table and
pulled out a small blue velvet bag containing an aged
pair of t’filin.
“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, wound the
black leather strap seven times around my forearm
and recited the brocho. In comparison, donning the
rosh was much easier.
How does one dispute such a man or turn down his
invitation to impart treasures from the old world?
I was being shown the ways of our fathers by a
righteous man who had survived their worst travails.
How did I merit this gift? Perhaps Reb Isser saw in me
a fledgling fallen from the nest or a reminder of
someone he had lost in his first life. Frankly, I do not
know, but I remain grateful to this man and his
memory.
Even the most cursory of examinations would
demonstrate that Reb Isser bore the weight of moral
authority-in whose person resided indisputable proof
that a new pharaoh arises to destroy us in each
generation. He was the handiwork of The One Above
whose unfathomable ways are revealed in individuals,
such as Reb Isser. His amazing life of courage and
survival would be otherwise inexplicable. A tough,
gentle soul, he was, I believe, one of His original
prototypes of which there have been few copies.
“ukshartam l'os al yadecha v'hayu letotafos bane einecha.”
So reads the memorial leaf I dedicated to his memory
on the Etz Chaim in my shul. Isser ben Avrum, Z’L
passed away on erev Rosh Ha Shanah, 2000.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
The Casket ...
Dear Friends ... I am currently revising the entire text of In Memory of Ben. I am thinking of renaming the book Snapshots of My Son, In Memory of Ben. We are just 13 days from the 7th yahrzeit of Ben's passing. The other day, I was looking for a pair of shoes in my closet. The shoes I did not find, but I did find a picture of Ben I had not seen in a while. He was probably around 20 years old when the photo was taken, and it was an especially good one of Ben. It may sound saccharine, but I sure do miss him.
It is unlike anything else you have ever purchased. When I
saw the same casket at the recent funeral of a friend, I was
reminded of the morning at Weinstein Family Services when its staff
accompanied me and my wife through its casket showroom. I
wondered what it must be like to have to sell a casket to
bereaved parents.
We chose one characterized by the dignity of its simplicity.
Beautifully lacquered and adorned with a Magen David, it
seemed to reflect the kind of person Ben himself had been-
neither too plain nor ostentatious. There was a variety of more
expensive choices but only one other casket caught my
attention. It was nothing more than a plain unfinished box.
One grade lower than the one we chose, it looked like the
caskets the town undertaker crafted in the old westerns we
watched as children. Ben’s mom and I looked at each other. Not
quite enough we agreed for our beloved Benjamin.
Thanksgiving Day was unlike any other my family had
ever experienced, surreal, frenzied though with an inexplicable calm
that enabled us to complete the many urgent tasks I feared we would not finish
before the funeral on Friday morning. Our many
friends lent their helping hands in the time of our greatest need and
experienced an ingathering of souls. Everyone huddled
together in an effort to mend the irreparable tear in the fabric of our
lives and heal the wound we had all sustained just hours before.
The angelic reflections of our souls shone brilliantly.
We sat opposite the funeral director and, together with
several of our closest friends, made the awful arrangements
to lay our son in his final resting place. Our world had ended
catastrophically the day before on the eve of Thanksgiving
when Ben was fatally struck by a truck. He died two hours
later in the emergency room at Cook County Hospital.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Dear Readers,
I am currently in process of revising all of the chapters of In Memory of
Ben. My goal as always is to say things better with fewer words but more cleverly so that at the end you'll be nodding your head in agreement and muttering how right I am ... or, at least I hope that is what is going to happen.
There are those who say they are in a "Better Place …”
It is not easy to console a mourner. Consolers mean well. It’s
just this figure of speech-you know the one about being in a better place-is trite
and hackneyed however sincerely it may be uttered. If ever consolers have any doubt
about what to say or how to say it, I recommend they hug more and speak less. Never
fails. We could provide genuine comfort if only we remembered silence is
a better communicator of our sympathy than are poorly chosen words.
Though he had not suffered the loss of a child, I tried to comfort
my friend who had just lost his father.
“I knew your dad as a fine gentleman," I said softly, trying to
to sit comfortably on the floor.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“We shared many meals together over the course of ten years at the
Rabbi’s Shabbos tish,” I added, “but he used to say one thing that
distinguished him from everyone else in the congregation,” I related,
hoping to elicit a tiny smile.
“Oh … what was it?”
“Your father was the only one to call me by my Hebrew name Avrum
ben Avrum.” His son smiled appreciatively.
Time does not heal all wounds as many consolers claim. It is for
this reason Jewish law wisely restricts time spent in mourning.
Unlike its public nature, grief is a private matter and quite capable
of overwhelming parents who fail to fashion a cheshbon between
themselves and God.
Author and bereaved father John Gunther in his chronicle
Death Be Not Proud documents the heroic but futile struggle of his son against brain
cancer. In a provocative postscript, Frances, the author’s
estranged wife, expresses doubt about whether she loved her
son Johnny as much as she could have. Naturally, this led me
to wonder if I could have loved Ben more. The trust she had
placed in God strengthened her to resist the temptation to cast
blame for her son’s death at anyone’s doorstep. Instead,
Francis ponders two alternative approaches that might have saved
her son. She argues Johnny should not have been sent to boarding school
but kept at home where he would have been more comfortable.
Secondly, he might not have died from brain cancer had she and
her husband saved their marriage.
While it is understandable bereaved parents may feel guilty
about mistakes they may have made, is Johnny’s brain tumor
attributable to his parents’ failure to save their marriage? Is he his
parents’ victim? While we can sympathize with her mea culpa we
cannot truthfully attribute Johnny’s death to the poor choices she
and her husband may have made.
Although the Ribon shel Olam governs the occurrence of
human tragedy, we would commit spiritual suicide if we
believe that He denies life to children.
Whether our affliction is sickness, misfortune in business
or the premature death of a loved one, we can avoid the abyss of apostasy by
trusting in God’s attribute of rachomim . There is a limit to what we can do to
avoid bad tidings. Notwithstanding the precautions we take, tragedy may befall us.
Should I believe God chose Ben? Had that happened, how could I
believe in a vengeful and capricious god? Sure it's reasonable to look back and
say "I should have done this differently. If only I had been less concerned with 'a'
as opposed to ‘b’, things might have turned out more to my liking.”
However truthful this supposition, it does not follow that had
conditions been different, their outcomes would have been
better. I acknowledge Ben might have suffered a fatal injury
that day had he never suffered any chronic illness.
The heart of this matter is life will always be precious,
exceedingly delicate and precarious by its very nature! That when
we proclaim: “L'Chaim” we are not making a banal toast as some
may think. Rather do we remain obligated to be always
mindful of the sanctity of our lives and to live them b'simcha.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 10/14/07
I am currently in process of revising all of the chapters of In Memory of
Ben. My goal as always is to say things better with fewer words but more cleverly so that at the end you'll be nodding your head in agreement and muttering how right I am ... or, at least I hope that is what is going to happen.
There are those who say they are in a "Better Place …”
It is not easy to console a mourner. Consolers mean well. It’s
just this figure of speech-you know the one about being in a better place-is trite
and hackneyed however sincerely it may be uttered. If ever consolers have any doubt
about what to say or how to say it, I recommend they hug more and speak less. Never
fails. We could provide genuine comfort if only we remembered silence is
a better communicator of our sympathy than are poorly chosen words.
Though he had not suffered the loss of a child, I tried to comfort
my friend who had just lost his father.
“I knew your dad as a fine gentleman," I said softly, trying to
to sit comfortably on the floor.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“We shared many meals together over the course of ten years at the
Rabbi’s Shabbos tish,” I added, “but he used to say one thing that
distinguished him from everyone else in the congregation,” I related,
hoping to elicit a tiny smile.
“Oh … what was it?”
“Your father was the only one to call me by my Hebrew name Avrum
ben Avrum.” His son smiled appreciatively.
Time does not heal all wounds as many consolers claim. It is for
this reason Jewish law wisely restricts time spent in mourning.
Unlike its public nature, grief is a private matter and quite capable
of overwhelming parents who fail to fashion a cheshbon between
themselves and God.
Author and bereaved father John Gunther in his chronicle
Death Be Not Proud documents the heroic but futile struggle of his son against brain
cancer. In a provocative postscript, Frances, the author’s
estranged wife, expresses doubt about whether she loved her
son Johnny as much as she could have. Naturally, this led me
to wonder if I could have loved Ben more. The trust she had
placed in God strengthened her to resist the temptation to cast
blame for her son’s death at anyone’s doorstep. Instead,
Francis ponders two alternative approaches that might have saved
her son. She argues Johnny should not have been sent to boarding school
but kept at home where he would have been more comfortable.
Secondly, he might not have died from brain cancer had she and
her husband saved their marriage.
While it is understandable bereaved parents may feel guilty
about mistakes they may have made, is Johnny’s brain tumor
attributable to his parents’ failure to save their marriage? Is he his
parents’ victim? While we can sympathize with her mea culpa we
cannot truthfully attribute Johnny’s death to the poor choices she
and her husband may have made.
Although the Ribon shel Olam governs the occurrence of
human tragedy, we would commit spiritual suicide if we
believe that He denies life to children.
Whether our affliction is sickness, misfortune in business
or the premature death of a loved one, we can avoid the abyss of apostasy by
trusting in God’s attribute of rachomim . There is a limit to what we can do to
avoid bad tidings. Notwithstanding the precautions we take, tragedy may befall us.
Should I believe God chose Ben? Had that happened, how could I
believe in a vengeful and capricious god? Sure it's reasonable to look back and
say "I should have done this differently. If only I had been less concerned with 'a'
as opposed to ‘b’, things might have turned out more to my liking.”
However truthful this supposition, it does not follow that had
conditions been different, their outcomes would have been
better. I acknowledge Ben might have suffered a fatal injury
that day had he never suffered any chronic illness.
The heart of this matter is life will always be precious,
exceedingly delicate and precarious by its very nature! That when
we proclaim: “L'Chaim” we are not making a banal toast as some
may think. Rather do we remain obligated to be always
mindful of the sanctity of our lives and to live them b'simcha.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 10/14/07
Friday, October 12, 2007
Dear Readers,
The following is a revision of "Bais Shel Emes" excerpted from In Memory of Ben. I would ask my readers whom I appreciate and thank for their on-going readership to be aware today and tomorrow are Rosh Chodesh Marcheshvan during which we will commemorate the seventh Yahrzeit of Benjamin Z'L on Cheshvan 24 corresponding to the 5th of November.
Bais Shel Emes
I had been feeling down for several days, and I did not know why.
“Maybe I’ll feel better,” I muttered to myself. “After all, he’s not too
far away.” So, I decided to gather up a few cleaning supplies with
which to wipe down the headstone and set out to visit Ben.
Man does not know when the morning of his final awakening will
be. His days are finite. This he understands. Before November 22,
2000, I was aware my son’s days were numbered. I somehow knew this,
that his mazal would run out. Over the course of these seven years,
I have learned to live without him. Despite the unfairness of losing a child, I
believe He governs the universe with rachomim and din.
The approach to the grave along the winding path fills me with a
mixture of dread, anticipation and slight physical symptoms. I stand
before his parcel of earth both assured and numbed by the irreversible
reality of his death. It is a curiosity of human behavior that people talk
to their loved ones when standing before their graves. I do it too. I
mean there is only so much one can do. What else is there that can be done?
If only I could come closer.
You can’t “listen” because the other does not actually speak to you.
So, try listening to your imagination ...
“Ah, Ben. It’s been a while. I apologize,” I begin.
“Oh, that’s okay, Dad. No problem,” characteristically generous
in letting me off the hook.
“You know Ben … while standing here, I think of some of my favorite
moments to tell you and picture you as you, as we, were.
“Like what? Oh, wait! I bet you’re thinking of the Radio Flyer red
wagon, right?” thinking he had gotten the best of me. “Yea, I
remember that too. Kimmy sat in front of me and I held on to her
from behind,” he recalls appreciatively.
“Yea, that was good. ‘Member’ how I used to fix Kimmy’s hair like
Pebbles on The Flintstones?” I relished that reminiscence particularly.
“Yea, that was funny. You really liked
"dragging" us around a lot, didn’t ya?”
“I sure did. I would purposely seek out clumps of people who would
tell me how beautiful my kids were.” Ben blushed quietly.
“Listen Ben, I gotta go. Talk again?”
“Sure, Dad,” he replied agreeably.
It feels like you’ve hung up the phone. I do not linger much
longer. I tidy up the area around the headstone and read three
chapters from Sefer Tehilim.
It may seem macabre, but it comforts me to know where
Ben is and has gone. I’ll even venture a remark that may seem odd to some.
As strong a pull as it is to stand before Ben’s grave, I struggle at times to
sense his presence. Oh yes. I know his body is beneath my feet,
but that’s just it. Ben’s body remains, but his neshuma,
his soul, is elsewhere. Where it is, well … that’s anyone’s
guess; it’s in the Olam Haba, floating-as it were-like a feather
caught up in the draft of God’s exhalation-or somewhere in
shamayim waiting for another aliyah that’ll bring him closer to
God. But such is the paltriness of our conception, as if it were
possible to approach Him, The Infinite Holy One. For that
would imply physicality, finiteness of which He has none. Even
the “He of Him” implies a ring of closure around our
conception of what God is and where.
His body lies under the headstone: "Avrum ben Avrum v' Yehudit, Benjamin, son
of Alan and Janine.”
Therein lies the essence of the bais shel emes. For as long
as the body is alive-though temporal in time and being-the soul
dwells therein. When the body dies, the soul departs, and with that,
the spark of life flickers out. The body itself becomes cold. We then
return it to the dust from which God fashioned Adom Ha Rishon.
His death has diminished us. Bridging the chasm between us has
become my futile challenge.I leave the cemetery feeling empty, desolate …
diminished.
