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Is it Still Okay If Your Father Cries?

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

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

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

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

“No, Miss, it’s B-u-s-c-h, Busch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Call the nurses, Alan.

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

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

My protestation weakens.

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

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

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

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

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

“You did? That’s good news!”

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

Is it still okay if your father cries?

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

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

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

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

And then the phone rang …

“Good morning Alan!”

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

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

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

Alan D. Busch
09/01/09

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends,

Please click on

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

to read my latest published piece in the Orthodox Union.

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

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

Sincerely,

Alan D. Busch

8/8/09

Where authors and readers come together!

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

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

Ty,

Alan D. Busch

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

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

Where authors and readers come together!




Dear Senator Boxer:

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

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

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

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

Where authors and readers come together!





Our Future Began In Our Past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My First Shabbos

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shah! Listen to Bubbie."

(If only Mel Brooks could have seen this!)

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

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

A Lifetime Later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about the kids?" she wondered.

“Tonight, we’ll tell them tonight.”


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

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

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

Alan D. Busch
7/13/09

Where authors and readers come together!


Darkness Can Enlighten

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

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

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

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

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

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

My First “Almost” Shabbos

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shah! Listen to Bubbie."

If only Mel Brooks had seen this!

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

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

Alan D. Busch
7/01/09

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

sincerely,

alan busch

Dear Friends,



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



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



Thank you,



Alan D. Busch

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


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


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


"Mr. Busch?" he queried.


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


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


"Yes, doctor," I acknowledged nervously.


"Are you the father of Benjamin Busch?"


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


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


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


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


I tried to speak but my words were stuck.


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



Published: Sunday, June 21, 2009

Where authors and readers come together!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where authors and readers come together!


Dear Friends,

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

Shabbos_Minchah.pdf.pdf

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

many thanks,

alan

Where authors and readers

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

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

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

very sincerely yours,

alan d busch

Where authors and readers come together!




Dear Friends,

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

Sincerely,

Alan

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

Where authors and readers come together!




Darkness Can Enlighten (current)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alan D. Busch
Revised 5/13/09

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Readers,

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

My Brother Does Not Look Like My Dad

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

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

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

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

Taxicabs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alan D. Busch
Revised 3/22/09

Where authors and readers come together!



Dear Friends,

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

Shabbos Mincha with Reb Isser

Reb Isser knew intuitively something was wrong.

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

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

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

shalom bayis still remained was crumbling fast.

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

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

became my mentor, confidant and proxy zayde.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

spring and summer, it's too late"

"Too late for what?” he asked.

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

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

would be a sympathetic decision.

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

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

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

handing it to me.

“Reb Isser, you don’t have …”

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

this. I fell silent.

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

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

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

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

back the tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

among several paper plates.

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

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

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

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

you that story?” I nodded again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

had denied Yossele and Chavaleh.

Alan D. Busch
Revised 3/15/09

Glossary

Shabbos-Sabbath

mincha-the afternoon prayer

reb-yiddish expression of respect shown an older man

zayde-yiddish, grandfather

erev Pesach-the eve of Passover

Kashrus-kosher dietary laws

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

shalom bayis-peace at home

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

minyan-prayer quorem of ten adult men

ha motsi-blessing over bread

aleah ha shalom-may she rest in peace

nu-yiddish, so

pisher-yiddish slang, young boy

shul-yiddish, synagogue

peyos-side curls

Ashrei-the first word of the afternoon prayer

makom-Hebrew, place

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Friends,

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

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


Reckoning

I am my father’s witness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alan D. Busch
3/2/09

Where authors and readers come together!




Dear Friends,

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

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

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch