Chapter 7: Mazel Run Out
I kept hold of a deep secret for many years!
Something so dark, so terrifyingly foreboding that, had one been told, the only adequate response would have been:
“God Forbid!”
I tried consciously to suppress it whenever it occurred to me, but its probability seemed less remote with every one of our visits to the emergency room! It seemed as if it were a certainty, a foreshadowing of an eventuality.
Somehow I knew Ben's mazel, our mazel would run out someday!
Does it seem horrible a parent should have such thoughts about his own child? Maybe so, but I freely admit it did often occur to me. Problem was I just did not know when it would happen! After all, one whose child lives with two chronic diseases and survives innumerable close calls might begin to anticipate the imminence of the last day.
As it happened, Ben did not die either from complications of diabetes or epilepsy, but was fatally struck by a truck while riding his motor scooter for a messenger service. So when his mazel, our mazel did run out-as odd as it may sound-I had already prepared myself emotionally for its inevitability.
Not so strangely, I felt certain Ben had lived a fuller life in fewer years than many would have done in more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 7a: Postscript to “Mazel Run Out”
Witnesses claim having seen the truck in the center lane when the driver, without signaling, executed an abrupt right turn into an alley crushing Ben in the process with his rear tires.
One witness testified having seen the driver exit his vehicle to see what had happened and then quickly returned to his cab, drove the truck further into the alley whereupon he turned his right turn signal on.
There is nothing in the reports to indicate he offered any aid or comfort to Ben.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Chapter 19: Shomer
Certain acts are best characterized as “selfless” and, as such, are performed without thought of payment or recognition, as if to say:
‘I am doing this because it is the only decent and helpful thing I know to do.’
It is a Kiddush Ha Shem, an act performed to sanctify God's name, signifying:
‘In doing this for you, I expect nothing and will accept nothing in return.’
It is the ultimate act of friendship.
I have such a friend! ...
It happened on Thanksgiving Day, November 22, 2000 when Ben's mom and I, together with a few family friends, met with the funeral director to make the awful but necessary arrangements to lay our son to his final resting place.
In a way I think the worst part was the purchase of the casket. Our choice was simple. Made from pine, then lacquered and adorned with a Magen David, Star or Shield of David, the sighting of one exactly like it at a friend’s recent funeral brought back memories of that day when the funeral home staff delicately walked us through the casket show room. There was another choice, a simpler design without a lacquered finish, a flat rectangular construction. It reminded me of the caskets shown in the old cowboy movies that always had an undertaker in town.
Ben’s mom looked at me and I at her. Not quite enough we agreed for our beloved Benjamin.
That Thanksgiving was indeed a dreadful one: a quiet, somber but exhausting confusion. With so many suddenly necessary things to do and little time left to accomplish everything before Friday, it became an opportunity in abbreviated time when the angelic reflections of our souls shone brilliantly!
So many of our friends joined in to lend us a helping hand in our time of greatest need. A lady from my synagogue prepared me enough food for several days. A dear friend flew in from Canada. We were all so frenzied, and I recall feelings of surreal suspension which lasted until I heard the first spade of earth hitting the casket.
Our community experienced an ingathering that day, Thursday November 23, 2000 and for many days thereafter-a time when acts of chesed, kindness and gemilus chasadim, acts of loving kindness awakened our finest natures that really did manifest themselves in a common effort to mend that which cannot be fixed and heal that for which there is no cure. Each one comforted the next, quietly dreading the coming morning when would arrive the very last chance to say our ‘goodbyes’, but before which no one was left alone. No one!
A shomer sat next to the casket reading from the Sefer Tehilim, The Book of Psalms, throughout the night.
The soul rising higher...
This particular shomer knew Ben: who he was, where he lived, having conversed with him, seen him seated next to me in shul, discerned a fierce loyalty to family and friends; in sum simply this: the kind of person for whom one prays that his soul have an aliyah, an ascent to a higher heavenly level.
Earlier that same day, this shomer sat near me while we finalized Ben’s funeral arrangements, whose selflessness later that night comforted me and whose tefilos, prayers, uttered on behalf of my son, I am quite sure, reached the “divine ear!”
I have such a friend!
Thank you Harv!
Certain acts are best characterized as “selfless” and, as such, are performed without thought of payment or recognition, as if to say:
‘I am doing this because it is the only decent and helpful thing I know to do.’
It is a Kiddush Ha Shem, an act performed to sanctify God's name, signifying:
‘In doing this for you, I expect nothing and will accept nothing in return.’
It is the ultimate act of friendship.
I have such a friend! ...
It happened on Thanksgiving Day, November 22, 2000 when Ben's mom and I, together with a few family friends, met with the funeral director to make the awful but necessary arrangements to lay our son to his final resting place.
In a way I think the worst part was the purchase of the casket. Our choice was simple. Made from pine, then lacquered and adorned with a Magen David, Star or Shield of David, the sighting of one exactly like it at a friend’s recent funeral brought back memories of that day when the funeral home staff delicately walked us through the casket show room. There was another choice, a simpler design without a lacquered finish, a flat rectangular construction. It reminded me of the caskets shown in the old cowboy movies that always had an undertaker in town.
Ben’s mom looked at me and I at her. Not quite enough we agreed for our beloved Benjamin.
That Thanksgiving was indeed a dreadful one: a quiet, somber but exhausting confusion. With so many suddenly necessary things to do and little time left to accomplish everything before Friday, it became an opportunity in abbreviated time when the angelic reflections of our souls shone brilliantly!
So many of our friends joined in to lend us a helping hand in our time of greatest need. A lady from my synagogue prepared me enough food for several days. A dear friend flew in from Canada. We were all so frenzied, and I recall feelings of surreal suspension which lasted until I heard the first spade of earth hitting the casket.
Our community experienced an ingathering that day, Thursday November 23, 2000 and for many days thereafter-a time when acts of chesed, kindness and gemilus chasadim, acts of loving kindness awakened our finest natures that really did manifest themselves in a common effort to mend that which cannot be fixed and heal that for which there is no cure. Each one comforted the next, quietly dreading the coming morning when would arrive the very last chance to say our ‘goodbyes’, but before which no one was left alone. No one!
A shomer sat next to the casket reading from the Sefer Tehilim, The Book of Psalms, throughout the night.
The soul rising higher...
This particular shomer knew Ben: who he was, where he lived, having conversed with him, seen him seated next to me in shul, discerned a fierce loyalty to family and friends; in sum simply this: the kind of person for whom one prays that his soul have an aliyah, an ascent to a higher heavenly level.
Earlier that same day, this shomer sat near me while we finalized Ben’s funeral arrangements, whose selflessness later that night comforted me and whose tefilos, prayers, uttered on behalf of my son, I am quite sure, reached the “divine ear!”
I have such a friend!
Thank you Harv!
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Dear Readers ...
As you might well guess, thoughts on Father's Day lead me back to remembrances of Ben Z'L who was the very first person in all the world to call me "daddy"! I should also like to point out that my son Zac and his sister Kimberly joined me for dinner tonight at my home and presented me with a special Three Stooges DVD 8 pack and two fine cigars.
By now faithful readers of Ben's story should have a truer sense of the inner strength of Ben. He was most assuredly a "gibor"-a person characterized not solely by physical strength as much as an enduring inner constitutional fiber that enables one such as Ben to overcome adversity not merely once, twice, thrice but repeatedly throughout the length of his days.
Please if you will take a few minutes to read these two related chapters, they will, I hope, at the very least remind you to hug your first born and call your dad before it's too late.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~
For Ben ... as always
My mind’s eye can still see the pole-vaulting pit on the athletic field of West Ladue Junior High where I attended the seventh-grade thirty-nine years ago. As a boy I'd look up at the height of the bar and I remember feeling awestruck that someone of my age could possess the requisite qualities of focus, daring and strength to overcome such a formidable height.
That memory has proven itself invaluable to me throughout the years whenever I incorporated its lesson into both my teaching and parenting-not only with Ben but my two other children, Kimberly and Zac, as well. My teaching, however, began with Ben-my first student as it were-to whom I would often say:
"Raise up the bar, son! Never lower it!"
It was always my hope that that reminder would inspire and enable him to overcome his many personal challenges: to reach in, out and beyond.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Reaching in ...
Ben's physical strength was awesome, but it is not that to which I refer here but rather to his “inner strength”, his strength of character.
However, as an aside, if ever he skated toward you at full speed as he once did for me as I stood watching just outside the entranceway onto the ice, I gleaned a fairly good appreciation for what it must feel like to stand in front of an oncoming train! A fabulous ice skater, Ben worked as an "ice guard" for a winter's season at the park district’s ice rink-and whose responsibility was to monitor the safety of the kids on the ice during open skating, picking up the little ones who had fallen and setting them aright.
My indecision …
Ben's personal strength of character remarkably manifested itself following the surgical repair of his infected appendectomy. Soon released from the hospital with a surgical wound deliberately un-sutured, Ben, in order to insure that the wound would heal properly, had to fully pack it twice daily with cotton gauze, tape it shut and maintain the sanitary hygiene of the entire site. He continued having to do this on a daily basis for several weeks.
