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A Chapter of Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me to be published.

10/29/2008 12:10:00 PM

by Alan D Busch

The Jewish Press (NY), America's largest Jewish independent weekly, will publish this
abbreviated revision of Chapter 11 of Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me in January of 2009. See below.

__________________________


Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me

Struggling To Do The Right Thing

It wasn’t so much my father’s problem as it was mine.

The commandment to honor one’s parents had always been for me simply …
the right thing to do. Jewish tradition characterizes it, however, as the most
challenging of the Taryag Mitzvos. Anyone who has ever cared for a
terminally ill parent appreciates the difficulty of performing this mitzvah well.

With the approaching Aseres Y’mai Teshuva, I found myself struggling with
how best to honor my father who had been battling colon cancer for two years.
Hospitalized twice since July of 2008, we moved him to a skilled nursing
facility. He lived there for fifteen days before he died on Shabbos. I was at his
bedside.

My father’s condition made it impossible for him to attend high
holy day services this year as he had in years past. I was unsure whether to
attend services or be at his hospital bedside. I wanted to do the right thing, to
decide upon the right path and soon. “I’ll be staying here with Dad for Rosh Ha
Shana,” I told my older brother Ron who had already postponed his flight
several times. However, after two weeks with Dad, he had to return home.
“I cannot in good conscience go to shul,” I added. Ron’s face brightened as
if to say ‘You’ve made the right decision little brother’.

“Well,” he observed pithily, “if you can’t take care of your father at a time like this,
religion isn't worth much, is it?"

“I couldn’t agree more Ron,” I replied, smiling at my brother’s roughly hewn
pshat of the Fifth Commandment. I had never seen my older brother weep
before. I guess there is a first time for everything. I turned aside. “Hey,” he said,
gently draping his forearm on the back of my neck and shoulders. “Thank you.”

If my father could not come to Rosh Ha Shana, I’d bring Rosh Ha Shana to him. Hoping to elevate my family’s mitzvah of bikkur cholim to a Kiddush Ha Shem, I brought a holiday meal to the hospital for my family. My daughter Kimberly cried. Perhaps the festive food would help to strengthen our emunah that The Aibishter might still inscribe and seal my father in the
Book of Life.

The eve of Yom Ha Din approached. Who would live? Who would die? Who
would be sealed in the Sefer Ha Chaim? I found myself wrestling with a more
intense moral dilemma than the one I had faced several days earlier. The
awesome finality of Yom Kippur filled me with greater uncertainty and
dread. My father continued to decline. How would I live with myself tomorrow
if I were not at my father’s bedside today? Would I have to plead for my father’s
life before the Aron Kodesh? I needed guidance.

I called Rabbi Louis. We chatted for an hour. I learned how he had cared for his dying father years before but could not bring myself to ask him what he would have done had his father been dying on the eve of Yom Kippur.

I went early next morning to visit my father. Time was running out just hours
before Kol Nidre. While my father slept, I called my friend Ephraim, a halachic
Jew, who hosts an on-line yeshiva where I have read some of my poetry and
prose. Preoccupied with his eighty-six year old mother who, like my father, was
terminally ill with stage four cancer, he told me he'd be staying at home with
her for yontif. I was thunderstruck. His timely story of hashgacha pratis
resolved my dilemma.

Rabbi Louis called me motzai yontif. I relayed Ephraim’s story. “Baruch Ha
Shem!” he responded, once more validating his belief that “Got firt da velt.”
“The Aibishter sends messengers to help us make the right decision,” Rabbi counseled.
My right decision enabled my dad and me to reach closer to The One Above than either of us could have done separately.

I was called to his bedside late Shabbos morning, My father’s neshuma was readying itself to
depart. A sound came from his throat as he drew his last breaths. A final calm blanketed him.
He was warm and at ease.

A part of my father had gone missing eight years before when his twenty-two year old grandson, my son Ben, departed this world. It's hard to pin down, but I suspect it left at the same time as
Ben's neshuma. Like Jacob who had clung to Esau's heel, it attached itself to Ben's ha akev shel
ha nefesh, the heel of his soul, taking a little bit of my father with him.

Now on this Shabbos Kodesh, my father would at long last be whole again.