October 12, 2007
The following is a revision of "Bais Shel Emes" excerpted from In Memory of Ben. I would ask my readers whom I appreciate and thank for their on-going readership to be aware today and tomorrow are Rosh Chodesh Marcheshvan during which we will commemorate the seventh Yahrzeit of Benjamin Z'L on Cheshvan 24 corresponding to the 5th of November.
Bais Shel Emes
I had been feeling down for several days, and I did not know why.
“Maybe I’ll feel better,” I muttered to myself. “After all, he’s not too
far away.” So, I decided to gather up a few cleaning supplies with
which to wipe down the headstone and set out to visit Ben.
Man does not know when the morning of his final awakening will
be. His days are finite. This he understands. Before November 22,
2000, I was aware my son’s days were numbered. I somehow knew this,
that his mazal would run out. Over the course of these seven years,
I have learned to live without him. Despite the unfairness of losing a child, I
believe He governs the universe with rachomim and din.
The approach to the grave along the winding path fills me with a
mixture of dread, anticipation and slight physical symptoms. I stand
before his parcel of earth both assured and numbed by the irreversible
reality of his death. It is a curiosity of human behavior that people talk
to their loved ones when standing before their graves. I do it too. I
mean there is only so much one can do. What else is there that can be done?
If only I could come closer.
You can’t “listen” because the other does not actually speak to you.
So, try listening to your imagination ...
“Ah, Ben. It’s been a while. I apologize,” I begin.
“Oh, that’s okay, Dad. No problem,” characteristically generous
in letting me off the hook.
“You know Ben … while standing here, I think of some of my favorite
moments to tell you and picture you as you, as we, were.
“Like what? Oh, wait! I bet you’re thinking of the Radio Flyer red
wagon, right?” thinking he had gotten the best of me. “Yea, I
remember that too. Kimmy sat in front of me and I held on to her
from behind,” he recalls appreciatively.
“Yea, that was good. ‘Member’ how I used to fix Kimmy’s hair like
Pebbles on The Flintstones?” I relished that reminiscence particularly.
“Yea, that was funny. You really liked
"dragging" us around a lot, didn’t ya?”
“I sure did. I would purposely seek out clumps of people who would
tell me how beautiful my kids were.” Ben blushed quietly.
“Listen Ben, I gotta go. Talk again?”
“Sure, Dad,” he replied agreeably.
It feels like you’ve hung up the phone. I do not linger much
longer. I tidy up the area around the headstone and read three
chapters from Sefer Tehilim.
It may seem macabre, but it comforts me to know where
Ben is and has gone. I’ll even venture a remark that may seem odd to some.
As strong a pull as it is to stand before Ben’s grave, I struggle at times to
sense his presence. Oh yes. I know his body is beneath my feet,
but that’s just it. Ben’s body remains, but his neshuma,
his soul, is elsewhere. Where it is, well … that’s anyone’s
guess; it’s in the Olam Haba, floating-as it were-like a feather
caught up in the draft of God’s exhalation-or somewhere in
shamayim waiting for another aliyah that’ll bring him closer to
God. But such is the paltriness of our conception, as if it were
possible to approach Him, The Infinite Holy One. For that
would imply physicality, finiteness of which He has none. Even
the “He of Him” implies a ring of closure around our
conception of what God is and where.
His body lies under the headstone: "Avrum ben Avrum v' Yehudit, Benjamin, son
of Alan and Janine.”
Therein lies the essence of the bais shel emes. For as long
as the body is alive-though temporal in time and being-the soul
dwells therein. When the body dies, the soul departs, and with that,
the spark of life flickers out. The body itself becomes cold. We then
return it to the dust from which God fashioned Adom Ha Rishon.
His death has diminished us. Bridging the chasm between us has
become my futile challenge.I leave the cemetery feeling empty, desolate …
diminished.
October 12, 2007
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Dear Readers,
This is a revision of a chapter excerpted from In Memory of Ben
Lessons Learned Late
I announced I would not eat the matzoh ball soup.
My wife had been preparing the seder meal in the
same manner she had always done. The tension
between us had been simmering for some time when
the pot boiled over the afternoon of Erev Pesach. I
could not have chosen a worse time to make such an
announcement had I tried.
At issue was a can of treif chicken broth, but that
alone was only the tip of the iceberg. Given the state of
our marital affairs, the last thing we needed was to be
arguing about kashrus.
“Must you use that particular broth?” I asked her,
wishing I had kept my mouth shut, but I kept on.
“Folks should be able to reasonably expect they will
enjoy a kosher meal on Passover at the very least.”
“What are you talking about?” she shot back. “It
makes no difference because our kitchen is not
kosher,” she reminded me-a fact that my daughter
would echo in several minutes.
*******
I had been brought up in a Reform environment. My
wife and I chose it within which to raise our children.
My contentment with Reform, however, began to wane
when I began pursuing my religious agenda. I joined a
traditional minyan and began learning with the rabbi
as part of a Federation program to broaden Jewish
literacy. For the first time ever, I felt excited about
Jewish learning. Missing though was any guidance
about how to bring this new knowledge home without
disrupting my family.
Choosing to become observant requires changes
that reach to the deepest roots of family life.
It is a team undertaking and no one parent can impose it on his family.
Even under the most optimal ofcircumstances, additions to
home ritual observance are best approached gradually. Family members can
then learn the content of the new practice and enjoy
time enough to assimilate it into their routines. The
bottom line is family members can deepen their
observance only by taking manageable steps together.
******
My wife was opposed to kashering our kitchen
because she knew it would lead to a more observant
Jewish lifestyle she wanted neither for herself nor for
our family. I was so busy pursuing my personal
religious odyssey I failed to recognize the danger it
posed to my marriage. None of us was ready for a
religious makeover.
The worst part of this Erev Pesach arrived
when my daughter Kimberly confronted me on the
steps leading to her room.
“Dad!” I could see steam coming out of her ears!
“Uh, oh!” I knew that look on her face.
“You have ruined Passover for me and the family,” she
vehemently asserted. Her voice became louder but
then cracked a bit.
“Sweetheart, I am trying …” proclaiming my
innocence.
“Oh, I know what you are `trying’ to do. I see the
groceries you bring home. All kosher. I see it.” I stood
in silence and listened to her rebuke. No one had ever
been so passionately angry with me. Always ready,
willing and able to express herself, Kimberly attacked
my insistence that only kosher food be served at seder-
labeling it “an absurd contradiction.” I could say
nothing in my defense. She and her mom were correct.
What was the point of pursuing a kosher agenda if not
done properly and without the assent of my family?
While true my family did not know the halachos of
Pesach, we had always enjoyed its spirit at our seders.
I poisoned that spirit. This regrettable incident should
have been a wake-up call for me. The truth is I
remained “asleep” on a path strewn with stumbling
blocks.
Older eyes often need assistance to see things more
clearly. Mine certainly did. I sat with Kimberly one
afternoon in my mother’s kitchen not long after
her mother and I had divorced. I continued to struggle
with observance and my family’s exasperation with
me.
“Alan,” my mother advised, “Please listen to your
daughter. She loves you and wants only the best for
you.”
“Dad, your clothes: that suit, that black hat: they
make you look like an old man! And shave your
scraggly beard! Your beliefs are your own. Your
observance may work for you, but it doesn’t for me.”
”Alan,” my mother chimed in. “Young girls want to be
proud of their dads, not embarrassed by their
appearance. You’re so nice-looking. Why do you have
to dress like an old man?” echoing a sentiment
Kimberly’s mom used to say all too often. I sat there in
silence as I had done on Erev Pesach. A few tears fell
from my daughter’s eyes.
This was such a confusing set of issues. There were
so many things I wanted. Kimberly showed me that I
could not have them all without making some
accommodations when my level of observance
was at odds with my family and children.
I would find a way to live observantly without jeopardizing their
love.
Alan D. Busch
10/9/07
Figure 1. Alan Dear,
Please remember family first. Nothing else is as important. Love you, Mom. Be well.
This is a revision of a chapter excerpted from In Memory of Ben
Lessons Learned Late
I announced I would not eat the matzoh ball soup.
My wife had been preparing the seder meal in the
same manner she had always done. The tension
between us had been simmering for some time when
the pot boiled over the afternoon of Erev Pesach. I
could not have chosen a worse time to make such an
announcement had I tried.
At issue was a can of treif chicken broth, but that
alone was only the tip of the iceberg. Given the state of
our marital affairs, the last thing we needed was to be
arguing about kashrus.
“Must you use that particular broth?” I asked her,
wishing I had kept my mouth shut, but I kept on.
“Folks should be able to reasonably expect they will
enjoy a kosher meal on Passover at the very least.”
“What are you talking about?” she shot back. “It
makes no difference because our kitchen is not
kosher,” she reminded me-a fact that my daughter
would echo in several minutes.
*******
I had been brought up in a Reform environment. My
wife and I chose it within which to raise our children.
My contentment with Reform, however, began to wane
when I began pursuing my religious agenda. I joined a
traditional minyan and began learning with the rabbi
as part of a Federation program to broaden Jewish
literacy. For the first time ever, I felt excited about
Jewish learning. Missing though was any guidance
about how to bring this new knowledge home without
disrupting my family.
Choosing to become observant requires changes
that reach to the deepest roots of family life.
It is a team undertaking and no one parent can impose it on his family.
Even under the most optimal ofcircumstances, additions to
home ritual observance are best approached gradually. Family members can
then learn the content of the new practice and enjoy
time enough to assimilate it into their routines. The
bottom line is family members can deepen their
observance only by taking manageable steps together.
******
My wife was opposed to kashering our kitchen
because she knew it would lead to a more observant
Jewish lifestyle she wanted neither for herself nor for
our family. I was so busy pursuing my personal
religious odyssey I failed to recognize the danger it
posed to my marriage. None of us was ready for a
religious makeover.
The worst part of this Erev Pesach arrived
when my daughter Kimberly confronted me on the
steps leading to her room.
“Dad!” I could see steam coming out of her ears!
“Uh, oh!” I knew that look on her face.
“You have ruined Passover for me and the family,” she
vehemently asserted. Her voice became louder but
then cracked a bit.
“Sweetheart, I am trying …” proclaiming my
innocence.
“Oh, I know what you are `trying’ to do. I see the
groceries you bring home. All kosher. I see it.” I stood
in silence and listened to her rebuke. No one had ever
been so passionately angry with me. Always ready,
willing and able to express herself, Kimberly attacked
my insistence that only kosher food be served at seder-
labeling it “an absurd contradiction.” I could say
nothing in my defense. She and her mom were correct.
What was the point of pursuing a kosher agenda if not
done properly and without the assent of my family?
While true my family did not know the halachos of
Pesach, we had always enjoyed its spirit at our seders.
I poisoned that spirit. This regrettable incident should
have been a wake-up call for me. The truth is I
remained “asleep” on a path strewn with stumbling
blocks.
Older eyes often need assistance to see things more
clearly. Mine certainly did. I sat with Kimberly one
afternoon in my mother’s kitchen not long after
her mother and I had divorced. I continued to struggle
with observance and my family’s exasperation with
me.
“Alan,” my mother advised, “Please listen to your
daughter. She loves you and wants only the best for
you.”
“Dad, your clothes: that suit, that black hat: they
make you look like an old man! And shave your
scraggly beard! Your beliefs are your own. Your
observance may work for you, but it doesn’t for me.”
”Alan,” my mother chimed in. “Young girls want to be
proud of their dads, not embarrassed by their
appearance. You’re so nice-looking. Why do you have
to dress like an old man?” echoing a sentiment
Kimberly’s mom used to say all too often. I sat there in
silence as I had done on Erev Pesach. A few tears fell
from my daughter’s eyes.
This was such a confusing set of issues. There were
so many things I wanted. Kimberly showed me that I
could not have them all without making some
accommodations when my level of observance
was at odds with my family and children.
I would find a way to live observantly without jeopardizing their
love.
Alan D. Busch
10/9/07
Figure 1. Alan Dear,
Please remember family first. Nothing else is as important. Love you, Mom. Be well.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
“Lamentations”
The pain of a broken heart is reminiscent of bereavement.
My marriage to Kallah ended after a brief fifteen months, a mournful
experience not unlike the personal grief from which I have suffered since
November of 2000 when my first-born child Benjamin died.
The three weeks prior to Tisha B' Av is a period of time when we deny
ourselves many enjoyments and comforts culminating in this solemn
fast day characterized by the reading of the Book of Lamentations, a communal
mourning for the destruction of the Beis Ha Mikdash and a heightened awareness of
our Jewish national identity. Our tradition holds that many other historical
tragedies also befell the Jewish people on this joyless day.
It happened toward the end of the “Nine Days.” Minyan was scheduled
for 8:00 that evening. Arriving about fifteen minutes early, I saw an elderly
man sitting in the social hall. He appeared to be preoccupied though
patiently awaiting Mincha. He looked sad, so I approached him with a
smile.
"Good evening, Sir.”
"Good evening," he responded, seemingly happy someone had stopped
by to chat with him.
“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock
now, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv.”
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan.
Guaranteed. Please do not worry about that. Your name is, Sir?”
"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said. I saw he had almost said "Yitzhak," his
Hebrew name, but did not. I looked at him intently. He was dressed in casual slacks,
a pale yellow golf shirt and a perspiration stained cap. His focus on my words
suggested that he was a bit hard of hearing. "Reb Talisman, for your wife, your
parents you have yahrzeit?”
He twisted his left forearm over with the assistance of his right hand
revealing six green numbers. I was speechless. I had seen such tattoos before, but
the manner in which he exposed it staggered me. His quiet, dignity left me unsure
if he bore it as a badge of honor or shame. He looked up at me with glistening eyes
and whispered "my parents.” His eyes, sunken and sallow, were underscored by dark
rings, an image almost as indelible as his horrific tattoo. I wanted to take
care of this man.
"This way, Reb Talisman," inviting him toward the Rabbi Aron & Rebbitzen Ella
Soloveitchik Beis Ha Medrash. I accompanied him down the hallway. Together we
opened the door. Reb Talisman paused. "Should we enter? There seems to be a bar
mitzvah lesson going on." Indeed there was.
Looking quite grumpy after a typically long day of meetings, Rabbi Louis
was finishing up with the bar mitzvah bocher after learning that a ceiling ballast
had blown out. It was an especially busy night at shul. The sisterhood was holding a
program and the junior minyan was learning with the Rabbi’s son. Seeing that I was
escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan, Rabbi saved his upset for the next two
hapless fellows who followed us in after we had shut the door.
"Close it!” Rabbi barked.
"Abba, it’s 8:05, time for Mincha. We have a minyan," announced Rabbi’s older son
who, as it happened, was one of the two who came in after us.
I directed Reb Talisman toward the one chair unlike any other in the beis
medrash, a comfortable seat though not of the stackable variety, well-cushioned and
distinctively but peculiarly pink in color. It had been the favorite of Reb Helman,
the late father of Rabbi Louis's wife Saretta. When I turned to check on him
however, he had chosen to sit by the “omed” opposite the Ark.
“No problem,” I thought, "as long as he’s comfortable.”
Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender. "Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” we davened
Mincha after which he lectured about the laws of Tisha B’ Av. Several minutes
later, we prayed the Maariv service, but, by which time, I had lost all my
concentration. Now I know one should look to the heavens should he feel his devotion
waning, but I simply could not. I was thinking of Kallah. She filled my head, and I
knew she'd not be there when I arrived back home. I closed my siddur and stared out
the window.
"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to see me." I turned to the doorway
thinking I had heard a feminine voice.
“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered to myself.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba …” The beis medrash emptied. I escorted Reb Talisman to his
car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said.
I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he got in his car and drove
away. I fumbled for my keys. "There surely has to be a lesson here," I reflected,
turning on the ignition. During the minute that it took me to drive home, I
fantasized about seeing her car in the driveway, but then realized
The One Above had sent Reb Talisman to remind me others are
grieving too. An act of chesed brought a smile to an elderly Jew.
How I would have liked to share this story with her … perhaps tomorrow.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 10/03/07
The pain of a broken heart is reminiscent of bereavement.
My marriage to Kallah ended after a brief fifteen months, a mournful
experience not unlike the personal grief from which I have suffered since
November of 2000 when my first-born child Benjamin died.
The three weeks prior to Tisha B' Av is a period of time when we deny
ourselves many enjoyments and comforts culminating in this solemn
fast day characterized by the reading of the Book of Lamentations, a communal
mourning for the destruction of the Beis Ha Mikdash and a heightened awareness of
our Jewish national identity. Our tradition holds that many other historical
tragedies also befell the Jewish people on this joyless day.
It happened toward the end of the “Nine Days.” Minyan was scheduled
for 8:00 that evening. Arriving about fifteen minutes early, I saw an elderly
man sitting in the social hall. He appeared to be preoccupied though
patiently awaiting Mincha. He looked sad, so I approached him with a
smile.
"Good evening, Sir.”
"Good evening," he responded, seemingly happy someone had stopped
by to chat with him.
“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock
now, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv.”
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan.
Guaranteed. Please do not worry about that. Your name is, Sir?”
"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said. I saw he had almost said "Yitzhak," his
Hebrew name, but did not. I looked at him intently. He was dressed in casual slacks,
a pale yellow golf shirt and a perspiration stained cap. His focus on my words
suggested that he was a bit hard of hearing. "Reb Talisman, for your wife, your
parents you have yahrzeit?”
He twisted his left forearm over with the assistance of his right hand
revealing six green numbers. I was speechless. I had seen such tattoos before, but
the manner in which he exposed it staggered me. His quiet, dignity left me unsure
if he bore it as a badge of honor or shame. He looked up at me with glistening eyes
and whispered "my parents.” His eyes, sunken and sallow, were underscored by dark
rings, an image almost as indelible as his horrific tattoo. I wanted to take
care of this man.
"This way, Reb Talisman," inviting him toward the Rabbi Aron & Rebbitzen Ella
Soloveitchik Beis Ha Medrash. I accompanied him down the hallway. Together we
opened the door. Reb Talisman paused. "Should we enter? There seems to be a bar
mitzvah lesson going on." Indeed there was.
Looking quite grumpy after a typically long day of meetings, Rabbi Louis
was finishing up with the bar mitzvah bocher after learning that a ceiling ballast
had blown out. It was an especially busy night at shul. The sisterhood was holding a
program and the junior minyan was learning with the Rabbi’s son. Seeing that I was
escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan, Rabbi saved his upset for the next two
hapless fellows who followed us in after we had shut the door.
"Close it!” Rabbi barked.
"Abba, it’s 8:05, time for Mincha. We have a minyan," announced Rabbi’s older son
who, as it happened, was one of the two who came in after us.
I directed Reb Talisman toward the one chair unlike any other in the beis
medrash, a comfortable seat though not of the stackable variety, well-cushioned and
distinctively but peculiarly pink in color. It had been the favorite of Reb Helman,
the late father of Rabbi Louis's wife Saretta. When I turned to check on him
however, he had chosen to sit by the “omed” opposite the Ark.
“No problem,” I thought, "as long as he’s comfortable.”
Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender. "Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” we davened
Mincha after which he lectured about the laws of Tisha B’ Av. Several minutes
later, we prayed the Maariv service, but, by which time, I had lost all my
concentration. Now I know one should look to the heavens should he feel his devotion
waning, but I simply could not. I was thinking of Kallah. She filled my head, and I
knew she'd not be there when I arrived back home. I closed my siddur and stared out
the window.
"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to see me." I turned to the doorway
thinking I had heard a feminine voice.
“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered to myself.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba …” The beis medrash emptied. I escorted Reb Talisman to his
car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said.
I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he got in his car and drove
away. I fumbled for my keys. "There surely has to be a lesson here," I reflected,
turning on the ignition. During the minute that it took me to drive home, I
fantasized about seeing her car in the driveway, but then realized
The One Above had sent Reb Talisman to remind me others are
grieving too. An act of chesed brought a smile to an elderly Jew.
How I would have liked to share this story with her … perhaps tomorrow.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 10/03/07
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Dear Readers,
Please find a story for Succos that I hope will be published by Aish.com
The richness of Jewish life had somehow eluded me
in my childhood. I was left so unschooled that I could not
distinguish between Shabbos and Shavuos or differentiate a
siddur from a chumash. However, as little background as I had
had, my youth was not entirely barren of Jewish experiences.
We gathered at my Aunt Iris and Uncle Marvin’s house for our
one seder on the Eve of Passover, knew enough to eat matzoh,
read the story of our exodus in the “Haggadah shel Maxwell
House,” feasted on Rosh Ha Shanah and broke the fast of Yom
Kippur. I recall fondly how my mother “lit Hanukkah candles” by
plugging in an electric menorah. No brachos, no songs, we didn’t
know any. In other words, my childhood did not lack the threads
so much as it did the fabric of Jewish life.
Many years later, my wife, children and I moved into West
Rogers Park, an orthodox neighborhood on Chicago’s far north
side. My Jewish identity although thoroughly secular in nature,
slowly began to awaken to the “segula” of Jewish religious
tradition, but it was not until after I had attended the
Goldmeyers’ bar mitzvah of their first-born son, that I became
aware of some of what I had missed in my childhood.
While I delighted in walking to an orthodox shul for the first
time together with many of my neighbors on the Shabbat morning
of the bar mitzvah, my anxiety-together with an equal measure
of intimidation-gave rise to a classic case of the butterflies. My
feelings were borne out when the seeming mayhem of orthodox
shul dynamics swallowed me up. In short, I was clueless. Taking a
seat as far back as I could, I opened a siddur and found Hebrew
text only, much to my dismay. With both seats on either side of
me occupied, I placed it on the floor under my chair.
No sooner had I done so that the gentleman, seated to my
right, reached under my chair and retrieved the mislaid siddur.
“This is yours?” he asked, waving it gently but a bit too closely in
front of my nose.
“Well, I … uh,” I stumbled inarticulately, feeling guilty but unsure
of the charge.
“This book contains G-d’s name. We do not put it on the floor,” he
said with a gentle reproach.
“Thank you,” I whispered, grateful he had been discrete.
“No offense taken, a gentle slap on the wrist was all it was,” I
reassured myself.
Though I hadn ’t even begun in earnest to trod the path of
religious observance, I was confident I would learn the ropes in
time. For the time being, I would remain what I thought was the
quintessential Jewish outsider. However, having gotten my feet
wet in shul that Shabbos morning, I soon found myself immersed
in a sink or swim situation.
It was the early afternoon of Shabbos Chol Ha Moed Succos
when- while reading on my back porch with my feet perched atop
the railing-that I happened to look up momentarily to espy my
neighbor Rabbi Twersky walking through the alley. Donning a
double-breasted black kaftan and streimel, but appearing
troubled by the way he was fiddling with his peyos, I would
never have imagined it.
“He’s coming over here,” I muttered in disbelief.
I watched as he entered through my back gate. Nearly
falling backwards off my chair, I alighted and flew down the back
porch steps to greet him.
“Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi,” I said, extending my hand in
Shabbos courtesy but feeling somewhat annoyed with myself for
not wearing as much as a baseball cap. “Then again, better that he
should see me as I really am without any pretense of observance,”
I reasoned.
“Good Shabbos. Mr. Busch, I have a problem,” he confided in
me. “Rabbi Twersky has a problem and he’s coming to me,’” I
thought to myself, more than slightly bewildered.
“Uh … how can I help you, Rabbi?” I offered.
“Some sechach has fallen from the roof of my sukkah, but I
am forbidden to touch it on Shabbos,” he said, tilting his streimel
back from his forehead.
“Some what?” I asked.
“Sechach, an evergreen branch,” he clarified.
“Oh no problem, Rabbi. I’ll pick it up,” I said.
“No, he exclaimed. “You are a Jew. You may not touch it
either.”
“Oh wow! Okay,” slightly taken aback by his vehemence,
though flattered he had acknowledged me as a Jew.
“I’ll take care of the problem, Rabbi,” I assured him. Turning
away, I ran up the steps, paused on the first landing and saw his
countenance had brightened noticeably. He left through the same
gate secure, it seemed, in my promise. Unbeknownst to Rabbi
Twersky was that Tom, a gentile workman, was reglazing the
bathtub in my apartment.
“Uh, Tom, d’ya have a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up?” wiping away an errant bead of perspiration.
Without the halachic knowledge to fashion a suitable
explanation, I asked Tom if he wouldn’t mind lending a hand.
“No problem,” he said. “I’m glad to help out.”
Worried Rabbi Twersky would disapprove should he learn I was
employing Tom on Shabbos, I felt a sense of dread when standing
outside the entranceway to his sukkah. I took a deep breath and
entered.
The scent of an esrog permeated the tabernacle. Gourds and
dried fruit dangled overhead. Portraits of aged rabbinic sages
aside childish depictions of the Kotel enhanced the otherwise
drab blue plastic interior. The “ushpizin” bid us feel at home. Bent
over a Talmudic folio sat Rabbi Twersky whose glasses had
slipped to the tip of his nose.
“Rabbi, this is my friend Tom.”
“Boruch Ha Shem,” he exclaimed with a broad smile.
“Bruchim habayim. Uh … welcome!” shot out the translation.
“That’s the one there,” I said to Tom who, using a folding chair,
replaced the errant branch atop the latticework.
“Okay, got it,” Tom announced proudly.
“Boruch Ha Shem,” rejoiced Rabbi Twersky who at that precise
moment reminded me of his five-year old son Sholem to whom,
along with other neighborhood kids, I used to read stories on
Shabbos afternoons.
The following morning, my neighbors hastened to celebrate
Hoshana Rabba. Watching them clutch their “arba minim” on their
way to shul, I recalled: “No! You are a Jew. You may not touch it
either” and realized then I had already found my own “pri etz
hadar.”
Alan D. Busch
www.thebookofben.blogspot.com
www.writersstockintrade.blogspot.com
Revised 9/18/07
Please find a story for Succos that I hope will be published by Aish.com
The richness of Jewish life had somehow eluded me
in my childhood. I was left so unschooled that I could not
distinguish between Shabbos and Shavuos or differentiate a
siddur from a chumash. However, as little background as I had
had, my youth was not entirely barren of Jewish experiences.
We gathered at my Aunt Iris and Uncle Marvin’s house for our
one seder on the Eve of Passover, knew enough to eat matzoh,
read the story of our exodus in the “Haggadah shel Maxwell
House,” feasted on Rosh Ha Shanah and broke the fast of Yom
Kippur. I recall fondly how my mother “lit Hanukkah candles” by
plugging in an electric menorah. No brachos, no songs, we didn’t
know any. In other words, my childhood did not lack the threads
so much as it did the fabric of Jewish life.
Many years later, my wife, children and I moved into West
Rogers Park, an orthodox neighborhood on Chicago’s far north
side. My Jewish identity although thoroughly secular in nature,
slowly began to awaken to the “segula” of Jewish religious
tradition, but it was not until after I had attended the
Goldmeyers’ bar mitzvah of their first-born son, that I became
aware of some of what I had missed in my childhood.
While I delighted in walking to an orthodox shul for the first
time together with many of my neighbors on the Shabbat morning
of the bar mitzvah, my anxiety-together with an equal measure
of intimidation-gave rise to a classic case of the butterflies. My
feelings were borne out when the seeming mayhem of orthodox
shul dynamics swallowed me up. In short, I was clueless. Taking a
seat as far back as I could, I opened a siddur and found Hebrew
text only, much to my dismay. With both seats on either side of
me occupied, I placed it on the floor under my chair.
No sooner had I done so that the gentleman, seated to my
right, reached under my chair and retrieved the mislaid siddur.
“This is yours?” he asked, waving it gently but a bit too closely in
front of my nose.
“Well, I … uh,” I stumbled inarticulately, feeling guilty but unsure
of the charge.
“This book contains G-d’s name. We do not put it on the floor,” he
said with a gentle reproach.
“Thank you,” I whispered, grateful he had been discrete.
“No offense taken, a gentle slap on the wrist was all it was,” I
reassured myself.
Though I hadn ’t even begun in earnest to trod the path of
religious observance, I was confident I would learn the ropes in
time. For the time being, I would remain what I thought was the
quintessential Jewish outsider. However, having gotten my feet
wet in shul that Shabbos morning, I soon found myself immersed
in a sink or swim situation.
It was the early afternoon of Shabbos Chol Ha Moed Succos
when- while reading on my back porch with my feet perched atop
the railing-that I happened to look up momentarily to espy my
neighbor Rabbi Twersky walking through the alley. Donning a
double-breasted black kaftan and streimel, but appearing
troubled by the way he was fiddling with his peyos, I would
never have imagined it.
“He’s coming over here,” I muttered in disbelief.
I watched as he entered through my back gate. Nearly
falling backwards off my chair, I alighted and flew down the back
porch steps to greet him.
“Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi,” I said, extending my hand in
Shabbos courtesy but feeling somewhat annoyed with myself for
not wearing as much as a baseball cap. “Then again, better that he
should see me as I really am without any pretense of observance,”
I reasoned.
“Good Shabbos. Mr. Busch, I have a problem,” he confided in
me. “Rabbi Twersky has a problem and he’s coming to me,’” I
thought to myself, more than slightly bewildered.
“Uh … how can I help you, Rabbi?” I offered.
“Some sechach has fallen from the roof of my sukkah, but I
am forbidden to touch it on Shabbos,” he said, tilting his streimel
back from his forehead.
“Some what?” I asked.
“Sechach, an evergreen branch,” he clarified.
“Oh no problem, Rabbi. I’ll pick it up,” I said.
“No, he exclaimed. “You are a Jew. You may not touch it
either.”
“Oh wow! Okay,” slightly taken aback by his vehemence,
though flattered he had acknowledged me as a Jew.
“I’ll take care of the problem, Rabbi,” I assured him. Turning
away, I ran up the steps, paused on the first landing and saw his
countenance had brightened noticeably. He left through the same
gate secure, it seemed, in my promise. Unbeknownst to Rabbi
Twersky was that Tom, a gentile workman, was reglazing the
bathtub in my apartment.
“Uh, Tom, d’ya have a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up?” wiping away an errant bead of perspiration.
Without the halachic knowledge to fashion a suitable
explanation, I asked Tom if he wouldn’t mind lending a hand.
“No problem,” he said. “I’m glad to help out.”
Worried Rabbi Twersky would disapprove should he learn I was
employing Tom on Shabbos, I felt a sense of dread when standing
outside the entranceway to his sukkah. I took a deep breath and
entered.
The scent of an esrog permeated the tabernacle. Gourds and
dried fruit dangled overhead. Portraits of aged rabbinic sages
aside childish depictions of the Kotel enhanced the otherwise
drab blue plastic interior. The “ushpizin” bid us feel at home. Bent
over a Talmudic folio sat Rabbi Twersky whose glasses had
slipped to the tip of his nose.
“Rabbi, this is my friend Tom.”
“Boruch Ha Shem,” he exclaimed with a broad smile.
“Bruchim habayim. Uh … welcome!” shot out the translation.
“That’s the one there,” I said to Tom who, using a folding chair,
replaced the errant branch atop the latticework.
“Okay, got it,” Tom announced proudly.
“Boruch Ha Shem,” rejoiced Rabbi Twersky who at that precise
moment reminded me of his five-year old son Sholem to whom,
along with other neighborhood kids, I used to read stories on
Shabbos afternoons.
The following morning, my neighbors hastened to celebrate
Hoshana Rabba. Watching them clutch their “arba minim” on their
way to shul, I recalled: “No! You are a Jew. You may not touch it
either” and realized then I had already found my own “pri etz
hadar.”
Alan D. Busch
www.thebookofben.blogspot.com
www.writersstockintrade.blogspot.com
Revised 9/18/07
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Dear Readers,
I post this chapter from In Memory of Ben a few hours before erev yontiff, 5768. I wish all of my family and friends a sweet, happy and healthy New Year.
Sincerely,
Alan, Kallah, Benjamin Z'L, Kimberly and Zac Busch
“Ha gomel l’hayavim tovos …”
My mood swings pendulously as we approach the season of
the Yomim Noraim. Starting with the renewal of hope that
Rosh Ha Shanah connotes and ending with the trepidation of
Yom Kippur, I cannot but probe this time of year, the special
nature of which we devote to personal reflection, fasting and
prayer.
While true we do not know the names of those who will be
inscribed and sealed in the Sefer Chaim when Yom
Kippur is over, the din of these existential matters belongs
exclusively to the Dayan Emes, whose province lies beyond
that which Rabbi Louis calls “the inquisitive grasp of man.”
However, we pray our tefilos, tzedaka and tshuva are of
sufficient merit to avert the evil decree and spare us the pain
of personal tragedy.
How should we explain “near misses” with death, when it
could have very conceivably gone the other way? Can we
explain them rationally or should we define them as miracles
and be done with it? If as miracles, they are different than
the miraculous inversions of nature found in the
Torah or the innumerable miracles we encounter daily:
sunrise, the birth of a child, night from day-all of which we
like to call the wonders of “nature”. What about blind luck, the
roll of the dice or random chaos?
Should everyone believe that The One Above governs the
world? Would it not be better were every knee to bend and
every tongue give homage? Perhaps but with this essential
caveat: faith does not guarantee against tragedy, but what it
does do is strengthen us when we are most in need of
assistance, comfort, and protection from apostasy. As
frustrating a reality as it is, bad things befall all kinds of
people. The nature of human powerlessness only begins to
make sense when we acknowledge that He alone governs the
world in ways we neither understand nor like at times.
The day at work was much like the one before: a busy
morning, phones ringing steadily, a brisk pace. I took the next
call.
“Mr. Busch?” a woman’s voice asked. A stranger spoke. I
listened. Something about her tone, her almost official,
business-like approach, all too familiar-I began to tremble.
“No! This can’t be happening, Please God …,” I prayed. “Yes,
this is Mr. Busch,” I replied, wishing I were not.
“My name is Ann and I have just left your daughter Kimberly,”
she said calmly.
“Is she alright, is she hurt, tell me where she is,” I
demanded.
“Mr. Busch, she is fine. Really! We’re about eighty miles south
of Chicago by Pontiac. Kimberly was involved in an accident,
but she is unhurt, not a scratch.”
“Kimmy, in an accident. Oy Got! 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 and felt
confident she was okay.”
“Well, wha … what happened?”
While on her way to Chicago, Ann witnessed a collision on
the interstate. Pulling over to help out however she could, she
came across my daughter Kimberly who-we later learned- had
lost control of her steering wheel when an eighteen-wheeler
she was attempting to pass forced her onto the shoulder of
the passing lane. Crossing the grassy median, Kimberly struck
a van headed in the opposite direction.
By this point in Anne’s narration, my heart was racing so
Much, my head pounding so violently, I could barely contain
myself. Even though Anne emphatically stressed and
reiterated that Kimmy was unhurt, I couldn’t prevent
flashbacks of Ben’s last day rushing into my head.
“Listen Ann, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You can’t
imagine what your good news means to me. Really and truly.”
“Oh, you’re welcome Mr. Busch. I’m just glad she’s okay.”
I hung up the telephone hurriedly and only then realized I had
forgotten to write down her name and number.
I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I was
able to 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 with trepidation.
Whenever I think about my kids in dire and dangerous
situations, my voice begins to falter.
“Jan, Kimmy was 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 to me, hon, “I reassured her,” calling her by an old term
of endearment.
“Kimberly is safe and unhurt,” I reassured her. “She’ll tell
ya 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 digital clock atop my old desk radio. It was
already after 3:00. With barely the time and breath to inform
my co-workers about what had happened, I raced away.
Although Anne had assured me Kimmy was okay, I called
the cell number she had given me of the state trooper who was
at the scene. Exceedingly kind and understanding of a father’s
worriment, she patiently humored me while I asked after
Kimmy’s status unabatedly.
Within an hour, having exceeded the speed limit for which,
if stopped, I had prepared an explanation, I found Kimberly
waiting for me in front of the service station that had towed
her car. Kimmy was anxious to leave immediately, but I
needed a few minutes. So before heading home, I tried the
driver’s side door. Amazingly it opened cleanly. I sat down.
Never having seen an airbag deployed, I slumped there
dumbfounded, gapping incredulously at what just hours
before had been a sporty red convertible Toyota. The front end
of the car was “accordioned” within several inches of the
dashboard.
“Dad, are you ready?” Kimmy asked impatiently.
“Yes Babe,” I replied, struggling to not break down in front of
my daughter. “Let’s go Sweetypie.” I had so many syrupy
names for her. We drove home mostly in silence.
Understandably, Kimmy was skittish, jumpy, every time I
applied the brake or switched lanes. Who knows how many
times she must have rerun the whole thing in her mind on our
way home together.
“Kimmy Babe?” I asked, calling her by one of my favorites. “Ya
okay?”
“Yes, Dad, just beat,” she exhaustively uttered.
“Yea, I know,” I added with just the right amount “Daddy”
sympathy. I dropped her off at her mom’s house, my heart
sinking, but here she was … safe and sound.
Why was Kimberly saved? I don’t have an answer anymore
now than I did before when I asked why Ben was not
saved. It was unanswerable then as it remains now.
The following Friday, I invited Kimmy along with her boyfriend
for dinner Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my
fiancé. The table, beautifully set, awaited us: its candles
aglow. It is my custom to light a ner nechuma for my son Ben
every Friday night before Shabbes begins … sort of bridging
the distance between us. We sat.
“Kimuschkele,” my voice cracking as I try to get the words out
of a short speech.
“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)
“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but looking at my daughter.
“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’ because
of all nights, I am especially thankful tonight to have you by
my side.” Lifting the kiddush cup, a slight tremble animated
my right hand. I let a moment pass, not a peep was uttered.
Ben’s lamp seemed to flicker more brightly, illuminating the
serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my
hand.
“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker,” I sanctified the wine.
I post this chapter from In Memory of Ben a few hours before erev yontiff, 5768. I wish all of my family and friends a sweet, happy and healthy New Year.
Sincerely,
Alan, Kallah, Benjamin Z'L, Kimberly and Zac Busch
“Ha gomel l’hayavim tovos …”
My mood swings pendulously as we approach the season of
the Yomim Noraim. Starting with the renewal of hope that
Rosh Ha Shanah connotes and ending with the trepidation of
Yom Kippur, I cannot but probe this time of year, the special
nature of which we devote to personal reflection, fasting and
prayer.
While true we do not know the names of those who will be
inscribed and sealed in the Sefer Chaim when Yom
Kippur is over, the din of these existential matters belongs
exclusively to the Dayan Emes, whose province lies beyond
that which Rabbi Louis calls “the inquisitive grasp of man.”
However, we pray our tefilos, tzedaka and tshuva are of
sufficient merit to avert the evil decree and spare us the pain
of personal tragedy.
How should we explain “near misses” with death, when it
could have very conceivably gone the other way? Can we
explain them rationally or should we define them as miracles
and be done with it? If as miracles, they are different than
the miraculous inversions of nature found in the
Torah or the innumerable miracles we encounter daily:
sunrise, the birth of a child, night from day-all of which we
like to call the wonders of “nature”. What about blind luck, the
roll of the dice or random chaos?
Should everyone believe that The One Above governs the
world? Would it not be better were every knee to bend and
every tongue give homage? Perhaps but with this essential
caveat: faith does not guarantee against tragedy, but what it
does do is strengthen us when we are most in need of
assistance, comfort, and protection from apostasy. As
frustrating a reality as it is, bad things befall all kinds of
people. The nature of human powerlessness only begins to
make sense when we acknowledge that He alone governs the
world in ways we neither understand nor like at times.
The day at work was much like the one before: a busy
morning, phones ringing steadily, a brisk pace. I took the next
call.
“Mr. Busch?” a woman’s voice asked. A stranger spoke. I
listened. Something about her tone, her almost official,
business-like approach, all too familiar-I began to tremble.
“No! This can’t be happening, Please God …,” I prayed. “Yes,
this is Mr. Busch,” I replied, wishing I were not.
“My name is Ann and I have just left your daughter Kimberly,”
she said calmly.
“Is she alright, is she hurt, tell me where she is,” I
demanded.
“Mr. Busch, she is fine. Really! We’re about eighty miles south
of Chicago by Pontiac. Kimberly was involved in an accident,
but she is unhurt, not a scratch.”
“Kimmy, in an accident. Oy Got! 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 and felt
confident she was okay.”
“Well, wha … what happened?”
While on her way to Chicago, Ann witnessed a collision on
the interstate. Pulling over to help out however she could, she
came across my daughter Kimberly who-we later learned- had
lost control of her steering wheel when an eighteen-wheeler
she was attempting to pass forced her onto the shoulder of
the passing lane. Crossing the grassy median, Kimberly struck
a van headed in the opposite direction.
By this point in Anne’s narration, my heart was racing so
Much, my head pounding so violently, I could barely contain
myself. Even though Anne emphatically stressed and
reiterated that Kimmy was unhurt, I couldn’t prevent
flashbacks of Ben’s last day rushing into my head.
“Listen Ann, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You can’t
imagine what your good news means to me. Really and truly.”
“Oh, you’re welcome Mr. Busch. I’m just glad she’s okay.”
I hung up the telephone hurriedly and only then realized I had
forgotten to write down her name and number.
I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I was
able to 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 with trepidation.
Whenever I think about my kids in dire and dangerous
situations, my voice begins to falter.
“Jan, Kimmy was 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 to me, hon, “I reassured her,” calling her by an old term
of endearment.
“Kimberly is safe and unhurt,” I reassured her. “She’ll tell
ya 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 digital clock atop my old desk radio. It was
already after 3:00. With barely the time and breath to inform
my co-workers about what had happened, I raced away.
Although Anne had assured me Kimmy was okay, I called
the cell number she had given me of the state trooper who was
at the scene. Exceedingly kind and understanding of a father’s
worriment, she patiently humored me while I asked after
Kimmy’s status unabatedly.
Within an hour, having exceeded the speed limit for which,
if stopped, I had prepared an explanation, I found Kimberly
waiting for me in front of the service station that had towed
her car. Kimmy was anxious to leave immediately, but I
needed a few minutes. So before heading home, I tried the
driver’s side door. Amazingly it opened cleanly. I sat down.
Never having seen an airbag deployed, I slumped there
dumbfounded, gapping incredulously at what just hours
before had been a sporty red convertible Toyota. The front end
of the car was “accordioned” within several inches of the
dashboard.
“Dad, are you ready?” Kimmy asked impatiently.
“Yes Babe,” I replied, struggling to not break down in front of
my daughter. “Let’s go Sweetypie.” I had so many syrupy
names for her. We drove home mostly in silence.
Understandably, Kimmy was skittish, jumpy, every time I
applied the brake or switched lanes. Who knows how many
times she must have rerun the whole thing in her mind on our
way home together.
“Kimmy Babe?” I asked, calling her by one of my favorites. “Ya
okay?”
“Yes, Dad, just beat,” she exhaustively uttered.
“Yea, I know,” I added with just the right amount “Daddy”
sympathy. I dropped her off at her mom’s house, my heart
sinking, but here she was … safe and sound.
Why was Kimberly saved? I don’t have an answer anymore
now than I did before when I asked why Ben was not
saved. It was unanswerable then as it remains now.
The following Friday, I invited Kimmy along with her boyfriend
for dinner Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my
fiancé. The table, beautifully set, awaited us: its candles
aglow. It is my custom to light a ner nechuma for my son Ben
every Friday night before Shabbes begins … sort of bridging
the distance between us. We sat.
“Kimuschkele,” my voice cracking as I try to get the words out
of a short speech.
“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)
“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but looking at my daughter.
“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’ because
of all nights, I am especially thankful tonight to have you by
my side.” Lifting the kiddush cup, a slight tremble animated
my right hand. I let a moment pass, not a peep was uttered.
Ben’s lamp seemed to flicker more brightly, illuminating the
serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my
hand.
“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker,” I sanctified the wine.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Dear Readers,
The Chicago Jewish Federation in its news magazine published this version of the opening chapter of my manuscript In Memory of Ben. Unfortunately, the editors used the wrong revision, but this is not too terribly different though the final draft is somewhat longer containing more dialogue. In any event, I am pleased that the editors saw fit to publish this tiny bit of Ben's story.
May all who come to this blog by design or chance enjoy a sweet, healthy and happy NEW YEAR!
Before I forget, the November 1, 2007 edition of Bereavement Publications Living With Loss will feature another chapter of In Memory of Ben, entitled "Every Day is Thanksgiving"
JUF News
Arts & Entertainment
In Memory of Ben
By Alan Busch
EDITOR'S NOTE: On Yom Kippur it is customary for Jews to recite Yizkor, (memorial prayers, but literally meaning "May He remember") for loved ones who have died. It is in that spirit that we offer the following piece, written by Alan Busch, a congregant of Congregation Beth Hamedrosh Hagodol Kesser Maariv Anshe Luknik, who continues to mourn the loss of his son, Ben. JUF News thanks Rabbi Louis Lazovsky for bringing this story to our attention.
An act of divine kindness made it possible for me to spend several minutes with my son Benjamin in what became our last time together.
Forgetting the night before to set his alarm, Ben woke up late for work, hurriedly got dressed and ran to catch the bus. As fortune would have it, he spotted my car parked at the dry cleaners and caught me just in time. Had I not dropped my laundry off that morning, I might not have seen him again. As I turned to leave, there he was, waiting behind me with a broad smile of anticipation.
“Dad, can you give me a lift to the train?”
Always regretful whenever I had not seen Ben for several days, any opportunity to be with him delighted me. After I moved out of my home in July of 1999, there were times when I did not see him as often as I would have liked. Together we drove to the train. As I recall, our last conversation went something like this:
“How are you, Ben?”
“Fine, Dad. You?”
“Okay. How are you?”
“Good.”
“You feeling good?”
“Yup.”
I turned into a parking lot across the street from the station. Checking to see that the latch on his messenger bag was securely fastened, he opened the passenger door.
As always, I asked him: “Do you have money on you?”
“Yes, Dad. Seeya’ later!”
“Be safe!”
The day at work would be, I thought, like any other. If only it had been! The phones rang all morning. Business was brisk! It was just before noon when I answered the next call. I heard the voice of a stranger. Identifying himself as a trauma surgeon in the emergency department of Cook County Hospital, he told me Ben had survived a nearly fatal traffic accident, but with critical injuries which required immediate surgical intervention. He “suggested” I come to the hospital as soon as possible.
“Suggested? I knew what he meant! Suffice to say, I knew how this day would end.” A myriad of frightful thoughts filled my head in a state of controlled desperation as I sped away to the hospital. The grave tone of the doctor’s voice convinced me the dreaded day which I had anticipated for years arrived this day.
After being fortunate enough to find parking two blocks away, I ran to the emergency department, whereupon I identified myself to the first nurse I encountered. She escorted me hurriedly to the surgeon, to whom I gave parental authorization, when asked, to employ all measures to save Ben. I expressed my wish to witness the efforts of the trauma team while it did everything in its power to save him.
Standing alongside my father, who arrived within minutes after I called, we stood witness to a desperate, ultimately futile effort almost within our grasp.
During these agonizing moments, I discovered a previously unknown facet of my father. Next to me stood a desperate man who was praying for the life of my son. Holding his hands overhead with palms flattened against the glass partition while holding back a torrent of tears, he pled with The Almighty for immediate intervention. In Ben’s declining seconds, while yet flickered a spark of life, my father—sensitive, but doggedly determined man that he is—called out a desperate plea to his grandson once … twice … thrice …
“Hang on Ben! Fight back! Please fight back!”
Open heart massage … failed! Oxygen mask … failed! Electric shock … failed! A dark cloud smothered the din. The frenzied pace quieted. The equipment was turned off. The surgeon turned around to face me. His wearied face bespoke what I already knew. He shook his head. The embers of life died within Ben.
It seemed as if Ben had come into this world only a short while before. I was there then as I was now. A nurse asked me if I wished to be with my son. I told her I did. Only I could be with Ben. Taking hold of my father by his arm, she motioned him away and drew the curtain so that Ben and I not be disturbed.
Standing by Ben’s side, I placed a kippah upon his head and kissed his handsome nose.
“Thank you for being such a good son, Ben.”
With but precious few minutes left to be together before the attendants arrived, Ben “slept” while I … I hovered over him and whisperingly sang the 23rd Psalm.
“ … lo ira ra ki Ata imudi …” (I have no fear, for Thou art with me.)
Rabbi Louis arrived by taxi.
Frankly relieved that he took charge, his timely arrival assured me that Ben would be interred in accordance with Jewish tradition.
A noteworthy interlude took place before I had to tell his mom, who, unknown to me at the time, hadn’t yet arrived.
A nurse came to inform me that a group of Ben’s friends had arrived moments before and was waiting at the front desk. What I did not know then was that Ben’s friends had picked up Zac, Ben’s younger brother, and brought him along. Rabbi Louis and I went to receive them.
Cook County Hospital is frenetic. All manner of people: ambulatory patients attached to mobile drips, trauma patients being rushed to surgery strapped atop gurnies, doctors, nurses, visitors, paramedics, police officers and sheriff’s deputies jam its hallways. Hospital policy forbade nonfamily members from visitation. We had to leave Ben’s buddies behind.
Trudging through the corridors with Rabbi Louis and Zac while returning back to the emergency department, it felt as if we were passing between classes in high school. Almost predictably, we were stopped—not by the assistant principal, but by a burly hospital security guard who asked us for our passes. Having none, he pointed us to the reception area where we had met Zachary minutes before.
Rabbi Louis, frustrated at the hapless absurdity of the moment, appealed beseechingly in hope of touching the guard’s better angels. “My friend’s son has just died!”
The guard refused to budge. Despite Rabbi Louis’s vociferous objections, it became apparent that his protestations had fallen on deaf ears. So back we trod to fetch the passes.
Meanwhile, Ben’s mom had arrived from a much longer distance than I. Passes in hand, we did make it back minutes later when came time to confront her with the awful news. Rabbi Louis, in his goodness, generously offered to stand in for me, but I felt this was my duty. Accompanying me together with my dad, our arms linked, we reluctantly crossed the hall to a small lounge wherein sat Ben’s mom awaiting news.
I approached her haltingly. “Ben is gone!” I cried out, placing my forehead atop her head. Within the shadow of a moment came forth an utterance of primal pain from Ben’s mom so horrifically terrifying that I suspect only a bereaved mother is capable of making it. I shall never forget its sound!
What more can one do in a moment like this? Though Zac, my dad and Rabbi Louis were present in the room with me, I recall nothing of their reactions to my grave announcement to Ben’s mom. It was as if she and I were alone in this sanitized lounge, the small sofa, chairs and lighting of which were unremarkably sterile. I left the room.
Tending to an important matter for which I had to speak to the surgeon, I found him standing in the hallway close by, appearing as though something was on his mind. I thanked him for all his efforts to save Ben’s life. While we spoke, I discerned a genuinely heartfelt sympathy for my family; furthermore, he seemed to intuitively understand me when I forbade an autopsy.
Weeks later, in a sworn deposition, part of a wrongful death suit brought by my family against the owner of the truck whose driver struck Ben, the surgeon testified to having been worried about my dad’s well-being when, during those several minutes, he bore witness to futility.
There remained nothing more we could do. Ben’s mom had left with Zac and my dad. Accompanied by Rabbi Louis, I walked to my truck. His companionship warmed me against the icy winds. How thankful I was that I would not have to go home alone!
While the engine warmed, Rabbi Louis contacted a mutual friend, a Chicago police chaplain, to see if he could expedite moving Ben’s remains from the hospital morgue to the funeral home. After several minutes had passed, I drove Rabbi Louis home.
That Wednesday, the eve of Thanksgiving 2000, ended together with my “world” as I had known it. I think I fell asleep that night in my apartment.
Posted: 9/5/2007 9:27:17 AM
The Chicago Jewish Federation in its news magazine published this version of the opening chapter of my manuscript In Memory of Ben. Unfortunately, the editors used the wrong revision, but this is not too terribly different though the final draft is somewhat longer containing more dialogue. In any event, I am pleased that the editors saw fit to publish this tiny bit of Ben's story.
May all who come to this blog by design or chance enjoy a sweet, healthy and happy NEW YEAR!
Before I forget, the November 1, 2007 edition of Bereavement Publications Living With Loss will feature another chapter of In Memory of Ben, entitled "Every Day is Thanksgiving"
JUF News
Arts & Entertainment
In Memory of Ben
By Alan Busch
EDITOR'S NOTE: On Yom Kippur it is customary for Jews to recite Yizkor, (memorial prayers, but literally meaning "May He remember") for loved ones who have died. It is in that spirit that we offer the following piece, written by Alan Busch, a congregant of Congregation Beth Hamedrosh Hagodol Kesser Maariv Anshe Luknik, who continues to mourn the loss of his son, Ben. JUF News thanks Rabbi Louis Lazovsky for bringing this story to our attention.
An act of divine kindness made it possible for me to spend several minutes with my son Benjamin in what became our last time together.
Forgetting the night before to set his alarm, Ben woke up late for work, hurriedly got dressed and ran to catch the bus. As fortune would have it, he spotted my car parked at the dry cleaners and caught me just in time. Had I not dropped my laundry off that morning, I might not have seen him again. As I turned to leave, there he was, waiting behind me with a broad smile of anticipation.
“Dad, can you give me a lift to the train?”
Always regretful whenever I had not seen Ben for several days, any opportunity to be with him delighted me. After I moved out of my home in July of 1999, there were times when I did not see him as often as I would have liked. Together we drove to the train. As I recall, our last conversation went something like this:
“How are you, Ben?”
“Fine, Dad. You?”
“Okay. How are you?”
“Good.”
“You feeling good?”
“Yup.”
I turned into a parking lot across the street from the station. Checking to see that the latch on his messenger bag was securely fastened, he opened the passenger door.
As always, I asked him: “Do you have money on you?”
“Yes, Dad. Seeya’ later!”
“Be safe!”
The day at work would be, I thought, like any other. If only it had been! The phones rang all morning. Business was brisk! It was just before noon when I answered the next call. I heard the voice of a stranger. Identifying himself as a trauma surgeon in the emergency department of Cook County Hospital, he told me Ben had survived a nearly fatal traffic accident, but with critical injuries which required immediate surgical intervention. He “suggested” I come to the hospital as soon as possible.
“Suggested? I knew what he meant! Suffice to say, I knew how this day would end.” A myriad of frightful thoughts filled my head in a state of controlled desperation as I sped away to the hospital. The grave tone of the doctor’s voice convinced me the dreaded day which I had anticipated for years arrived this day.
After being fortunate enough to find parking two blocks away, I ran to the emergency department, whereupon I identified myself to the first nurse I encountered. She escorted me hurriedly to the surgeon, to whom I gave parental authorization, when asked, to employ all measures to save Ben. I expressed my wish to witness the efforts of the trauma team while it did everything in its power to save him.