There was one occasion when I sat across from him in his bedroom and watched him do this self-procedure, but within moments I became so overwhelmed that the choice whether to laugh or cry left me indecisive. I compromised with myself by laughing through my tears of joy!
As crucial for the pole-vaulter as both strength and technical skill are, he, much like Ben, must possess, an inner strength that fills him with a passionate desire to vault formidable heights with ease and grace.
As you might well guess, thoughts on Father's Day lead me back to remembrances of Ben Z'L who was the very first person in all the world to call me "daddy"! I should also like to point out that my son Zac and his sister Kimberly joined me for dinner tonight at my home and presented me with a special Three Stooges DVD 8 pack and two fine cigars.
By now faithful readers of Ben's story should have a truer sense of the inner strength of Ben. He was most assuredly a "gibor"-a person characterized not solely by physical strength as much as an enduring inner constitutional fiber that enables one such as Ben to overcome adversity not merely once, twice, thrice but repeatedly throughout the length of his days.
Please if you will take a few minutes to read these two related chapters, they will, I hope, at the very least remind you to hug your first born and call your dad before it's too late.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~
For Ben ... as always
My mind’s eye can still see the pole-vaulting pit on the athletic field of West Ladue Junior High where I attended the seventh-grade thirty-nine years ago. As a boy I'd look up at the height of the bar and I remember feeling awestruck that someone of my age could possess the requisite qualities of focus, daring and strength to overcome such a formidable height.
That memory has proven itself invaluable to me throughout the years whenever I incorporated its lesson into both my teaching and parenting-not only with Ben but my two other children, Kimberly and Zac, as well. My teaching, however, began with Ben-my first student as it were-to whom I would often say:
"Raise up the bar, son! Never lower it!"
It was always my hope that that reminder would inspire and enable him to overcome his many personal challenges: to reach in, out and beyond.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Reaching in ...
Ben's physical strength was awesome, but it is not that to which I refer here but rather to his “inner strength”, his strength of character.
However, as an aside, if ever he skated toward you at full speed as he once did for me as I stood watching just outside the entranceway onto the ice, I gleaned a fairly good appreciation for what it must feel like to stand in front of an oncoming train! A fabulous ice skater, Ben worked as an "ice guard" for a winter's season at the park district’s ice rink-and whose responsibility was to monitor the safety of the kids on the ice during open skating, picking up the little ones who had fallen and setting them aright.
My indecision …
Ben's personal strength of character remarkably manifested itself following the surgical repair of his infected appendectomy. Soon released from the hospital with a surgical wound deliberately un-sutured, Ben, in order to insure that the wound would heal properly, had to fully pack it twice daily with cotton gauze, tape it shut and maintain the sanitary hygiene of the entire site. He continued having to do this on a daily basis for several weeks.
There was one occasion when I sat across from him in his bedroom and watched him do this self-procedure, but within moments I became so overwhelmed that the choice whether to laugh or cry left me indecisive. I compromised with myself by laughing through my tears of joy!
As crucial for the pole-vaulter as both strength and technical skill are, he, much like Ben, must possess, an inner strength that fills him with a passionate desire to vault formidable heights with ease and grace.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Dear Readers ...
I hope that you will take a minute or so to read the revised Chapter 14 of In Memory of Ben. I do always appreciate your time and interest. Please post your comments on the blog should you have any comments or questions.
It frequently happens that ‘children challenges’ exhaust parental reservoirs of common faith and shared strength, when something as simple as a hug might enable them to survive and overcome their common extremity by a painful moment becoming even the tiniest bit more bearable.
The Accident …
Within several weeks after surviving a near fatal traffic accident, Ben began feeling shortness of breath and chest pain. His posture was slouched over and his walk became labored. Diagnosed as a very severe pneumonia, there was no other treatment option than to undergo lung surgery. Coincident at a time in our marriage when Ben's mom and I had not had any contact with each other for months, had you seen me then, you would have understood why!
At that time, Ben's mom used to say that she could no longer recognize me nor frankly did I myself! Wanting to be perceived as an orthodox Jew, I began dressing in what I thought was the “standard uniform”: dark suit, white shirt, tie, a kippah[1] and topped off by black fedora.
In actuality, had one probed beyond the garb, he would have discovered I was no one other than a pretender and ‘am haaretz’[2].
While laboring under the false presumption that if by changing my external appearance I could quicken my internal religious growth, I struggled to learn and live by the fundamentals of Jewish orthodoxy. I failed in the end.
A Unbridgeable Distance
Standing by his bedside where he lay recovering after his surgery, Ben's mom and I bore witness to his wrenching pain. Although he fought back mightily, his cries were heart piercing.
"Ben ... be strong, son! Even stronger!" I implored.
How awkward I felt saying these words to Ben as if he were not already doing that! How awful it is to see one's child in pain!Ben’s mom left the room. I found her in the family waiting lounge just steps away. Quietly weeping, she stood by the window just staring out. I wanted very much to comfort her, but I could not! I did not think she would have wanted me to touch her, to hug her! As she often said back then, I was no longer the same man whom she had once known and loved.
So there we were, the two of us, Ben's mom and dad, not ten feet away from each other, but it might well have been hundreds of miles … tragically unable to offer each other even the slightest comfort for our son’s suffering, our suffering: common but not shared!
[1] skullcap worn by observant Jewish men.
[2] An ignorant person, a ‘know-nothing!’
I hope that you will take a minute or so to read the revised Chapter 14 of In Memory of Ben. I do always appreciate your time and interest. Please post your comments on the blog should you have any comments or questions.
It frequently happens that ‘children challenges’ exhaust parental reservoirs of common faith and shared strength, when something as simple as a hug might enable them to survive and overcome their common extremity by a painful moment becoming even the tiniest bit more bearable.
The Accident …
Within several weeks after surviving a near fatal traffic accident, Ben began feeling shortness of breath and chest pain. His posture was slouched over and his walk became labored. Diagnosed as a very severe pneumonia, there was no other treatment option than to undergo lung surgery. Coincident at a time in our marriage when Ben's mom and I had not had any contact with each other for months, had you seen me then, you would have understood why!
At that time, Ben's mom used to say that she could no longer recognize me nor frankly did I myself! Wanting to be perceived as an orthodox Jew, I began dressing in what I thought was the “standard uniform”: dark suit, white shirt, tie, a kippah[1] and topped off by black fedora.
In actuality, had one probed beyond the garb, he would have discovered I was no one other than a pretender and ‘am haaretz’[2].
While laboring under the false presumption that if by changing my external appearance I could quicken my internal religious growth, I struggled to learn and live by the fundamentals of Jewish orthodoxy. I failed in the end.
A Unbridgeable Distance
Standing by his bedside where he lay recovering after his surgery, Ben's mom and I bore witness to his wrenching pain. Although he fought back mightily, his cries were heart piercing.
"Ben ... be strong, son! Even stronger!" I implored.
How awkward I felt saying these words to Ben as if he were not already doing that! How awful it is to see one's child in pain!Ben’s mom left the room. I found her in the family waiting lounge just steps away. Quietly weeping, she stood by the window just staring out. I wanted very much to comfort her, but I could not! I did not think she would have wanted me to touch her, to hug her! As she often said back then, I was no longer the same man whom she had once known and loved.
So there we were, the two of us, Ben's mom and dad, not ten feet away from each other, but it might well have been hundreds of miles … tragically unable to offer each other even the slightest comfort for our son’s suffering, our suffering: common but not shared!
[1] skullcap worn by observant Jewish men.
[2] An ignorant person, a ‘know-nothing!’
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Dear Readers,
As always, I thank you for your time and interest in my telling the story of my late son Ben Z'L. Should you have any comments, be they of whatever sort, please take a moment to post them on the blog. You needn't worry, I shan't be offended if you have a criticism to make and naturally I won't turn away any positive reactions. I am currently editing In Memory of Ben in the hopes of sending it off to an editor. Though the chapter names have remained unchanged, editing has changed the economy of the text as I have tried to say things more succinctly in my on-going struggle against verbosity. :)
Chapter 34: Revision of " ... In a Better Place ... "
What words to a bereaved parent can a consoler say about the “unspeakable” without stumbling into the realm of the trite and banal?
Sadly, many say:
“They are in a better place … ”
If only we hugged more and spoke less!
Imagine the greater nechama[1] we could provide if we knew what not to say to a parent suffering life’s most painful loss!
Bereaved parents will eventually come to accept death’s irreversibility, however reluctantly, over time-no matter how long it may take. Time may not heal all wounds, but it will take its toll on those parents who persist in fighting a futile war against an implacable enemy. That truism said should not keep bereft parents from “ascending the top of the highest mountain” and crying out that the death of a child is eternally intolerable.
I have wondered at times: “Could I have loved Ben more?”
Death Be Not Proud by John Gunther chronicles the story of his son’s heroic but ultimately futile struggle with brain cancer.
In a provocative postscript, Frances, the author’s estranged wife, ponders whether she could have loved her son, Johnny, more and if so, how? Naturally, reading this led me to wonder if I too could have done more, done better for Ben.
While maintaining her trust in God and refusing to lay the blame for her son’s death at anyone’s doorstep, Frances looks at how two issues might have produced better results had she and her husband addressed them differently:
1. Johnny should not have been sent to boarding school but kept home where he would have been more comfortable.
2. Their son’s death might not have occurred had they saved their marriage.
Especially in the latter of the two cases, is there a “cause and effect” relationship that connects the tragic reality of Johnny’s grave illness to his parents’ “mistaken” approach to their problems?
It is unlikely because the incomprehensibility of human ‘tragedy’ belongs exclusively to the Ribon shel Olam[2] whose ways are not only immutable but beyond rational human understanding.
Ben’s struggle with chronic illness was no different in this respect! His diabetes, epilepsy, and all of their ill effects cannot be attributed to God as if it were His way to wreak havoc upon the lives of children!
Whether our affliction is sickness, misfortune in business or the premature death of a loved one, we can choose to avoid the abyss of apostasy by trusting that God does not work in that way. There is only so much we can do in life and-while often it does seem that all is for naught-in spite of all of our worriment and innumerable precautions, tragedy does happen and may well befall us.
Would it not be easier to succumb to the cynical belief that God “chose” Ben? However, were that the case, how could I ever place my faith, trust and hope in a mean-spirited 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 differently.”
However true such a supposition is, it is clearly false to equate "differently" with "better". In like manner, I acknowledge Ben might have suffered fatal injury that day had he never suffered any previous history of chronic illness!
The heart of this matter is the truism that life will always be precious, exceedingly delicate and precarious by its very nature! That when we proclaim:
“L'Chaim”[3]
we are not merely toasting “cheers” as many people think. Rather are we obligated to remain mindful of the sanctity of our lives and to live them b'simcha.[4]
[1] comfort
[2] Master of the Universe, God.
[3] To Life!
[4] with joy
Monday, May 29, 2006
Dear Readers ...
This morning, Memorial Day, 2006, I finished what I hope to be the last proof/editing of The Book of Ben before sending a copy to an editor. Featured here is a revision of Chapter 54 entitled ... Ben's Leaf on the Etz Chaim. As always, I wish to thank any and all readers who spend even the tiniest bit of their time reading this on-going story of my late son Ben Z' L and appreciate comments should you have them.
“In Memory Of
Benjamin Busch
Whose Good Deeds, Kind
Nature & Gentle Manner
Will Forever Be An
Inspiration To Us”
This leaf appears on the “Etz Chaim”[1] in my synagogue. Have you ever wondered why we affix a memorial leaf to a ‘Tree of Life’? For the same reason, I suppose, that the “Mourner’s Kaddish” makes no mention of death whatsoever and for the same reason that we say:
“L’Chaim” [2]
when raising a glass in celebration together.
Though the leaf serves as a painful reminder of both the realization and recollection of the end of Ben’s life, its primary purpose is to obligate us to celebrate the time of his life-no matter that it ended prematurely, abruptly, agonizingly!
Speaking the Unspeakable
Still the very worst part remains … having read the attending paramedic’s deposition that Ben was both conscious and able to speak for a brief while before finally and permanently losing consciousness, and that he understood what had happened, while he suffered horrendous pain and bespoke his fear that he was dying. As Ben’s dad, the certain knowledge that my son’s last waking moments were consumed by such trauma and fear leaves me cold and quiet, my thoughts inchoate …
As a Jew, I am thankful our faith is one of eternal optimism and teaches us that life is inherently miraculous and therefore holy.
We serve as guardians of its sanctity.
Loose Ends
Often over these last five years, I have had to revert back to this sustaining belief in those moments when the unalterable fact of the death of my child has become nearly overwhelming, when the solitude of a Sunday morning is replaced by the uneasy quiet of a mourner’s lonely room … when all that tangibly remain are a few personal belongings: a shirt, suit, some old boots, a bicycle in need of repair, a child’s signature surprisingly appearing when I turned the page of a scrapbook.
The absolute enormity of a child’s death leaves one feeling so insignificant, so powerlessly tiny. To have to navigate these treacherous waters daily is no simple task as we are invariably reminded of how vast God’s ocean is while we remain adrift in such a small boat!
Life’s only antidote to the pain of our loss is the tenacity with which we remember our children … that we simply refuse to allow their memories to die. Though their bodies are gone, their physicality ended, our linkage to them instead becomes one of remembrance, of dedication and rededication, all of which serve to remind us of how fortunate we are indeed to have enjoyed our time with them for as long as we did.
[1] The Tree of Life
[2] To Life
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Dear Readers ...
My poem entitled Mourning's Reflections appears on p. 28 of this book Passing which has just been recently released.
It is an anthology of poetry that explores the many and varied responses of people who have experienced the loss of a loved one: a parent, a spouse, a friend ... a child.
Mourning's Reflections describes the scene at the graveside service of my son Ben Z'L.
It is also chapter 26 of my book in progress In Memory of Ben that I hope to one day publish.
I do appreciate your time and interest in my son's story as I tell it piece by piece.
As always, I welcome any and all written responses. :)
Monday, May 08, 2006
Lessons Learned Late ...
It hurts me terribly much that I will not see Ben become a fully mature adult and father. He was still so young when catastrophe suddenly turned our world upside down, and our lives-as we had once lived them, would never again be the same.
I often wonder:
‘Do parents ever stop worrying about their children? Does there ever come a time when we let go of the worriment? I've done my best. Now's time for them to leave the nest and fly on their own!'
Our Jewish commitment to our children’s future and to that of our children’s children has ever remained a cornerstone of our home that houses our fundamental beliefs and traditions.
What should one do when the premature death of a child deprives us of the chance to forge that one critical link in the chain? What happens to the love that a parent saved exclusively for that child? It is not as if it dries up with the passage of time!
After Ben's death, I intensified my demonstrable love for my other children because I feared the realization of even the remotest possibility that-with so much of my time and energy focused on the tragedy of Ben’s death-even my unconditional love for them would not be
sufficient enough to keep them close. I was not only grieving the loss of Ben but the dreaded
distance that I feared might come between me and my other two children due, in part, to my divorce from their mother and my stubborn adherence to an orthodoxy that honestly was not working for me.
I recall a story from my family’s Passover history I shall never forget. Looking back with the clarity of vision only the hindsight of maturation offers, I can see now what I could not have then.
My daughter Kimberly angrily rebuked me citing my zealous pursuit of ritual correctness which, in fact, had not only not enhanced Passover, but succeeded only in spoiling it for her.
By way of background, an almost “kafkaesque” disputation had arisen between her mom and me over a can of “treif”[1] chicken broth! Merely a manifestation of my futile efforts to “kasher”[2] our kitchen to which Kimberly’s mother was totally opposed, I succeeded but only in isolating myself to an even greater extent from within my own family. None of my three children or their mother showed any interest whatever in leading an observant Jewish lifestyle.
Several years later while we were staying at my mother’s house together in St. Louis to celebrate Thanksgiving, Kimberly tearfully explained to me how it was that my manner of dress and overall appearance embarrassed her.
“Why wasn’t I the same dad who used to sing silly songs as she pranced up and down our driveway dressed in her ballet tutu?”
As my loving and caring daughter whose love I would never sacrifice, Kimberly’s impact on me has been without equal. In having helped me to better appreciate the role that moderation plays in matters of religious observance in a family like mine, Kimberly showed me that I was free to choose a path of religious observance, but one that would both include and accommodate my family in general and my children in particular. In effect, it would serve as a blueprint for an approach to Jewish observance moderate in tone and geared to the occasional need for situational compromise.
My mother best summed it all up in a note she wrote that I have kept of all places in my daily prayer book:
"Dear Alan ... remember ... family first!"
[1] non-kosher
[2] to make kosher
It hurts me terribly much that I will not see Ben become a fully mature adult and father. He was still so young when catastrophe suddenly turned our world upside down, and our lives-as we had once lived them, would never again be the same.
I often wonder:
‘Do parents ever stop worrying about their children? Does there ever come a time when we let go of the worriment? I've done my best. Now's time for them to leave the nest and fly on their own!'
Our Jewish commitment to our children’s future and to that of our children’s children has ever remained a cornerstone of our home that houses our fundamental beliefs and traditions.
What should one do when the premature death of a child deprives us of the chance to forge that one critical link in the chain? What happens to the love that a parent saved exclusively for that child? It is not as if it dries up with the passage of time!
After Ben's death, I intensified my demonstrable love for my other children because I feared the realization of even the remotest possibility that-with so much of my time and energy focused on the tragedy of Ben’s death-even my unconditional love for them would not be
sufficient enough to keep them close. I was not only grieving the loss of Ben but the dreaded
distance that I feared might come between me and my other two children due, in part, to my divorce from their mother and my stubborn adherence to an orthodoxy that honestly was not working for me.
Kimberly’s Wisdom and Memories of
Pesach Past …
I recall a story from my family’s Passover history I shall never forget. Looking back with the clarity of vision only the hindsight of maturation offers, I can see now what I could not have then.
My daughter Kimberly angrily rebuked me citing my zealous pursuit of ritual correctness which, in fact, had not only not enhanced Passover, but succeeded only in spoiling it for her.
By way of background, an almost “kafkaesque” disputation had arisen between her mom and me over a can of “treif”[1] chicken broth! Merely a manifestation of my futile efforts to “kasher”[2] our kitchen to which Kimberly’s mother was totally opposed, I succeeded but only in isolating myself to an even greater extent from within my own family. None of my three children or their mother showed any interest whatever in leading an observant Jewish lifestyle.
Several years later while we were staying at my mother’s house together in St. Louis to celebrate Thanksgiving, Kimberly tearfully explained to me how it was that my manner of dress and overall appearance embarrassed her.
“Why wasn’t I the same dad who used to sing silly songs as she pranced up and down our driveway dressed in her ballet tutu?”
As my loving and caring daughter whose love I would never sacrifice, Kimberly’s impact on me has been without equal. In having helped me to better appreciate the role that moderation plays in matters of religious observance in a family like mine, Kimberly showed me that I was free to choose a path of religious observance, but one that would both include and accommodate my family in general and my children in particular. In effect, it would serve as a blueprint for an approach to Jewish observance moderate in tone and geared to the occasional need for situational compromise.
My mother best summed it all up in a note she wrote that I have kept of all places in my daily prayer book:
"Dear Alan ... remember ... family first!"
[1] non-kosher
[2] to make kosher
Monday, May 01, 2006
Dear Readers,
I invite you to read this newly revised chapter 4a from my book in progress entitled In Memory of Ben. As always I would very much appreciate your written response if any that you may post in the comments feature of this blog.
Chapter 4a: A Glimpse Forward in Time
Have you ever wondered about the things we do for our children? Right or wrong, well intended though misguided and however utterly ineffectual, they often reaffirm the truism that as parents we too do the "darndest” things.
It is probably best explained by and attributed to our "nesting" instinct-that our first obligation is to protect our children-to enable them not only to defend and protect themselves but also to keep them out of harm's way-both when they are still very young but even after they have done some growing up.
So it was that I tried to interest Ben in playing hockey with a group of Jewish men-one of whom I knew from my synagogue. They were not so much a team as simply a group of guys who enjoyed the "rough and tumble" of ice hockey. "Perfect!" I thought for Ben: skating at which he had always excelled, hard checking against the boards, slap shots ... what could be better? Problem was that this group practiced twice a week at 10:00 p.m., but for several weeks, Ben and I went-he played, I watched and on occasion fell asleep in the stands. Unhappily it did not last beyond two months or so, but back to my motive for a bit.
How was this an example of my "nesting" instinct?
Ben had always been very athletically oriented. My intent was to try to show him ways by which he might maximize his strengths with the added benefit that more regular physical exertion would serve him well as a diabetic. Secondly, I was also trying to demonstrate that there were other "friends choices" out there which, I thought, were more wholesome than Ben's "friends choices"!
You may ask:
‘What was the outcome of all of this “parental engineering’?
Simply put … whenever I tried to make a choice for Ben, it failed-no matter how parentally pure my motive. He invariably reverted to his choices. Interestingly, Ben's mom used to say of him that he had always been a very cautious child-even from his earliest years. The kind of person who carefully surveys a new situation, looking it over, scrutinizing it in an attempt to determine if it seems right for him. All well and good, one might say! Deliberate, cautious in his moves, like playing chess with life itself.
However, as parents-no matter how much we may both encourage and applaud self-reliance in our children, a "stand-up" approach-it is often a heartbreaker to see-that despite the fact that we do know better ... life having taught us. Our children, eager and determined to exercise their autonomy, often end up making poor choices, their own choices indeed but poor ones nevertheless.
So, what does one do if a child is tending in the wrong direction?
Love him then more demonstrably than ever before! Let your actions define both the intent and meaning of "unconditional love" though tempered by discipline, structure and appropriate consequences should he require them.
I invite you to read this newly revised chapter 4a from my book in progress entitled In Memory of Ben. As always I would very much appreciate your written response if any that you may post in the comments feature of this blog.
Chapter 4a: A Glimpse Forward in Time
Have you ever wondered about the things we do for our children? Right or wrong, well intended though misguided and however utterly ineffectual, they often reaffirm the truism that as parents we too do the "darndest” things.
It is probably best explained by and attributed to our "nesting" instinct-that our first obligation is to protect our children-to enable them not only to defend and protect themselves but also to keep them out of harm's way-both when they are still very young but even after they have done some growing up.
So it was that I tried to interest Ben in playing hockey with a group of Jewish men-one of whom I knew from my synagogue. They were not so much a team as simply a group of guys who enjoyed the "rough and tumble" of ice hockey. "Perfect!" I thought for Ben: skating at which he had always excelled, hard checking against the boards, slap shots ... what could be better? Problem was that this group practiced twice a week at 10:00 p.m., but for several weeks, Ben and I went-he played, I watched and on occasion fell asleep in the stands. Unhappily it did not last beyond two months or so, but back to my motive for a bit.
How was this an example of my "nesting" instinct?
Ben had always been very athletically oriented. My intent was to try to show him ways by which he might maximize his strengths with the added benefit that more regular physical exertion would serve him well as a diabetic. Secondly, I was also trying to demonstrate that there were other "friends choices" out there which, I thought, were more wholesome than Ben's "friends choices"!
You may ask:
‘What was the outcome of all of this “parental engineering’?
Simply put … whenever I tried to make a choice for Ben, it failed-no matter how parentally pure my motive. He invariably reverted to his choices. Interestingly, Ben's mom used to say of him that he had always been a very cautious child-even from his earliest years. The kind of person who carefully surveys a new situation, looking it over, scrutinizing it in an attempt to determine if it seems right for him. All well and good, one might say! Deliberate, cautious in his moves, like playing chess with life itself.
However, as parents-no matter how much we may both encourage and applaud self-reliance in our children, a "stand-up" approach-it is often a heartbreaker to see-that despite the fact that we do know better ... life having taught us. Our children, eager and determined to exercise their autonomy, often end up making poor choices, their own choices indeed but poor ones nevertheless.
So, what does one do if a child is tending in the wrong direction?
Love him then more demonstrably than ever before! Let your actions define both the intent and meaning of "unconditional love" though tempered by discipline, structure and appropriate consequences should he require them.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Pesachdik Meanderings: The Tenth Plague
It is something we say twice every year when we retell the story in the Haggadah Shel Pesach[1] of our redemption from Egyptian bondage. I refer here to the "ma kas b'choros".[2] It was the last in a series of ten, as if God were saving the 'best' (read: the very WORST!) for last. By the time of the tenth plague, there should have been no doubters as to the identity of the Master of the Universe!
Though uncertain about the reason(s) for which God chose the firstborn of Egypt, it is clear that He did so with purpose- for what does He do without ... ? Perhaps the demonstration that He could take certain lives with "surgical precision" rather than indiscriminately slaying everyone ... would be the final proof to Pharoah that he was like anyone else, merely 'basar v' dam', flesh and blood! Was his son not smitten too?
Our first-born possesses a unique quality that distinguishes him from his siblings. While there must have been some Egyptian families with one child only, the inference that there were typically others seems clear by the use of the adjective "first", an ordinal number denoting rank of birth. The second child, the third ... were not slain!
Our first-born child arrives at a time in our lives when we are still young (er) ourselves, nearer the point in time when we were once the "children" of parents. Our “bechor”[3] is often born to us in our youth. Should that child die before we do, it is as if a part of ourselves dies too ... the remnant of our youth, our own childhood.
[1] Story of the redemption of the Jewish people from Egypt
[2] the slaying of the first born
[3] first-born child
It is something we say twice every year when we retell the story in the Haggadah Shel Pesach[1] of our redemption from Egyptian bondage. I refer here to the "ma kas b'choros".[2] It was the last in a series of ten, as if God were saving the 'best' (read: the very WORST!) for last. By the time of the tenth plague, there should have been no doubters as to the identity of the Master of the Universe!
Though uncertain about the reason(s) for which God chose the firstborn of Egypt, it is clear that He did so with purpose- for what does He do without ... ? Perhaps the demonstration that He could take certain lives with "surgical precision" rather than indiscriminately slaying everyone ... would be the final proof to Pharoah that he was like anyone else, merely 'basar v' dam', flesh and blood! Was his son not smitten too?
Our first-born possesses a unique quality that distinguishes him from his siblings. While there must have been some Egyptian families with one child only, the inference that there were typically others seems clear by the use of the adjective "first", an ordinal number denoting rank of birth. The second child, the third ... were not slain!
Our first-born child arrives at a time in our lives when we are still young (er) ourselves, nearer the point in time when we were once the "children" of parents. Our “bechor”[3] is often born to us in our youth. Should that child die before we do, it is as if a part of ourselves dies too ... the remnant of our youth, our own childhood.
[1] Story of the redemption of the Jewish people from Egypt
[2] the slaying of the first born
[3] first-born child
Monday, April 10, 2006
'Bedikas chametz' in My Memories of Ben
Reflections often lead to self-doubt ... self-doubt may lead one to guilt; all the 'might have beens' plague me at times, refusing simply to leave me alone.
'I did my job and I did it well' ... I often tell myself though there are things I would have tried to do differently.
I still struggle with my role in Ben's life even after five years since his passing, and I suspect I will always remain very close to these ruminations ... I guess it to be my own compromise with having to 'move on', as it were, with my life but never forgetting the life that was once Ben's ... my own 'basar v' dam', my own flesh and blood.
There are some inherent problems however ...
As Ben's dad, I typically blurred the line between my parental obligation to care for my son and his evolving self-reliance.
'Ben, I made many mistakes ... though my intent was good, I failed you often!'
On the other hand, this may describe a fairly common parental predicament.
Parenting a healthy child is by its very nature fraught with difficulties. Chronic illness exacerbates the inherent difficulty. My principle worriment during all those years was his diabetes, and whether that terrifying and often subtle but always persistent reality would ever allow him to live life well as a self-sustaining adult.
'Ben, who'd be there for you in the middle of the night if and when you became hypoglycemic? Could you have lived on your own even with well-regulated blood sugars?'
Ben often struggled with and rebelled against good diabetes management and suffered from a long history of hypoglycemic seizures especially in the early morning hours.
Ben, you often spoke of Daniel as a roommate and though fabulous friend he was ... could I realistically count on him or anyone else to be there in my place?
Very understandably, Ben often spoke of his desire to have his own apartment. Nothing scared me more! Just maybe Ben was scared too ...
How I still wish to this day that it could have been so easy!
All I ever wanted for Ben was normalcy, only that life's bitter side leave him alone, that it let him be!
It never did.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Five Years Ago
When I look back down the road this year on the fifth anniversary of Ben’s death,
I wonder if I will still be able to glimpse his countenance from a distance of 1,825 days.
Remembering is difficult when we have forgotten where we last saw the notepad.
(This may explain the reason for which our offices are so cluttered by the collections of sticky notes that festoon our computer monitors.)
Ben was no different in this respect than anyone else.
Although he might not have understood his own nature, which meant living for the moment, he was nevertheless a remarkable person of the "present tense whose wristwatch" read:
“is” rather than either
“was” or “will be”.
Something about this fifth anniversary seems to have triggered a “melancholia” that I feel ... perhaps best explained by the arrival of the yahrzeit[1] notices from the funeral home, my shul and the “chevra kadisha”[2]-reminders of feelings which become more acute as another anniversary approaches of that
dreadful day.
For the first time, I have chosen to remain unshaven during the whole of this bitter month as a visible reminder of the difficulty of this time of year as if to magnify the sadness I feel ...
not so much that I am getting older,
but that Ben isn’t.
He remains forever young.
[1] The observance of the anniversary of a death.
[2] Jewish Sacred Society
When I look back down the road this year on the fifth anniversary of Ben’s death,
I wonder if I will still be able to glimpse his countenance from a distance of 1,825 days.
Remembering is difficult when we have forgotten where we last saw the notepad.
(This may explain the reason for which our offices are so cluttered by the collections of sticky notes that festoon our computer monitors.)
Ben was no different in this respect than anyone else.
Although he might not have understood his own nature, which meant living for the moment, he was nevertheless a remarkable person of the "present tense whose wristwatch" read:
“is” rather than either
“was” or “will be”.
Something about this fifth anniversary seems to have triggered a “melancholia” that I feel ... perhaps best explained by the arrival of the yahrzeit[1] notices from the funeral home, my shul and the “chevra kadisha”[2]-reminders of feelings which become more acute as another anniversary approaches of that
dreadful day.
For the first time, I have chosen to remain unshaven during the whole of this bitter month as a visible reminder of the difficulty of this time of year as if to magnify the sadness I feel ...
not so much that I am getting older,
but that Ben isn’t.
He remains forever young.
[1] The observance of the anniversary of a death.
[2] Jewish Sacred Society
Friday, March 31, 2006
Dear Readers,
It's Alan ... what do you think?
Is it just plain dumb, excessively schmaltzdik or both if we were to turn on Ben's yahrzeit light Sunday night?
Alan
p.s. or it may even be a good idea?"
That is the email I sent to my friend Rabbi L. for his input on this question.
As I was getting ready for work this past Tuesday morning, I was still ruminating on the question of what would be an appropriate way to manifest Ben's presence this Sunday afternoon, April 2, at our simcha.
It had not occurred to me until just then that the answer was right there before me. Ben's "ner neshuma" on the shul's yahrzeit plaque!
But of course! Turn on Ben's yahrzeit light!
As background to this question, you may have read my previous posting.
Any thoughts? Please submit in writing!
It is important that Ben's story be widely broadcast and read. My regret is that someone much more able than I isn't telling the story!
In any case, as always, I appreciate your time, effort and interest.
On behalf of my late son Ben, Z'l, I thank you!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Rabbi, good morning!It's Alan ... what do you think?
Is it just plain dumb, excessively schmaltzdik or both if we were to turn on Ben's yahrzeit light Sunday night?
Alan
p.s. or it may even be a good idea?"
That is the email I sent to my friend Rabbi L. for his input on this question.
As I was getting ready for work this past Tuesday morning, I was still ruminating on the question of what would be an appropriate way to manifest Ben's presence this Sunday afternoon, April 2, at our simcha.
It had not occurred to me until just then that the answer was right there before me. Ben's "ner neshuma" on the shul's yahrzeit plaque!
But of course! Turn on Ben's yahrzeit light!
As background to this question, you may have read my previous posting.
Any thoughts? Please submit in writing!
Friday, March 24, 2006
The Last Time (Revised and Revisited)
Dear Readers: This is the fourth revision of Chapter 1 of my book in progress entitled In Memory of Ben. I welcome any and all feedback and comments. I thank you for your time and interest on behalf of my late son Ben Z'L
I believe it was an act of “Divine Kindness” when I was fortunate enough to spend several minutes together with my son Benjamin for the last time, Wednesday morning, November 22, 2000.
Having just left my synagogue to drop off my dry cleaning, I turned around to find Ben standing right behind me. He had awoken late for work, saw my car parked outside the dry cleaners, and thought to ask if I would drive him to the train.
It was very pleasant to be with Ben that morning even if only for a few minutes because he lived in his mother’s house together with his sister and brother. I had moved out the previous summer. Our last conversation went something like this:
"How are you, Ben?"
"Fine, Dad. You?"
"Okay. How are you?"
"Good."
"You feeling good?"
"Yup."
Within several minutes, we pulled up in front of the train station. Ben opened his door …
"Do you have money on you?"
"Yes, Dad. ‘Seeya’ later!"
"Be safe!"
And off he went. It took me several minutes to get to work. Seemed like just another day until I received a phone call from an emergency room doctor who informed me Ben had been injured very seriously in an accident and advised me to come to the hospital immediately!
A frightful myriad of thoughts raced through my head as I sped off in quiet desperation. The only information I possessed at that moment was my son was still alive. However, I confess here that I already “knew” how this day would end! The gravity of the doctor’s tone of voice only served to reinforce my premonition.
I arrived in a frenzy only to be hurriedly ushered to the emergency room whereupon I granted my authorization to employ any possible measures to save him. I chose to witness the procedures in full view from behind a glass partition while a frenzied team of doctors and nurses struggled mightily to save my son. I stood not more than ten feet away from Ben. Having already called my dad on my way to the hospital, he arrived soon by my side. Choking back the tears, Dad pled with Ben to hang on! The trauma surgeon later testified in a deposition that he had been worried about my dad’s witnessing what proved to be a futile effort to resuscitate Ben lest something befall him.
Open heart massage ... failed! Oxygen mask ... failed! Electric shock ... failed!
Moments later, the lead doctor turned to me and sadly shook his head. Ben was gone! A nurse asked me if I wished to be alone with him. She took my dad aside and drew a curtain.
I stood there aside Ben, placed a kippah[1] atop his head and kissed his handsome nose.
“Thank you for being such a good son Ben.”
It was all I knew to do and say at that moment! We were with each other for a few final minutes. While Ben ‘slept’, I sang the 23rd Psalm softly.
It was not too long before the emergency room attendants arrived to move the body. My friend Rabbi Louis had arrived just moments before. I now had to face Ben’s mom. In his kindness, Rabbi Louis offered to stand in for me and tell her. He is such an amazing friend, but I assured him that I could do it. Accompanied by both my dad and Rabbi Louis, I was led across the hall to a room wherein Ben’s mom sat awaiting news. I approached her.
"Ben is gone!" I cried out, placing my forehead upon the top of her head.
Such an utterance of primal pain can be heard only from a bereaved mother. I shall never forget its sound!
After having spoken with the surgeon to forbid the performance of an autopsy[2]-when there was nothing more that could have been done-Rabbi Louis and I walked together to my truck. Having taken a cab to the hospital, I was to drive him home. How comforting it was to be with my friend! While the truck warmed up, Rabbi Louis called Rabbi Moshe, a chaplain with the Chicago Police Department, to expedite Ben's transfer to the funeral home. When the truck was warm, I drove Rabbi Louis home just a mile or so from my apartment. I remember nothing more of that Wednesday, November 22, 2000 the day before Thanksgiving. I think I fell asleep that night in my apartment!
[1] skullcap signifying God overhead
[2] Jewish tradition forbids this practice.
Dear Readers: This is the fourth revision of Chapter 1 of my book in progress entitled In Memory of Ben. I welcome any and all feedback and comments. I thank you for your time and interest on behalf of my late son Ben Z'L
I believe it was an act of “Divine Kindness” when I was fortunate enough to spend several minutes together with my son Benjamin for the last time, Wednesday morning, November 22, 2000.
Having just left my synagogue to drop off my dry cleaning, I turned around to find Ben standing right behind me. He had awoken late for work, saw my car parked outside the dry cleaners, and thought to ask if I would drive him to the train.
It was very pleasant to be with Ben that morning even if only for a few minutes because he lived in his mother’s house together with his sister and brother. I had moved out the previous summer. Our last conversation went something like this:
"How are you, Ben?"
"Fine, Dad. You?"
"Okay. How are you?"
"Good."
"You feeling good?"
"Yup."
Within several minutes, we pulled up in front of the train station. Ben opened his door …
"Do you have money on you?"
"Yes, Dad. ‘Seeya’ later!"
"Be safe!"
And off he went. It took me several minutes to get to work. Seemed like just another day until I received a phone call from an emergency room doctor who informed me Ben had been injured very seriously in an accident and advised me to come to the hospital immediately!
A frightful myriad of thoughts raced through my head as I sped off in quiet desperation. The only information I possessed at that moment was my son was still alive. However, I confess here that I already “knew” how this day would end! The gravity of the doctor’s tone of voice only served to reinforce my premonition.
I arrived in a frenzy only to be hurriedly ushered to the emergency room whereupon I granted my authorization to employ any possible measures to save him. I chose to witness the procedures in full view from behind a glass partition while a frenzied team of doctors and nurses struggled mightily to save my son. I stood not more than ten feet away from Ben. Having already called my dad on my way to the hospital, he arrived soon by my side. Choking back the tears, Dad pled with Ben to hang on! The trauma surgeon later testified in a deposition that he had been worried about my dad’s witnessing what proved to be a futile effort to resuscitate Ben lest something befall him.
Open heart massage ... failed! Oxygen mask ... failed! Electric shock ... failed!
Moments later, the lead doctor turned to me and sadly shook his head. Ben was gone! A nurse asked me if I wished to be alone with him. She took my dad aside and drew a curtain.
I stood there aside Ben, placed a kippah[1] atop his head and kissed his handsome nose.
“Thank you for being such a good son Ben.”
It was all I knew to do and say at that moment! We were with each other for a few final minutes. While Ben ‘slept’, I sang the 23rd Psalm softly.
It was not too long before the emergency room attendants arrived to move the body. My friend Rabbi Louis had arrived just moments before. I now had to face Ben’s mom. In his kindness, Rabbi Louis offered to stand in for me and tell her. He is such an amazing friend, but I assured him that I could do it. Accompanied by both my dad and Rabbi Louis, I was led across the hall to a room wherein Ben’s mom sat awaiting news. I approached her.
"Ben is gone!" I cried out, placing my forehead upon the top of her head.
Such an utterance of primal pain can be heard only from a bereaved mother. I shall never forget its sound!
After having spoken with the surgeon to forbid the performance of an autopsy[2]-when there was nothing more that could have been done-Rabbi Louis and I walked together to my truck. Having taken a cab to the hospital, I was to drive him home. How comforting it was to be with my friend! While the truck warmed up, Rabbi Louis called Rabbi Moshe, a chaplain with the Chicago Police Department, to expedite Ben's transfer to the funeral home. When the truck was warm, I drove Rabbi Louis home just a mile or so from my apartment. I remember nothing more of that Wednesday, November 22, 2000 the day before Thanksgiving. I think I fell asleep that night in my apartment!
[1] skullcap signifying God overhead
[2] Jewish tradition forbids this practice.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Chapter 46: No More Pictures
Dear Readers: As always, I do very much appreciate your time and interest! I invite any and all responses you may have. Though you may feel that you have no words for a bereft parent, it's rather surprising how verbose the heart can be if the head were just to hold its tongue on occasion ...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My search for hidden memories often eludes me.
I have decided therefore to recall some of Ben's facial features which so wonderfully defined him as himself ... perhaps that will spark some recollections:
. Ben's earlobes were ever so slightly angled ... outward
. He had a slightly noticeable 'oriental' fold in the inner corner of each eye.
· His blue eyes and blonde hair complemented each other both of which he inherited from his mom.
· His sparse growth of beard he inherited from me! (Ben often commented approvingly that he and I were alike in that respect.)
· His cheeks were full and soft. (Even when bewhiskered, I never tired of kissing them. I learned to kiss my children from my father.)
· He had slight dimples in both cheeks.
· His nose had a slight rise in the middle.
· His lower lip was full, his eyebrows rather heavy and his very straight eyelashes angled downward.
Ben was indeed a handsome lad but even more important than the wonderful shape of his nose, his sparkling blue eyes or his dimples was his gentle nature as a loving, kind and considerate son. His mom always rightly characterized him as a “peacemaker”, the kind of person for whom *“shalom bayit” was nothing less than an inherent extension of his personality.
Just a glance back to the summer of 1993- when Ben first attended Olin Sang Ruby Hebrew Union Institute just a few short weeks after having been diagnosed with juvenile diabetes- clearly demonstrates what a remarkable kid he really was!
I was a “basketcase” despite assurances by the camp nurse that she would keep a close eye on him, as I know she did. Ben’s mom had things under much better control than I, but I dare say she was more than just a tiny bit nervous herself and Ben-with his usual aplomb-set about confidently reassuring us, but mostly me that all would be just fine.
Did he manage to put me at ease? No! He did not, but was he ever right about how well things would turn out! As a matter of fact, he did not experience any diabetes–related difficulties during the whole of his month long stay at camp.
Not long before, just several weeks prior to the start of his camp session, Ben’s mom and I first noticed the tell-tale signs of his diabetes, but at that time, we did not know or have any idea about an affliction that would soon turn our lives completely upside down.
I remember that afternoon we were sitting in the front room when Ben came down from his room for no apparent reason. Perhaps it was just to sit with us or watch a movie. It was then when Ben’s mom first mentioned that she had noticed how thin and drawn he had been looking of late, but which at first she attributed to the physical changes brought about by adolescence. I do remember the rather noticeable dark bags under Ben’s eyes and how thin he had become, but what really alarmed us was the frequency with which he had been urinating. As it happened, he was already scheduled to receive his required physical exam for camp.
We drove somewhat anxiously that day to the doctor’s office. Requiring no more than a few minutes, Ben’s pediatrician diagnosed him with type 1 juvenile diabetes and ordered his immediate admission into Children’s Memorial Hospital. Our timing was fortuitous if not almost dangerously late. As it turned out, Ben’s blood sugar was so high that he was spilling sugar in his urine, a potentially life-threatening situation.
Ben’s first endocrinologist was a staff member at Children’s whose bedside manner was as icy as Lake Michigan’s shoreline about December. Answers were all we sought. After all, neither of us had any history of type 1 juvenile diabetes in our families, although I have several cousins who contracted type 2 adult onset diabetes in their later years. That seemed hardly relevant to Ben’s case. How then could this have happened? How well I remember this one doctor’s response:
“GENETIC PREDISPOSITION”.
“What doctor?”
“Genetic predisposition,” he repeated clinically.
“And that is what?” we queried.
“Meaning that he is genetically predisposed to something like this.”
“Hmm.”
He then mentioned something about the possibility of milk triggering a virus that attacks the pancreas’s insulin producing cells.
I just wish he had said,
“You know something? Honestly, we just don’t know!”
Before Ben could leave the hospital, we all had to demonstrate that we were able to inject him with insulin. I assure you it is no easy thing. At least it wasn’t for me, but I did finally pass the test while Ben’s nurse stood by watching. Frankly, I think I closed my eyes. Ben and his mom seemed to have no problem with it whatsoever.
*shalom bayit … peace in the home.
Dear Readers: As always, I do very much appreciate your time and interest! I invite any and all responses you may have. Though you may feel that you have no words for a bereft parent, it's rather surprising how verbose the heart can be if the head were just to hold its tongue on occasion ...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My search for hidden memories often eludes me.
I have decided therefore to recall some of Ben's facial features which so wonderfully defined him as himself ... perhaps that will spark some recollections:
. Ben's earlobes were ever so slightly angled ... outward
. He had a slightly noticeable 'oriental' fold in the inner corner of each eye.
· His blue eyes and blonde hair complemented each other both of which he inherited from his mom.
· His sparse growth of beard he inherited from me! (Ben often commented approvingly that he and I were alike in that respect.)
· His cheeks were full and soft. (Even when bewhiskered, I never tired of kissing them. I learned to kiss my children from my father.)
· He had slight dimples in both cheeks.
· His nose had a slight rise in the middle.
· His lower lip was full, his eyebrows rather heavy and his very straight eyelashes angled downward.
Ben was indeed a handsome lad but even more important than the wonderful shape of his nose, his sparkling blue eyes or his dimples was his gentle nature as a loving, kind and considerate son. His mom always rightly characterized him as a “peacemaker”, the kind of person for whom *“shalom bayit” was nothing less than an inherent extension of his personality.
Just a glance back to the summer of 1993- when Ben first attended Olin Sang Ruby Hebrew Union Institute just a few short weeks after having been diagnosed with juvenile diabetes- clearly demonstrates what a remarkable kid he really was!