Revised 10/27/08

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dear friends, please see my newly published story in the Jewish Press of New York

http://www.jewishpress.com/pageroute.do/36604/Lamentations.html

Where authors and readers come together!



Tka B' Shofar

Express Mail to Ben on the first day of Elul ...

Letter to Ben and Related Thoughts (resent express mail) this first day of Chodesh Elul in anticipation of the New Year 5769.

(with an addition to the original "Letter to Ben" written Thursday night and early Friday morning just a few days before Erev Rosh Ha Shana 5766) ...

There are many greetings for the Yomin Noraim, the Jewish high holidays: A Gut Yontif, A Gut Yor, Chag Sameach, Shana Tova, among several others, but regardless of whichever one we choose, their common feature is they can be effectively answered by responding "Amen!"
Such a wonderful word this "amen"! It's short, clean and efficient and, in effect, says: "Yes! I subscribe to everything you have said!"Beyond this, we pray that each of us will be inscribed in the "Sefer Ha Chaim"-the Book of Life-for the coming year-that we may be worthy enough to enjoy the mazel, brocho and hatzlacha, luck, blessing and success that the New Year affords!

As a boy, I remember hearing that without good health, all the riches in the world ... well, you know the rest ...We are all "basar v' dam"-flesh and blood-mortal beings for whom death-however untimely and premature as it so often seems-is as integral to life as is birth itself; dialectical opposites each requiring the other lest what we euphemistically call "nature" gives way to chaos.

None of this however soothes the bereaved parent! That much I know very well. As a matter of fact, I have often found myself examining my own deeds-both present and past-in an attempt to uncover what may be a possible linkage between the absolute calamity of losing Ben and my own considerable failings and flaws. Then I "awaken" because I know in my heart that He does not rule over the universe in such a fashion that a child is sacrificed for the misdeeds of a parent! For as immeasureably much as I miss Ben, I blame no one and certainly not God Himself or ... for that matter the driver of the truck whose failure to signal a right turn led to ...I even know his name and where he lives, but for the sake of Ben whose life I love(d), may I merit the strength to live life free from bitterness, anger and cynicism, and may you Ben dwell on high, high enough to look down through the clouds and see us.

On this the first day of Chodesh Elul, on the "almost eve" of the New Year, 5769 I send you these few reflections ...

Dear Ben,

It's now approaching eight years ago that you left us son. That Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving, November 22, 2000, our last morning together, those few minutes we spent chatting while I drove you to the train ... how grateful I am the vivid memory of that brief moment is mine.Life without you has been and continues to be difficult. There isn't a day when I don't think of you while pondering the many "what might have beens". I smile recalling how close you and I were! Sure we had our many differences and struggles, but what father and son don't?

We've all had to get on with our lives. We grow older while you remain forever as young as the day you were taken from us. Believe it or not ... today, September 1, 2008 is Zac's 21st birthday.Over these several years, I have spoken to many parents who have lost a child, and learned each copes in his own way. I don't know how your mom has managed, but I imagine she has in her own way-not unlike your sister and brother and all who love you. While searching for the right words, Ben, my hope is they'll not only have particular meaning for you but a more universal message as well for others who grieve as do we.

First off ... know that I love(d) you and will always unconditionally. As the older of my two sons and the eldest of my three children-though I take much pleasure in watching your sister and brother take their places in the world, I feel great anguish when I see the grownup sons of other men. We were all deprived of you Ben. It is just somehow so unfair! I recall one night when you, your sister, brother and I were together; it might even have been a Shabbat or yom tov-maybe one of our Passover seders. When the three of you were about to leave on your way back to mom's house, I kissed you on your cheek and felt the stubble of your whiskers on my lips. Funny what each of us remembers.

Be well,

Dad :)

9/1/08

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Dear Friends,

Here is chapter 1 of Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me, a memoir about my father who is telling me his story. I question him, he answers, I listen, he grows weary, I run home to write it all down. It is his way of fashioning a "cheshbon ha nefesh", an accounting of his life. My father suffers from stage 4 cancer ... may he merit length of days.

“Stuff My Father Won’t Tell Me …”


Part 1



I feared for my father’s life.