Standing alongside my father, who arrived within minutes after I called, we stood witness to a desperate, ultimately futile effort almost within our grasp.
During these agonizing moments, I discovered a previously unknown facet of my father. Next to me stood a desperate man who was praying for the life of my son. Holding his hands overhead with palms flattened against the glass partition while holding back a torrent of tears, he pled with The Almighty for immediate intervention. In Ben’s declining seconds, while yet flickered a spark of life, my father—sensitive, but doggedly determined man that he is—called out a desperate plea to his grandson once … twice … thrice …
“Hang on Ben! Fight back! Please fight back!”
Open heart massage … failed! Oxygen mask … failed! Electric shock … failed! A dark cloud smothered the din. The frenzied pace quieted. The equipment was turned off. The surgeon turned around to face me. His wearied face bespoke what I already knew. He shook his head. The embers of life died within Ben.
It seemed as if Ben had come into this world only a short while before. I was there then as I was now. A nurse asked me if I wished to be with my son. I told her I did. Only I could be with Ben. Taking hold of my father by his arm, she motioned him away and drew the curtain so that Ben and I not be disturbed.
Standing by Ben’s side, I placed a kippah upon his head and kissed his handsome nose.
“Thank you for being such a good son, Ben.”
With but precious few minutes left to be together before the attendants arrived, Ben “slept” while I … I hovered over him and whisperingly sang the 23rd Psalm.
“ … lo ira ra ki Ata imudi …” (I have no fear, for Thou art with me.)
Rabbi Louis arrived by taxi.
Frankly relieved that he took charge, his timely arrival assured me that Ben would be interred in accordance with Jewish tradition.
A noteworthy interlude took place before I had to tell his mom, who, unknown to me at the time, hadn’t yet arrived.
A nurse came to inform me that a group of Ben’s friends had arrived moments before and was waiting at the front desk. What I did not know then was that Ben’s friends had picked up Zac, Ben’s younger brother, and brought him along. Rabbi Louis and I went to receive them.
Cook County Hospital is frenetic. All manner of people: ambulatory patients attached to mobile drips, trauma patients being rushed to surgery strapped atop gurnies, doctors, nurses, visitors, paramedics, police officers and sheriff’s deputies jam its hallways. Hospital policy forbade nonfamily members from visitation. We had to leave Ben’s buddies behind.
Trudging through the corridors with Rabbi Louis and Zac while returning back to the emergency department, it felt as if we were passing between classes in high school. Almost predictably, we were stopped—not by the assistant principal, but by a burly hospital security guard who asked us for our passes. Having none, he pointed us to the reception area where we had met Zachary minutes before.
Rabbi Louis, frustrated at the hapless absurdity of the moment, appealed beseechingly in hope of touching the guard’s better angels. “My friend’s son has just died!”
The guard refused to budge. Despite Rabbi Louis’s vociferous objections, it became apparent that his protestations had fallen on deaf ears. So back we trod to fetch the passes.
Meanwhile, Ben’s mom had arrived from a much longer distance than I. Passes in hand, we did make it back minutes later when came time to confront her with the awful news. Rabbi Louis, in his goodness, generously offered to stand in for me, but I felt this was my duty. Accompanying me together with my dad, our arms linked, we reluctantly crossed the hall to a small lounge wherein sat Ben’s mom awaiting news.
I approached her haltingly. “Ben is gone!” I cried out, placing my forehead atop her head. Within the shadow of a moment came forth an utterance of primal pain from Ben’s mom so horrifically terrifying that I suspect only a bereaved mother is capable of making it. I shall never forget its sound!
What more can one do in a moment like this? Though Zac, my dad and Rabbi Louis were present in the room with me, I recall nothing of their reactions to my grave announcement to Ben’s mom. It was as if she and I were alone in this sanitized lounge, the small sofa, chairs and lighting of which were unremarkably sterile. I left the room.
Tending to an important matter for which I had to speak to the surgeon, I found him standing in the hallway close by, appearing as though something was on his mind. I thanked him for all his efforts to save Ben’s life. While we spoke, I discerned a genuinely heartfelt sympathy for my family; furthermore, he seemed to intuitively understand me when I forbade an autopsy.
Weeks later, in a sworn deposition, part of a wrongful death suit brought by my family against the owner of the truck whose driver struck Ben, the surgeon testified to having been worried about my dad’s well-being when, during those several minutes, he bore witness to futility.
There remained nothing more we could do. Ben’s mom had left with Zac and my dad. Accompanied by Rabbi Louis, I walked to my truck. His companionship warmed me against the icy winds. How thankful I was that I would not have to go home alone!
While the engine warmed, Rabbi Louis contacted a mutual friend, a Chicago police chaplain, to see if he could expedite moving Ben’s remains from the hospital morgue to the funeral home. After several minutes had passed, I drove Rabbi Louis home.
That Wednesday, the eve of Thanksgiving 2000, ended together with my “world” as I had known it. I think I fell asleep that night in my apartment.
Posted: 9/5/2007 9:27:17 AM
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Dear Readers,
The following article is a revision of a chapter excerpted from In Memory of Ben and will be published in the November 1, 2007 edition of Living With Loss, Bereavement Publications
"Every Day is Thanksgiving"
While our nation celebrates Thanksgiving on the fourth
Thursday in November, as a Jew, I give thanks every
morning upon awakening by saying: “Modei ani lefanecha,
melech chai vekayam, shehechezarta bi nishmati b’chemla-
raba emunasecha – I gratefully thank You, O living and eternal
King, for You have returned my soul within me with
compassion … abundant is Your faithfulness.”
How does this observance of “Jewish Thanksgiving” differ
from that of our national holiday? The primary difference
is one that goes to the very core of Jewish religious belief: we
thank Him “yom yom- every day” by praising His name in good
times and bad.
Let’s be clear: I am not suggesting that Jews welcome
bad tidings. However, when they do happen, our faith in His
“rachomim and din-mercy and justice” encourages us to
remember that, though current circumstances appear dark
and foreboding, bad tidings do turn out for the best. We do
not, however, make any attempt to minimize the pain of
tragedy.
Almost two years ago on November 22, 2005, I received an email from my dear
friend Jan, who wrote:
Dear Alan...you are in my thoughts and prayers today. I know what you are thinking about, and that you are missing Ben. I remembered that it was five years ago...an eternity, but as if only yesterday, for you. He was a beautiful boy, who wanted so much to be his own man...and he was. How else could he have endured so much, and yet still, was willing to give so much of himself? The true measure of a man is to be able to love unconditionally...and he did...and you did, even though you may feel, in retrospect, that it took awhile for you to finally reach that stage. I said "may feel", and "finally", Alan, because I know that you ALWAYS loved Ben unconditionally. The times that you were embarrassed by some of the ways that Ben chose to express himself, were only that...an embarrassment...not a failure on Ben's part, or yours. You only wanted what was best for Ben...what you thought was best. That kind of love is the greatest gift that anyone can ever give or receive...and you and Ben gave that gift to each other.
Jan
I did not find anything Jan had said disagreeable. Her note revealed a keen
insight into the life of my late son Ben, alav ha shalom, and my efforts to
chronicle it. There was something troubling me though about the date of
the note, Tuesday, November 22, 2005, and Jan’s reference to
“today” in her opening sentence.
Later that evening, my fiancé and I were sharing a coffee.
“So how was your day?” she asked.
“Oh, okay I suppose,” I said, but before the conversation went
any further, it hit me. It finally made sense.
I realized that although the calendar date, Tuesday,
November 22, 2005, marked the fifth anniversary of my son’s
passing, it had been the week DAY, Wednesday, the day before
Thanksgiving that forever underscored the tragedy imprinted
on my heart.
In keeping with my belief about the presence of balance
and order in our world-though we may not perceive them
readily at times-our lives are not at the mercy of random
collisions of chance. You may even wonder about any
demonstrable proof I may have for this assertion. Well, I
haven’t any, but unlike the strict standards of scientific proof,
I submit the gift my daughter Kimberly shared with me that
same day.
I will never forget the excitement and glee in her voice. It
not only struck a welcome chord to complete this day, to
make the circle whole but reaffirmed my belief in how we give
thanks to the Master of The Universe who reawakens us every
morning to experience both good times and bad in our lives.
“Daddy, I got a job as a lawyer in a downtown firm! I’ll have an
office with a view from the 39th floor overlooking downtown. It’s
just what I wanted!”
“Kimmy Babe, that’s wonderful sweetheart. Mazel Tov.
I’m proud of you.” I rejoiced.
“Thanks Dad! Talk later, okay?” she ended.
That sums up, rather succinctly what happened on
November 22, 2005, when divine balance manifested itself
dramatically, affording me the opportunity to experience the
joy and love of both my children on what was the worst day
imaginable just five years before.
“Modei ani lefanecha …”
Alan Busch
Revised, 9/5/07
The following article is a revision of a chapter excerpted from In Memory of Ben and will be published in the November 1, 2007 edition of Living With Loss, Bereavement Publications
"Every Day is Thanksgiving"
While our nation celebrates Thanksgiving on the fourth
Thursday in November, as a Jew, I give thanks every
morning upon awakening by saying: “Modei ani lefanecha,
melech chai vekayam, shehechezarta bi nishmati b’chemla-
raba emunasecha – I gratefully thank You, O living and eternal
King, for You have returned my soul within me with
compassion … abundant is Your faithfulness.”
How does this observance of “Jewish Thanksgiving” differ
from that of our national holiday? The primary difference
is one that goes to the very core of Jewish religious belief: we
thank Him “yom yom- every day” by praising His name in good
times and bad.
Let’s be clear: I am not suggesting that Jews welcome
bad tidings. However, when they do happen, our faith in His
“rachomim and din-mercy and justice” encourages us to
remember that, though current circumstances appear dark
and foreboding, bad tidings do turn out for the best. We do
not, however, make any attempt to minimize the pain of
tragedy.
Almost two years ago on November 22, 2005, I received an email from my dear
friend Jan, who wrote:
Dear Alan...you are in my thoughts and prayers today. I know what you are thinking about, and that you are missing Ben. I remembered that it was five years ago...an eternity, but as if only yesterday, for you. He was a beautiful boy, who wanted so much to be his own man...and he was. How else could he have endured so much, and yet still, was willing to give so much of himself? The true measure of a man is to be able to love unconditionally...and he did...and you did, even though you may feel, in retrospect, that it took awhile for you to finally reach that stage. I said "may feel", and "finally", Alan, because I know that you ALWAYS loved Ben unconditionally. The times that you were embarrassed by some of the ways that Ben chose to express himself, were only that...an embarrassment...not a failure on Ben's part, or yours. You only wanted what was best for Ben...what you thought was best. That kind of love is the greatest gift that anyone can ever give or receive...and you and Ben gave that gift to each other.
Jan
I did not find anything Jan had said disagreeable. Her note revealed a keen
insight into the life of my late son Ben, alav ha shalom, and my efforts to
chronicle it. There was something troubling me though about the date of
the note, Tuesday, November 22, 2005, and Jan’s reference to
“today” in her opening sentence.
Later that evening, my fiancé and I were sharing a coffee.
“So how was your day?” she asked.
“Oh, okay I suppose,” I said, but before the conversation went
any further, it hit me. It finally made sense.
I realized that although the calendar date, Tuesday,
November 22, 2005, marked the fifth anniversary of my son’s
passing, it had been the week DAY, Wednesday, the day before
Thanksgiving that forever underscored the tragedy imprinted
on my heart.
In keeping with my belief about the presence of balance
and order in our world-though we may not perceive them
readily at times-our lives are not at the mercy of random
collisions of chance. You may even wonder about any
demonstrable proof I may have for this assertion. Well, I
haven’t any, but unlike the strict standards of scientific proof,
I submit the gift my daughter Kimberly shared with me that
same day.
I will never forget the excitement and glee in her voice. It
not only struck a welcome chord to complete this day, to
make the circle whole but reaffirmed my belief in how we give
thanks to the Master of The Universe who reawakens us every
morning to experience both good times and bad in our lives.
“Daddy, I got a job as a lawyer in a downtown firm! I’ll have an
office with a view from the 39th floor overlooking downtown. It’s
just what I wanted!”
“Kimmy Babe, that’s wonderful sweetheart. Mazel Tov.
I’m proud of you.” I rejoiced.
“Thanks Dad! Talk later, okay?” she ended.
That sums up, rather succinctly what happened on
November 22, 2005, when divine balance manifested itself
dramatically, affording me the opportunity to experience the
joy and love of both my children on what was the worst day
imaginable just five years before.
“Modei ani lefanecha …”
Alan Busch
Revised, 9/5/07
Monday, September 03, 2007
And You Think You Have Problems ...
(A continuation of my kvetching about living with early onset Parkinson's Disease ...)
Maybe your mom said this to you too when as a kid you complained too much, too often about not feeling well.. I remember my Mom saying it very clearly and in no uncertain terms:
"Ma, I don't feel vey good."
"What's wrong? Tell me where it hurts," she implored.
"Oghhhh, my stomach hurts really bad," which it did on occasion, but in the great kid tradition of soliciting as much sympathy from Mom as possible, I just might have hiked it up a bit,and it typically worked. Mom would respond with her usual formulae of medications and motherly loving-kindness.
But like every other good thing and-this is the way it should be too-there was a ceiling to what Mom would provide in terms of her smiling nursing bedside manner. When we reached that point she would routinely turn the guilt tables:
"Listen my Dear, you think you've got troubles, you're feeling sick. Sick? I'll show you sick. Let's take a ride to the children's ward at the hospital. You want sick? I'll show you sick!" she said not meanly but in a manner clearly intended to instruct.
And that would pretty much do the trick. Its object ... in the short term: to quiet my kvetching. In the grander scheme of things: to teach me the lesson of context
relativity. In other words, there is always someone sicker than you, whose "dreykop" requires more Excedrin Migraine than yours does. Or maybe you have heard it this way ... "Oh you think you're so tough, that you're the best wrestler on the team and maybe in the conference. Well, I've got news for you. There is always somebody better!
And you know what? It is an unimpeachable truth. There is unfortunately always someone sicker and another who is the better wrestler.
I had to be reminded of this boyhood lesson the other night when Kallah and I were having a spirited exchange. Okay, an argument. We settled the matter but not before I uttered classical expressions of "feel sorry for me" and "will you please come to my pity party."
So what has any of this have to do with Parkinson's Disease? Just this ... you may not know that Parkinsonian symptoms are highly individualized and the severity of its symptomology and resultant disability vary from person to person. One of my severest symptoms is that my spoken speech has been seriously disrupted, so characterized by an annoying and embarrassing stutter, a raspy, low voice and shortage of breath that, when I do speak, often runs out before I have finished my sentence.
As a boy I suffered from a stutter from about age five on, but I managed to control it over the years to the point that it would erupt only on rare occasions, and, as it often seemed, at the most embarrassing of moments ... when I'd be teaching, for example. However, by the time of my adulthood, I had pretty well mastered it. Guess what? The Parkinson's brought it back and in an especially nasty form.
So when Kallah and I were having our "spirited exchange" i was having the darndest time getting my words out.
"And as a matter of fact, I thththththink ththththis, ththththat and the other ththththing about that," after which I pounded the pillows with angry fist frustrated at my inability to stop my tongue from stuttering the "th" dipthong.
"You know what?" I asked of Kallah.
"What?" she shot back.
"There are times when I just wanna slit my throat and be done with it," I blathered out while wallowing in the sludge of self-pity.
"I can't believe you just said what you did," Kallah rebuked me.
The followng day we went to shul on Shabbat morning, and I felt compelled to sit alongside my friend Alan S. who suffers from a far more advanced Parkinson's than I, and as I watched him try to fold his tallis after services, I noticed some familiar difficulties.
It's quite difficult to fold anything if your fingertips can not retain their grip. I saw how tenuously Alan's fingertips were barely hanging on. Now consider this ... when we typically hold things, we grip them by the soft pads of our fingers. Think about it or look at your fingers the next time you are holding on to something and you'll see what I mean. I suffer this symptom too. In place of the pads of our fingers, we hold on by our fingertips very close to the fingernails. There is not a lot of retentive room there. Grasping things becomes problemtic.
So there I stood watching him struggle with this task ordinarily so simple. I went over to greet him.
"Alan, Shabbat shalom."
"Shabbat shalom to you," he replied, but rather than being focused on his words, I was drawn to staring at his right hand that shakes violently.
We sat down together minutes later and chatted together with his wife and Kallah. Again I watched Alan as he struggled to spread a dolip of tuna fish on a cracker, and it came back to me.
"You want sick? I'll show you sick. Come with me to the children's ward at the hospital," I suddenly heard my mom's words again, followed and reinforced by "I can't believe you said what you did," a replay of Kallah's rebuke from the evening before.
(A continuation of my kvetching about living with early onset Parkinson's Disease ...)
Maybe your mom said this to you too when as a kid you complained too much, too often about not feeling well.. I remember my Mom saying it very clearly and in no uncertain terms:
"Ma, I don't feel vey good."
"What's wrong? Tell me where it hurts," she implored.
"Oghhhh, my stomach hurts really bad," which it did on occasion, but in the great kid tradition of soliciting as much sympathy from Mom as possible, I just might have hiked it up a bit,and it typically worked. Mom would respond with her usual formulae of medications and motherly loving-kindness.
But like every other good thing and-this is the way it should be too-there was a ceiling to what Mom would provide in terms of her smiling nursing bedside manner. When we reached that point she would routinely turn the guilt tables:
"Listen my Dear, you think you've got troubles, you're feeling sick. Sick? I'll show you sick. Let's take a ride to the children's ward at the hospital. You want sick? I'll show you sick!" she said not meanly but in a manner clearly intended to instruct.
And that would pretty much do the trick. Its object ... in the short term: to quiet my kvetching. In the grander scheme of things: to teach me the lesson of context
relativity. In other words, there is always someone sicker than you, whose "dreykop" requires more Excedrin Migraine than yours does. Or maybe you have heard it this way ... "Oh you think you're so tough, that you're the best wrestler on the team and maybe in the conference. Well, I've got news for you. There is always somebody better!
And you know what? It is an unimpeachable truth. There is unfortunately always someone sicker and another who is the better wrestler.
I had to be reminded of this boyhood lesson the other night when Kallah and I were having a spirited exchange. Okay, an argument. We settled the matter but not before I uttered classical expressions of "feel sorry for me" and "will you please come to my pity party."
So what has any of this have to do with Parkinson's Disease? Just this ... you may not know that Parkinsonian symptoms are highly individualized and the severity of its symptomology and resultant disability vary from person to person. One of my severest symptoms is that my spoken speech has been seriously disrupted, so characterized by an annoying and embarrassing stutter, a raspy, low voice and shortage of breath that, when I do speak, often runs out before I have finished my sentence.
As a boy I suffered from a stutter from about age five on, but I managed to control it over the years to the point that it would erupt only on rare occasions, and, as it often seemed, at the most embarrassing of moments ... when I'd be teaching, for example. However, by the time of my adulthood, I had pretty well mastered it. Guess what? The Parkinson's brought it back and in an especially nasty form.
So when Kallah and I were having our "spirited exchange" i was having the darndest time getting my words out.
"And as a matter of fact, I thththththink ththththis, ththththat and the other ththththing about that," after which I pounded the pillows with angry fist frustrated at my inability to stop my tongue from stuttering the "th" dipthong.
"You know what?" I asked of Kallah.
"What?" she shot back.
"There are times when I just wanna slit my throat and be done with it," I blathered out while wallowing in the sludge of self-pity.
"I can't believe you just said what you did," Kallah rebuked me.
The followng day we went to shul on Shabbat morning, and I felt compelled to sit alongside my friend Alan S. who suffers from a far more advanced Parkinson's than I, and as I watched him try to fold his tallis after services, I noticed some familiar difficulties.
It's quite difficult to fold anything if your fingertips can not retain their grip. I saw how tenuously Alan's fingertips were barely hanging on. Now consider this ... when we typically hold things, we grip them by the soft pads of our fingers. Think about it or look at your fingers the next time you are holding on to something and you'll see what I mean. I suffer this symptom too. In place of the pads of our fingers, we hold on by our fingertips very close to the fingernails. There is not a lot of retentive room there. Grasping things becomes problemtic.
So there I stood watching him struggle with this task ordinarily so simple. I went over to greet him.
"Alan, Shabbat shalom."
"Shabbat shalom to you," he replied, but rather than being focused on his words, I was drawn to staring at his right hand that shakes violently.
We sat down together minutes later and chatted together with his wife and Kallah. Again I watched Alan as he struggled to spread a dolip of tuna fish on a cracker, and it came back to me.
"You want sick? I'll show you sick. Come with me to the children's ward at the hospital," I suddenly heard my mom's words again, followed and reinforced by "I can't believe you said what you did," a replay of Kallah's rebuke from the evening before.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
Dear Readers,
I type this post no more than fifty feet from where I dropped Ben off to catch the train the morning of November 22, 2000. The old train station is now a bustling Starbucks where Kallah and I hang out, and the entrance way to the train has moved immediately southwest about one hundred yards up.
I'm presently working on two projects: 1) a compilation of essays about the mere handful of folks who have left a deep and indelible impression on me. 2) the other is a collection of ramblings of a man stricken with early onset Parkinson's Disease which-as the kids these days say: "SUX!"
As the Days of Awe approach, I invariably find myself making cheshbonos in the hopes that after fifty three years, my most nagging preoccupaton is whether or not I merit to be called a "decent human being."
Toward that hope, I submit the following Chapter from In Memory of Ben, revised.
“ … in the draft of God’s exhalation …”
It’s almost invariable that melancholia overtakes
me whenever I am there. I don’t think it debilitating, short-
lived as each instance is, but it remains a constant in the
equation of my grief.
Yet, I know this is where a grieving Jew should be
because it is a "makom kodesh," a holy place, wherein I feel the
presence of my son Ben in its most intense manifestation.
I’ll even venture a remark that may seem odd to some. As
strong a pull as it is to stand before Ben’s grave, I struggle to
sense his presence. Oh yes. I know his body is beneath my
feet, but that’s just it. Ben’s body remains, but his neshuma,
his soul, is elsewhere Where it is, well … that’s anyone’s
guess; it’s in the Olam Haba, floating-as it were-like a feather
caught up in the draft of God’s exhalation-or somewhere in
shamayim waiting for another aliyah that’ll bring him closer to
God.
But such is the paltriness of our conception, as if it were
possible to approach Him, The Infinite Holy One. For that
would imply physicality, finiteness of which He has none. Even
the “He of Him” implies a ring of closure around our
conception of what God is and where. You know what? Never
mind the theological gymnastics. I’m satisfied with that
explanation however much it might make me an apikoros[1],
just as long as Ben “returns” on a regular basis. I’ve few if
any other choices.
And return he does, a sort of tshuva[2] in reverse in that he
returns to us from God whereas we seek, in doing tshuva, to
near Him, to approach Him. We may even cross each other’s
paths on occasion. A heavenly intersection, a cosmic
crossroads-if you will-where the souls and prayers of those
who love(d) him may barely escape collision.
I believe Ben’s soul hovers in synagogue when I am there. He spends time
with me in that way, I suppose. It is his way of making up for the time when I sit in our row by
myself.
I felt it (him) recently on Purim-a feeling unlike that of any other
experience, anywhere else, including the time I spend writing
in Ben’s room. Though I fully expect this grief, I am thankful
to take my seat in the row behind my dear friend, Rabbi Louis
and his two sons. It affords me the opportunity to look over
the mechitza[3] to the yahrzeit[4] panels on the south wall and
see Ben’s name, the eleventh one in the first column on the
first panel. We have a tradition in shul life that one’s seat
becomes his makom kavua.[5] His seat is next to mine though I
should tell you Ben was not a regular shul-goer. Nobody else
sits there however, except my father on Erev Yontif Rosh
Hashanah.
Whether it happens to be the thanksgiving of Purim, the
revelry of Simchas Torah[6] or the trepidation of Yom Kippur,[7]
my son remains by my side. Other fathers have their sons
sitting next to them. I miss that but I possess something they
do not-the certainty my son lived a life abundant in loving-
kindness.
Time moves forward inexorably. It pauses for no one. That
Purim morning I lamented how much time has passed without
Ben. I am reminded daily his absence is forever. No matter
how many years have gone by or however many are yet to
come, Ben’s death for me will always remain in the present
tense. I will never say: “Once upon a time I had a son named
Ben.” I won't tell you I'm not glad to be alive because I know I
am a better person for having known and loved him. He taught
me so much.
Still ... know there are moments when I am filled with guilt it was he and not I.
[1] One who challenges tenets of religious belief.
[2] Repentance; atonement
[3] Partition in an orthodox synagogue separating women’s from men’s section.
[4] The anniversary of a death
[5] set place where one sits
[6] holiday celebrating the “joy of Torah”.
[7] Day of Atonement
I type this post no more than fifty feet from where I dropped Ben off to catch the train the morning of November 22, 2000. The old train station is now a bustling Starbucks where Kallah and I hang out, and the entrance way to the train has moved immediately southwest about one hundred yards up.
I'm presently working on two projects: 1) a compilation of essays about the mere handful of folks who have left a deep and indelible impression on me. 2) the other is a collection of ramblings of a man stricken with early onset Parkinson's Disease which-as the kids these days say: "SUX!"
As the Days of Awe approach, I invariably find myself making cheshbonos in the hopes that after fifty three years, my most nagging preoccupaton is whether or not I merit to be called a "decent human being."
Toward that hope, I submit the following Chapter from In Memory of Ben, revised.
“ … in the draft of God’s exhalation …”
It’s almost invariable that melancholia overtakes
me whenever I am there. I don’t think it debilitating, short-
lived as each instance is, but it remains a constant in the
equation of my grief.
Yet, I know this is where a grieving Jew should be
because it is a "makom kodesh," a holy place, wherein I feel the
presence of my son Ben in its most intense manifestation.
I’ll even venture a remark that may seem odd to some. As
strong a pull as it is to stand before Ben’s grave, I struggle to
sense his presence. Oh yes. I know his body is beneath my
feet, but that’s just it. Ben’s body remains, but his neshuma,
his soul, is elsewhere Where it is, well … that’s anyone’s
guess; it’s in the Olam Haba, floating-as it were-like a feather
caught up in the draft of God’s exhalation-or somewhere in
shamayim waiting for another aliyah that’ll bring him closer to
God.
But such is the paltriness of our conception, as if it were
possible to approach Him, The Infinite Holy One. For that
would imply physicality, finiteness of which He has none. Even
the “He of Him” implies a ring of closure around our
conception of what God is and where. You know what? Never
mind the theological gymnastics. I’m satisfied with that
explanation however much it might make me an apikoros[1],
just as long as Ben “returns” on a regular basis. I’ve few if
any other choices.
And return he does, a sort of tshuva[2] in reverse in that he
returns to us from God whereas we seek, in doing tshuva, to
near Him, to approach Him. We may even cross each other’s
paths on occasion. A heavenly intersection, a cosmic
crossroads-if you will-where the souls and prayers of those
who love(d) him may barely escape collision.
I believe Ben’s soul hovers in synagogue when I am there. He spends time
with me in that way, I suppose. It is his way of making up for the time when I sit in our row by
myself.
I felt it (him) recently on Purim-a feeling unlike that of any other
experience, anywhere else, including the time I spend writing
in Ben’s room. Though I fully expect this grief, I am thankful
to take my seat in the row behind my dear friend, Rabbi Louis
and his two sons. It affords me the opportunity to look over
the mechitza[3] to the yahrzeit[4] panels on the south wall and
see Ben’s name, the eleventh one in the first column on the
first panel. We have a tradition in shul life that one’s seat
becomes his makom kavua.[5] His seat is next to mine though I
should tell you Ben was not a regular shul-goer. Nobody else
sits there however, except my father on Erev Yontif Rosh
Hashanah.
Whether it happens to be the thanksgiving of Purim, the
revelry of Simchas Torah[6] or the trepidation of Yom Kippur,[7]
my son remains by my side. Other fathers have their sons
sitting next to them. I miss that but I possess something they
do not-the certainty my son lived a life abundant in loving-
kindness.
Time moves forward inexorably. It pauses for no one. That
Purim morning I lamented how much time has passed without
Ben. I am reminded daily his absence is forever. No matter
how many years have gone by or however many are yet to
come, Ben’s death for me will always remain in the present
tense. I will never say: “Once upon a time I had a son named
Ben.” I won't tell you I'm not glad to be alive because I know I
am a better person for having known and loved him. He taught
me so much.
Still ... know there are moments when I am filled with guilt it was he and not I.
[1] One who challenges tenets of religious belief.
[2] Repentance; atonement
[3] Partition in an orthodox synagogue separating women’s from men’s section.
[4] The anniversary of a death
[5] set place where one sits
[6] holiday celebrating the “joy of Torah”.
[7] Day of Atonement
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Kallah Has Come Home ...
I needed some time
while she was gone before
I understood.
Tortuous days, sleepless nights.
That a woman loves her husband
by reconciling her higher sense with ...
a man's baser nature.
I had to discover ...
the key to her love
was to search out her soul.
That when she loves you,
it is first with her mind and ...
only after with her body.
If and when a man
understands this ...
has he finally grown up.
Alan D. Busch
8/26/07
I needed some time
while she was gone before
I understood.
Tortuous days, sleepless nights.
That a woman loves her husband
by reconciling her higher sense with ...
a man's baser nature.
I had to discover ...
the key to her love
was to search out her soul.
That when she loves you,
it is first with her mind and ...
only after with her body.
If and when a man
understands this ...
has he finally grown up.
Alan D. Busch
8/26/07
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Chapter 1-First Signs
It is hard to believe at first-no less accept!
“How could this be happening to me?”But it was ... signs that a strange disease had not only begun to afflict me but at an uncommonly early age- having become part of who I was and how I carried myself.
We do not give much thought, if any, to how we move our bodies. It’s something we just do, but when all that begins to change, when you progressively can no longer control how you carry yourself, it begins to become an almost all-consuming preoccupation.
I was 46 years old.My friend Kathy, a nurse by training, made the first diagnosis that my internist later confirmed-manifesting “Parkinsonian symptoms,” as I saw he had scribbled on my chart. So … what were they, these signs?
My Left Hand and Arm ...
Have you ever looked carefully at how you walk? Well, if you haven’t, you really should! One characteristic of a normal gait is that your arms swing freely and involuntarily at your sides. Again, this is something we don’t notice ordinarily until it stops. Walking with Parkinson's became a conscious and often frustratingly futile effort to restore what had simply been an almost instinctual ability. Yes, of course, we learn to walk around the time we pass through the "terrible twos," but after so much time, it's something we just do like ... breathing for example.
But what do you do when your left arm not only does not swing freely but becomes “glued” to your side? Well, I tried on innumerable occasions to force it to swing by commanding it, in effect, to swing!
Have you ever seen a grown man talking to his arm?"Swing! Damn you. Swing!"
And at times it worked, but despite my best efforts, it has never returned to its earlier normalcy. My continuing efforts to remedy this were at once both futile and, I fear, farcical at best. However, had I not tried, my arm “would have done as it wanted” which it did do in any case most of the time.The practical effects of this are that it affects the rhythm of your gait; in other words, your walk becomes a limp. Additionally, self-conscious awareness and worriment about how others see you become constant concerns, I have always thought, worse than the affliction itself. When I am not walking, my arm positions itself involuntarily across my chest as if cradled by an invisible sling.
"It sux!" as the kids say these days.
As a boy, I remember having read Johnny Tremain, a revolutionary war story of a teenage apprentice silversmith who burned and disfigured his hand when a mischievous younger assistant purposely handed Johnny a cracked crucible of molten silver. Predictably, the crucible broke, spilling its infernal contents onto the furnace and floor.
As a consequence, Johnny slipped and burned his hand that became permanently disfigured after a midwife, called in to treat his injury, erred in treating it properly, fusing his thumb to the palm of his hand.
Whenever I put my left hand into my pants pocket in the hope of appearing normal, I think of Johnny Tremain who practiced the same subterfuge. It offers only temporary relief at best and truthfully does little, if anything, to restore the appearance of normalcy.
Left Hand Tremor ...
For quite a while, the problem was confined to my left hand and arm. It has gradually spread to my right hand although it remains not as badly affected as my left.One important consequence of the spread of this disability to my right hand has been its effect on my handwriting.Not that my penmanship ever won any awards for artistic calligraphy, but there is another manifestation of Parkinson's called “micrographia." What happens is that the lettering of one’s penmanship becomes very small to the extent that it is not only difficult to see, but becomes illegible as well. Parkinson’s affects many of our motor skills, especially the fine motor skills we have taken for granted since childhood.
A while back, my doctor, a noted PD specialist, asked me how I was doing to which I rather flippantly responded: “Would you like to watch me button my shirt?” Mind you, I am not in the habit of responding sarcastically to sincerely asked questions, but Parkinson's is an especially frustrating malady as you witness little things like buttoning one's shirt fall by the wayside.
Point being that though I do take medication that tends to ameliorate these symptoms, the reality is that the medications are variably effective. Also true is that when I have been late taking my prescribed dosages or that I have run out of a particular medication, the consequences are severe. All of my movements slow down as if I were suspended in slow motion. It becomes exceedingly difficult to do what otherwise are the simplest things. Under these circumstances, try taking change out of your pocket or writing a check.
I illustrated it once by telling a friend:"Put both of your hands behind your back. Now pick up that box in front of you!"
Remember the last time you felt normal? Sounds like a strange question, but it really is not! I have not felt good for six years. Yes, there have been times when I felt happy, when I was joyous, but I don't mean that. I do not think there has been a moment in these six years when I haven’t been embarrassingly aware of how misshapen my movements have become at times.
When the symptomology reaches a certain point, there is no more hiding the effects of Parkinson's. If you have ever seen your reflection in a window as you walk along the sidewalk, then you know what I mean. However, I would be remiss if I did not mention the fact that about one year ago while at work, I reexperienced the joy of normal movement. It lasted for about an hour. I do not know why it happened. Maybe the chemistry of the "meds"' came together in perfect fashion for that brief time. Whatever it was, I do know that I was smiling gleefully. It was as if some unidentifiable force had overtaken me, and oh how I welcomed it!
And there are occasions when I can swagger with the best of them! More to follow.
It is hard to believe at first-no less accept!
“How could this be happening to me?”But it was ... signs that a strange disease had not only begun to afflict me but at an uncommonly early age- having become part of who I was and how I carried myself.
We do not give much thought, if any, to how we move our bodies. It’s something we just do, but when all that begins to change, when you progressively can no longer control how you carry yourself, it begins to become an almost all-consuming preoccupation.
I was 46 years old.My friend Kathy, a nurse by training, made the first diagnosis that my internist later confirmed-manifesting “Parkinsonian symptoms,” as I saw he had scribbled on my chart. So … what were they, these signs?
My Left Hand and Arm ...
Have you ever looked carefully at how you walk? Well, if you haven’t, you really should! One characteristic of a normal gait is that your arms swing freely and involuntarily at your sides. Again, this is something we don’t notice ordinarily until it stops. Walking with Parkinson's became a conscious and often frustratingly futile effort to restore what had simply been an almost instinctual ability. Yes, of course, we learn to walk around the time we pass through the "terrible twos," but after so much time, it's something we just do like ... breathing for example.
But what do you do when your left arm not only does not swing freely but becomes “glued” to your side? Well, I tried on innumerable occasions to force it to swing by commanding it, in effect, to swing!
Have you ever seen a grown man talking to his arm?"Swing! Damn you. Swing!"
And at times it worked, but despite my best efforts, it has never returned to its earlier normalcy. My continuing efforts to remedy this were at once both futile and, I fear, farcical at best. However, had I not tried, my arm “would have done as it wanted” which it did do in any case most of the time.The practical effects of this are that it affects the rhythm of your gait; in other words, your walk becomes a limp. Additionally, self-conscious awareness and worriment about how others see you become constant concerns, I have always thought, worse than the affliction itself. When I am not walking, my arm positions itself involuntarily across my chest as if cradled by an invisible sling.
"It sux!" as the kids say these days.
As a boy, I remember having read Johnny Tremain, a revolutionary war story of a teenage apprentice silversmith who burned and disfigured his hand when a mischievous younger assistant purposely handed Johnny a cracked crucible of molten silver. Predictably, the crucible broke, spilling its infernal contents onto the furnace and floor.
As a consequence, Johnny slipped and burned his hand that became permanently disfigured after a midwife, called in to treat his injury, erred in treating it properly, fusing his thumb to the palm of his hand.
Whenever I put my left hand into my pants pocket in the hope of appearing normal, I think of Johnny Tremain who practiced the same subterfuge. It offers only temporary relief at best and truthfully does little, if anything, to restore the appearance of normalcy.
Left Hand Tremor ...
For quite a while, the problem was confined to my left hand and arm. It has gradually spread to my right hand although it remains not as badly affected as my left.One important consequence of the spread of this disability to my right hand has been its effect on my handwriting.Not that my penmanship ever won any awards for artistic calligraphy, but there is another manifestation of Parkinson's called “micrographia." What happens is that the lettering of one’s penmanship becomes very small to the extent that it is not only difficult to see, but becomes illegible as well. Parkinson’s affects many of our motor skills, especially the fine motor skills we have taken for granted since childhood.
A while back, my doctor, a noted PD specialist, asked me how I was doing to which I rather flippantly responded: “Would you like to watch me button my shirt?” Mind you, I am not in the habit of responding sarcastically to sincerely asked questions, but Parkinson's is an especially frustrating malady as you witness little things like buttoning one's shirt fall by the wayside.
Point being that though I do take medication that tends to ameliorate these symptoms, the reality is that the medications are variably effective. Also true is that when I have been late taking my prescribed dosages or that I have run out of a particular medication, the consequences are severe. All of my movements slow down as if I were suspended in slow motion. It becomes exceedingly difficult to do what otherwise are the simplest things. Under these circumstances, try taking change out of your pocket or writing a check.
I illustrated it once by telling a friend:"Put both of your hands behind your back. Now pick up that box in front of you!"
Remember the last time you felt normal? Sounds like a strange question, but it really is not! I have not felt good for six years. Yes, there have been times when I felt happy, when I was joyous, but I don't mean that. I do not think there has been a moment in these six years when I haven’t been embarrassingly aware of how misshapen my movements have become at times.
When the symptomology reaches a certain point, there is no more hiding the effects of Parkinson's. If you have ever seen your reflection in a window as you walk along the sidewalk, then you know what I mean. However, I would be remiss if I did not mention the fact that about one year ago while at work, I reexperienced the joy of normal movement. It lasted for about an hour. I do not know why it happened. Maybe the chemistry of the "meds"' came together in perfect fashion for that brief time. Whatever it was, I do know that I was smiling gleefully. It was as if some unidentifiable force had overtaken me, and oh how I welcomed it!
And there are occasions when I can swagger with the best of them! More to follow.
Coherent Ramblings from An Early-Onset Parkinson's Patient
Re: Parkinson's Disease and Other Related MachinationsYou have heard this before, I'm sure.
Probably from your mother and father. I know I did.
Remember ... ? "If you have your good health, you have everything!"
Now, if that is true, and I think it is, when you don't have your good health, well ... you may not have "nothing" right away, but you will have less than everything right from the beginning.
There is a ritual custom in Judaism on the days when the Torah is read. A member of the minyan is chosen to lift the Torah upon completion of the reading. He approaches the bimah, grasps the handles of the etz chaim around which the Parchment of the scroll is wrapped, unrolls both halves to expose as many columns as he feels comfortable supporting (it becomes more unwieldy the more columns are exposed) slides the scroll down to the edge of the reading table, and depending how experienced and bold he is and may feel, combined with the varying distribution of the two halves of the text scroll, crouches down as if he were about to perform a dead lift, then stands up straight raising the Torah over his head as high as he can, turns around so that all can see the columns of script-and upon one complete turn, sits down on a pre-prepositioned chair whereupon another person rolls the two halves of the scroll together.
That act of ritual is called "hagbahah."It requires strength, balance and poise., especially when lifting the larger, heavier sifrei Torah.There was a time when I could do that quite well-when after my divorce I worked out bicycling and lifting weights so that I was able to achieve a level of fitness unlike any I had experienced since my high school years when my brother Ron and I used to lift weights at the local JCC.
One of my favorite exercises was the fly rep.Here's how that works: one can either stretch himself backward on an exercise ball or, as I used to do, suspend myself on a chair, my heals hooked on the top edge of its back, lean back toward the floor, grasp the weights evenly spaced on either side of one's head, lifting them over the chest and repeat.
One day I heard and felt something snap in my left shoulder while doing a set of fly reps.It's never been the same.Since that time, I've lost a lot of mobility and strength in that shoulder but gained a great deal of chronic pain and so much discomfort that I became anxious about my physical ability to raise the Torah. It wasn't long before I told Rabbi Louis that I would no longer accept the honor lest I falter and drop it! It was, I determined, a weight lifting injury, I supposed at the time. It would heal, in time.What I didn't and could not have known at the time was that I had already begun to experience signs of the early onset of Parkinson's Disease.
More to follow. Stay tuned.
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