I was a “basketcase” despite assurances by the camp nurse that she would keep a close eye on him, as I know she did. Ben’s mom had things under much better control than I, but I dare say she was more than just a tiny bit nervous herself and Ben-with his usual aplomb-set about confidently reassuring us, but mostly me that all would be just fine.
Did he manage to put me at ease? No! He did not, but was he ever right about how well things would turn out! As a matter of fact, he did not experience any diabetes–related difficulties during the whole of his month long stay at camp.
Not long before, just several weeks prior to the start of his camp session, Ben’s mom and I first noticed the tell-tale signs of his diabetes, but at that time, we did not know or have any idea about an affliction that would soon turn our lives completely upside down.
I remember that afternoon we were sitting in the front room when Ben came down from his room for no apparent reason. Perhaps it was just to sit with us or watch a movie. It was then when Ben’s mom first mentioned that she had noticed how thin and drawn he had been looking of late, but which at first she attributed to the physical changes brought about by adolescence. I do remember the rather noticeable dark bags under Ben’s eyes and how thin he had become, but what really alarmed us was the frequency with which he had been urinating. As it happened, he was already scheduled to receive his required physical exam for camp.
We drove somewhat anxiously that day to the doctor’s office. Requiring no more than a few minutes, Ben’s pediatrician diagnosed him with type 1 juvenile diabetes and ordered his immediate admission into Children’s Memorial Hospital. Our timing was fortuitous if not almost dangerously late. As it turned out, Ben’s blood sugar was so high that he was spilling sugar in his urine, a potentially life-threatening situation.
Ben’s first endocrinologist was a staff member at Children’s whose bedside manner was as icy as Lake Michigan’s shoreline about December. Answers were all we sought. After all, neither of us had any history of type 1 juvenile diabetes in our families, although I have several cousins who contracted type 2 adult onset diabetes in their later years. That seemed hardly relevant to Ben’s case. How then could this have happened? How well I remember this one doctor’s response:
“GENETIC PREDISPOSITION”.
“What doctor?”
“Genetic predisposition,” he repeated clinically.
“And that is what?” we queried.
“Meaning that he is genetically predisposed to something like this.”
“Hmm.”
He then mentioned something about the possibility of milk triggering a virus that attacks the pancreas’s insulin producing cells.
I just wish he had said,
“You know something? Honestly, we just don’t know!”
Before Ben could leave the hospital, we all had to demonstrate that we were able to inject him with insulin. I assure you it is no easy thing. At least it wasn’t for me, but I did finally pass the test while Ben’s nurse stood by watching. Frankly, I think I closed my eyes. Ben and his mom seemed to have no problem with it whatsoever.
*shalom bayit … peace in the home.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Just BeginningsI was just beginning to know and appreciate Ben as an adult. Do you know that feeling? After years of raising up a child with the hope that a responsible adult human being would eventually emerge, struggling through the awkwardness and turbulence of adolescence, and just ... just when there could be seen a flicker of light at the end of that long tunnel ... in just one instant, that flicker, that glimmer of hope-when I was about to reap the harvest of a son having grown up ...
Back to that feeling for a moment, but in this example, I'll speak of my daughter Kimberly with whom I was having coffee one afternoon while she was in her second year of law school. I was then and am still quite simply in awe of this beautiful young woman who so excitedly spoke to me, her daddy, of her legal research with such panache, such passion and erudition! Though I certainly expected nothing less, I sat there thinking to myself:
“Wow! This is my baby girl who not so long before had been the ‘prima ballerina’ in her ballet class!”
(Mind you that was her teacher’s evaluation and not merely the biased opinion of her father!)
I remember one of her first recitals when she curtsied to mark the very end of the performance. Well, have you ever experienced that sensation of utter joy? A lump in your throat so big you can't swallow while the tears rain down in a torrent? That little girl now sat across from me as a splendid young woman, a soon to be lawyer!
That same lump in my throat, those same tears once overwhelmed me at work one afternoon when Ben called me to share the great news that he had just been hired at The Crafty Beaver, a local hardware store and lumber yard. That was a time so fraught with difficulties for Ben, for all of us, that this bit of great news gave me some renewed hope that life might be kind to my son.
Coupling a commanding presence together with a gentle soul, Ben would have been a fabulous father. Little children had always loved him. He had such a way about him. What an unfathomable loss!
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Chapter 42: Revisiting ... A Blessing, the Ocean, Ben and I
I invite any and all readers to comment with like stories in their lives. If you are worried about speaking to me of Ben's death, DON'T BE! Precisely the opposite helps to keep his memory alive!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have thought about this story for quite a while.I suppose all parents enjoy their enduring "memory moments". You know ... those remarkably preserved “mind snapshots” of earlier, less-troubled times when we “made memories”, as Ben’s mom liked to say.
Ben and I spent a remarkable moment once on the beach in Jacksonville, Florida many years ago. Having nothing at all to do with collecting seashells, building sandcastles or casting fishing rods, I did something ... for Ben primarily, but for myself as well. Though in retrospect it may seem somewhat incongruous, it is best explained probably by the fact that back home we had recently moved to “West Rogers Park", an orthodox Jewish neighborhood in Chicago.
At a time when still largely ignorant of even the bare rudiments of Jewish tradition and practice, I was nonetheless typical of many Jews whose formal Jewish training consisted of little more than a Sunday school education. Growing up within a largely secular environment, our Jewish holiday observance was limited to the following: only one Passover seder, not two; candle lighting and presents at Hanukkah; lots of good food at Rosh Hashanah and breaking the fast at the end of Yom Kippur although I am uncertain if ever any of the adults in my family observed the fast. “Shabbat” was Saturday morning … you know Saturday morning- a day off from school when we could watch cartoons and eat spaghetti for breakfast my older brother Ron prepared. On occasion, I would accompany my mother to her beauty appointment where next store I’d spend time reading comic books at the corner pharmacy.
Now that you know a bit about my Jewish upbringing or lack thereof, I relate the following brief story of anomaly and awakening.
We arrived in Jacksonville rather late one afternoon closer to evening than not. Never before having seen the ocean, my plan was to behold it for the very first time as early as possible the next morning while holding Ben in my arms.
Arising early that next morning, we hurried out to the beach where our special moment together lay just ahead! Racing to the water's edge, Ben leapt up into my arms whereupon I recited the following words:
“Baruch ata Ha Shem,
Elokeinu melech ha olam,
sheasa et ha yam ha gadol.”
(“Blessed are you,
our God, King of the universe,
who made the great sea.”)
I invite any and all readers to comment with like stories in their lives. If you are worried about speaking to me of Ben's death, DON'T BE! Precisely the opposite helps to keep his memory alive!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have thought about this story for quite a while.I suppose all parents enjoy their enduring "memory moments". You know ... those remarkably preserved “mind snapshots” of earlier, less-troubled times when we “made memories”, as Ben’s mom liked to say.
Ben and I spent a remarkable moment once on the beach in Jacksonville, Florida many years ago. Having nothing at all to do with collecting seashells, building sandcastles or casting fishing rods, I did something ... for Ben primarily, but for myself as well. Though in retrospect it may seem somewhat incongruous, it is best explained probably by the fact that back home we had recently moved to “West Rogers Park", an orthodox Jewish neighborhood in Chicago.
At a time when still largely ignorant of even the bare rudiments of Jewish tradition and practice, I was nonetheless typical of many Jews whose formal Jewish training consisted of little more than a Sunday school education. Growing up within a largely secular environment, our Jewish holiday observance was limited to the following: only one Passover seder, not two; candle lighting and presents at Hanukkah; lots of good food at Rosh Hashanah and breaking the fast at the end of Yom Kippur although I am uncertain if ever any of the adults in my family observed the fast. “Shabbat” was Saturday morning … you know Saturday morning- a day off from school when we could watch cartoons and eat spaghetti for breakfast my older brother Ron prepared. On occasion, I would accompany my mother to her beauty appointment where next store I’d spend time reading comic books at the corner pharmacy.
Now that you know a bit about my Jewish upbringing or lack thereof, I relate the following brief story of anomaly and awakening.
We arrived in Jacksonville rather late one afternoon closer to evening than not. Never before having seen the ocean, my plan was to behold it for the very first time as early as possible the next morning while holding Ben in my arms.
Arising early that next morning, we hurried out to the beach where our special moment together lay just ahead! Racing to the water's edge, Ben leapt up into my arms whereupon I recited the following words:
“Baruch ata Ha Shem,
Elokeinu melech ha olam,
sheasa et ha yam ha gadol.”
(“Blessed are you,
our God, King of the universe,
who made the great sea.”)
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Missing Ben
I won’t need many words with which to adequately express myself on this question but-while on the way home tonight- I passed by the eastern gate of the cemetary wherein my son Ben lies. It was already by then well after dark, the gates closed and locked. I could do nothing more than drive by, turn my head in his direction and feel this awful pain in my gut which still afflicts me very much even several to many hours later at the time of this writing.
Were I to attempt a description of this feeling, this pain, I’d ask first that you try imagining the physicality of an enormous void, a vast, overwhelming emptiness. Now place yourself within that void, that emptiness-almost desert like with neither hope nor manifestation of refuge though mirages certainly do abound. Soon you’ll realize just how doomed you indeed are to drift indefinately toward an uncertain destination with assurance only that such wanderings will remain a frequent traveling companion.