"Alan, it’s Bobbie,” my dad’s wife called me early one morning."
“Yes, Bobbie, Good morning.”
"I’m taking your father to the hospital. Please come down.”
“Okay, okay. I’m leaving right now.” I had told Bobbie she should call me if ever she needed any assistance with my father-no matter what time or day it was. You were right,” I admitted.
“About what …?”
“About me picking up the phone.” It was Shabbat morning when I do
not make or accept any phone calls. I make one exception, however. I
will answer calls from my parents and my children.“Well, I had a feeling,” she responded while ably making her way through traffic.
“Well, thank you for that feeling.”

We arrived at Northwestern University’s Prentice Women’s Hospital about forty minutes later. I entered through the emergency room while my wife parked our car in the lot.
“Good morning,” I greeted the receptionist.
"Good morning,” she replied.
“My father is here, Dr. Albert Busch.” She typed quickly.
“Yes, Dr. Busch. Exam room four. Right around the corner,” she turned around in her chair. “There. Right down the hall.” I hurried away. I met Bobbie standing outside exam room four.
“Bobbie.”
“Hi. Your dad is inside,” she said, gesturing toward the door. Her expression looked foreboding. I did not know what to expect, but it couldn't be anything good. I went in. I saw my father, already changed into a hospital gown, lying down atop a gurney, several nurses attending him. He was dehydrated. Fighting unrelenting diarrehia and fever from a urinary tract infection, my father’s skin was yellowish. I had seen that skin tone before when, as a volunteer for
the Jewish Sacred Society, I used to help wash and dress bodies before
burial. I had never seen my dad like this. I feared for his life.“Good morning. Dr. Busch?” a young ER resident entered the room. “Yes, I’m Alan Busch. Dr. Busch is my father.” He was “thirtyish something” unshaved, short in stature and sporting a black suede
Kippah. One bobby pin.
“Good Shabbes. Sholem Aleichem,” I greeted him.
“Good Shabbes to you. Aleichem Sholem, he responded. “How is your Shabbos going?” he asked me tongue in cheek. I liked him. He understood.
“I’ve had better,” half-smilingly.
“We’ll be admitting your father shortly as soon as the paperwork is processed.
“Thanks, doc,”
“You’re welcome. Be well.”

I am here in Room 1616, Prentice Women’s Hospital. It has been a rough first few hours. I’m doing as much as I can. I don’t want to let him down. He’s mostly asleep except when the diarehia makes its presence felt. It comes so fast that there is no chance of making it to the bathroom. I help the nurses clean up. After all, this is my father we’re talking about here. He falls back asleep within seconds.

I look at his face. It’s drawn, his skin sagging under his chin. His neck
is wrinkled. He’s lost so much weight. It’s as if he’s extra skin. I can’t
help it but it reminds me of a turkey’s neck. You know what I mean.
‘This is how he’ll look, I suppose.’ I try to block these thoughts out. I
can’t. There he lies and I can’t help but think. God and my dad should
forgive me. Watching his life come to an ignominious end, ravaged by cancer
attacking his bowel. His intestines are at war against us. He’s lost
control of them. They control him now and are making his life miserable.
"Call the nurses Alan. Please, please don’t do any more.”
"Dad, let me. I'll clean this up myself.” Determined to care of my
father, I lost count of the number of times I changed his gown and
bed sheets. The nurses are giving, wonderful people, but I was frankly
embarrassed for them and my father. “I understand son but the nurses are faster.
Let them do their job.” He was adamant. I stayed over the first two nights.
We must have called the nurses four or five times during the early morning hours to help
us clean up. The unrelenting nature of the diarrhea was demoralizing us.

I watched my father fade away. He had become frightfully thin. After
more than forty-eight hours at the hospital, I reached my limit. I had
to go home. My wife, Heather, came down to pick me up. I was
exhausted physically and emotionally. Bobbie had arrived earlier so I
did not feel guilty about leaving.
“Dad, I’ll be back on Thursday.”
“No problem, son. Go home and rest." Even had I protested, my
father would have kicked me out. He seldom if ever thinks of himself.
“Heather, let’s go for a drink.” I felt ready to collapse not so much
from physical fatigue as from emotional exhaustion.
“I saw a nice little place at the corner. What do you say?” She was
agreeable.“This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do,” I said
while sipping a martini. My wife ordered a diet pop.
“Come on. Finish up and let’s go home. I’ll fix something for dinner,”
she said. Now that was really welcome news because for two days, I
had eaten nothing but cereal with milk, pudding, chips and fresh fruit.
Mind you, I was not going to starve but the hospital’s “food market”
had a limited supply of kosher items.