The rabbis say that our sleep is 1/64th of death. In like manner, one could argue that sympathy is 1/64th of empathy though I admit here that such arithmetic does elude me. However verbose and hyperbolic I may often seem while writing of Ben’s quasi-tangible, permanent absence, it is really nothing more than the sounds of my silly head trying to translate the beats of my heart.
How very much I do miss Ben!
I won’t need many words with which to adequately express myself on this question but-while on the way home tonight- I passed by the eastern gate of the cemetary wherein my son Ben lies. It was already by then well after dark, the gates closed and locked. I could do nothing more than drive by, turn my head in his direction and feel this awful pain in my gut which still afflicts me very much even several to many hours later at the time of this writing.
Were I to attempt a description of this feeling, this pain, I’d ask first that you try imagining the physicality of an enormous void, a vast, overwhelming emptiness. Now place yourself within that void, that emptiness-almost desert like with neither hope nor manifestation of refuge though mirages certainly do abound. Soon you’ll realize just how doomed you indeed are to drift indefinately toward an uncertain destination with assurance only that such wanderings will remain a frequent traveling companion.
The rabbis say that our sleep is 1/64th of death. In like manner, one could argue that sympathy is 1/64th of empathy though I admit here that such arithmetic does elude me. However verbose and hyperbolic I may often seem while writing of Ben’s quasi-tangible, permanent absence, it is really nothing more than the sounds of my silly head trying to translate the beats of my heart.
How very much I do miss Ben!
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Awakening
Just last night it happened for the second time. You know how it is! When and while it happens-no matter how bizarre it might seem upon later reflection-it is characterized by its own twisted and skewed normalcy. People whom we know in real life appear but out of context-playing new roles: an architect customer of ours suddenly becomes a policeman warning me about a sticker on my windshield. Then there are folks whom we do not know; faces that are just not recognizable! I have often wondered about how it happens that complete strangers just show up, as it were?
Last night, I dreamt of Ben.
It seems, as I recall, to have lasted for but a moment. There Ben was, he and I, just the two of us. We were talking about ... ? Well, I remember only one thing! I asked Ben if he'd take a "leap" with me?! What sort of "leap" it was or meant, I don't know. I must have looked away from Ben momentarily because when I turned around to face him again, his person to whom I had just spoken, had meanwhile become a flattened image-picture framed as it were-lying on the ground!
I awoke.
Realizing that I had indeed dreamt of Ben, I resolved to explore this for meaning-not just then, but a day later. How often we so quickly forget the whole of a dream's content but in this case, I was
certain not to forget.
Much like my younger son's silhouette medalion of Ben that he wears around his neck, Ben rarely if ever absents himself from my thoughts. Even when very busy at work, he remains close at hand, in the corner of my mind ... almost as if he were watching me ... awaiting the "right" moment to reappear, just a short visit before once again he has to leave-having stayed just long enough to moisten my eyes. I suppose he has others to visit; I can't be the only one. I hope not. It would be very much out of character for Ben to not comfort his many loved ones. He was such a "ba'al chesed", a master of kindness. Therefore, I know, that when not by me, he is with others; never alone nor leaving others lonely for him ... thankfully!
Perhaps this is all a dreadful metaphor of our last moments together that Wednesday morning when-having driven him to the train station-I must have looked away again for when I saw him later that day, he appeared much like he did just before I awoke last night.
Just last night it happened for the second time. You know how it is! When and while it happens-no matter how bizarre it might seem upon later reflection-it is characterized by its own twisted and skewed normalcy. People whom we know in real life appear but out of context-playing new roles: an architect customer of ours suddenly becomes a policeman warning me about a sticker on my windshield. Then there are folks whom we do not know; faces that are just not recognizable! I have often wondered about how it happens that complete strangers just show up, as it were?
Last night, I dreamt of Ben.
It seems, as I recall, to have lasted for but a moment. There Ben was, he and I, just the two of us. We were talking about ... ? Well, I remember only one thing! I asked Ben if he'd take a "leap" with me?! What sort of "leap" it was or meant, I don't know. I must have looked away from Ben momentarily because when I turned around to face him again, his person to whom I had just spoken, had meanwhile become a flattened image-picture framed as it were-lying on the ground!
I awoke.
Realizing that I had indeed dreamt of Ben, I resolved to explore this for meaning-not just then, but a day later. How often we so quickly forget the whole of a dream's content but in this case, I was
certain not to forget.
Much like my younger son's silhouette medalion of Ben that he wears around his neck, Ben rarely if ever absents himself from my thoughts. Even when very busy at work, he remains close at hand, in the corner of my mind ... almost as if he were watching me ... awaiting the "right" moment to reappear, just a short visit before once again he has to leave-having stayed just long enough to moisten my eyes. I suppose he has others to visit; I can't be the only one. I hope not. It would be very much out of character for Ben to not comfort his many loved ones. He was such a "ba'al chesed", a master of kindness. Therefore, I know, that when not by me, he is with others; never alone nor leaving others lonely for him ... thankfully!
Perhaps this is all a dreadful metaphor of our last moments together that Wednesday morning when-having driven him to the train station-I must have looked away again for when I saw him later that day, he appeared much like he did just before I awoke last night.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Ben ... Are you free April 2nd?
Dear Ben,
If you somehow haven't already heard, we are planning a simcha on Sunday, April 2 of this year! And I have been spending quite a lot of time thinking about just how I'd forward an invitation to you.
Although it does involve quite a bit of tedium, it is comparatively simple to draw up the guest list, have the invitations designed and printed, address them and off they go. Simple! Just kind of wait around and collect the responses.
What is not quite as easy is to fathom an appropriate way by which you can be with us, too. Just last week, I consulted with Rabbi L on this question and he suggested quite a few good ways: a 'Kel Mole Rachomim' under the chuppah, a gartel for one of the Sefrei Torah, a set of s'forim-all very appropriate ideas, but frankly ... I'm still searching- as none of them with the possible exception of the 'Kel Mole-' seem right for you, just you!
I guess I'm looking for a way to materialize your essence but in a way that really reflects who you are. What makes this task all the more difficult is that I am trying to avoid the "maudlin"-now mind you ... whether or not I will succeed or am succeeding will be up to you and any others who may happen to read this.
Ben ... what I am trying to say is ... I know that you cannot be there as I so profoundly wish you could be, and beyond this I further know that no Jewish simcha is ever absolutely free of tearful remembrance; that we Jews always blend our joy into a tincture-an admixture of joy yet sobered, as it were, by sorrowful remembrances. Somehow our rejoicing is never quite whole lest we recall the destruction of the 'Batei Ha Mikdash'-thus the breaking of the glass though always followed by a "Mazel Tov!" a sure sign that we Jews, while cognizant of our dark days, always look to the next sunrise!
Which is my way of saying ... "Beni, Avrum ben Avrum v' Yehudit" (my son, Avrum son of Avrum and Yehudit) that whilst I'll rejoice with my kallah, our family, your siblings: Kimberly and Zac, and our many friends and well-wishers, that upon breaking that glass, my thoughts shall turn to you ... and to you only!
Love, Dad
p.s. The chossen's tish is at 5:30.
Dear Ben,
If you somehow haven't already heard, we are planning a simcha on Sunday, April 2 of this year! And I have been spending quite a lot of time thinking about just how I'd forward an invitation to you.
Although it does involve quite a bit of tedium, it is comparatively simple to draw up the guest list, have the invitations designed and printed, address them and off they go. Simple! Just kind of wait around and collect the responses.
What is not quite as easy is to fathom an appropriate way by which you can be with us, too. Just last week, I consulted with Rabbi L on this question and he suggested quite a few good ways: a 'Kel Mole Rachomim' under the chuppah, a gartel for one of the Sefrei Torah, a set of s'forim-all very appropriate ideas, but frankly ... I'm still searching- as none of them with the possible exception of the 'Kel Mole-' seem right for you, just you!
I guess I'm looking for a way to materialize your essence but in a way that really reflects who you are. What makes this task all the more difficult is that I am trying to avoid the "maudlin"-now mind you ... whether or not I will succeed or am succeeding will be up to you and any others who may happen to read this.
Ben ... what I am trying to say is ... I know that you cannot be there as I so profoundly wish you could be, and beyond this I further know that no Jewish simcha is ever absolutely free of tearful remembrance; that we Jews always blend our joy into a tincture-an admixture of joy yet sobered, as it were, by sorrowful remembrances. Somehow our rejoicing is never quite whole lest we recall the destruction of the 'Batei Ha Mikdash'-thus the breaking of the glass though always followed by a "Mazel Tov!" a sure sign that we Jews, while cognizant of our dark days, always look to the next sunrise!
Which is my way of saying ... "Beni, Avrum ben Avrum v' Yehudit" (my son, Avrum son of Avrum and Yehudit) that whilst I'll rejoice with my kallah, our family, your siblings: Kimberly and Zac, and our many friends and well-wishers, that upon breaking that glass, my thoughts shall turn to you ... and to you only!
Love, Dad
p.s. The chossen's tish is at 5:30.
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