We arrived home. I collapsed on the couch. My wife lit some candles,
closed the blinds and put on some James Taylor “cds”. She knows how
much I like him. I cannot really account for it, but there is something
about his music that affects me emotionally. I felt I was just about
ready to burst. By the end of his song “Mean Old Man” (which, by the
way,, my father is not!) I broke down sobbing, my shoulders heaving.
I covered my head with the towel my wife had put on the back of my
neck for extra comfort and simply … wept.

I woke up next morning feeling sluggish, still worn out.
"I'll be down there tomorrow. It's too darn hot. The expressway is a
parking lot,” I tried to assuage my guilty conscience. I spent the better
part of the day trying to fool myself, looking for and finding every
excuse not to visit my father that day. I called my brother Ron
around 7:30 p.m. He had flown in from St. Louis that morning and
been with our father all day.
"Hi, Ron, so how was today?"
"Not so good," he sounded worn out.
"Oh ...?" I wanted him to continue.
"Can you come on down now?" he asked, barely masking an order to
do so. Frankly, I was glad he did. Even though my father had been
having a bad day, Ron's request relieved me of my self-inflicted guilt.
I drove down.
"It's just that I've not seen him cry before except when he thinks
about Ben (my dad’s first grandson, my first-born son who died
almost eight years ago).
"It's so darn pitiful," my brother remarked.
Tears. My father was crying while sitting on the commode.
Disappointment. Let down. Ten days in the hospital and the diarrhea
is still unabated. No warning, no bodily signals. It just comes when it
pleases. I kept silent. What response is there? Here is a man who does
not care about his cancer. He can deal with that.

"It's not the cancer. I accept that. It's this diarrhea that is taking me
downhill," he said to his nephew Robert, my first cousin who is a soon
retiring professor of medicine in Michigan. Do you remember what
General MacArthur said about old soldiers not dying but fading away?
As a matter of fact, my father is an old soldier, United States Army,
brigadier general, retired. And as with old soldiers, especially those
who wear stars on their epaulets, there is no crying. Reminds me of
that Tom Hanks line in A League of Their Own. “There is no crying in
baseball!”

Think about what my father said about the diarrhea taking him
downhill, and ask yourself this question: When we are just babies,
what do our parents train us to do which is our first really great
accomplishment? No, it's not "Da-da, ma-ma" or our first step
without holding on. The answer is ‘toilet training”-achieving mastery
over our bodies, controlling one of its most basic functions which
first defined us as kids and no longer babies. One of two lead doctors
treating my father told me tonight he has tried everything he knows,
but he DOES NOT know how to stop the diarrehia. "There is nothing more
we can do for your dad in the hospital," admitted my Dad's oncologist.
My father was scheduled to be sent home. After nearly two weeks in the hospital, he came out
"swinging", as I described him to several friends. It appears the
"Aibishter" has other plans for my father. He summed it up rather
nicely when he told his brother: “Don''t worry Hirshy, I'm not ready
to die yet."

If you're looking to measure a man''s mettle, witness how he copes
with physical affliction. It is ultimately a test of the substance and
depth of his dignity. My father is the paradigm of a man who survived
a plethora of indignities not only with his dignity intact but admired
by the many family members and friends to whom he provided a
remarkable example of stubborn courage. Now that he is home, we spend
much of our time talking and playing gin rummy. He tells his story and I listen.
"So Dad I''ve a few questions to ask you."
"Okay, go ahead. Ask away."
"I wanna know the stuff you won't tell me."

(end part 1)

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Dear Friends,

Please click on Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me ... Part 4 (short story) by Alan D Busch on AuthorsDen

posted and revised 9/5/08

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!





“Stuff My Father Won’t Tell Me …”

Part 1 Revised 9/3/08

I feared for my father's life.

“Alan, it’s Bobbie,” my dad’s wife called me early one morning.

“Yes, Bobbie, good morning.”

"I’m taking your father to the hospital. Please come down.”

“Okay, okay. I’m leaving right now.”

I had told Bobbie she should call me if ever she needed any assistance with my father. It wouldn’t matter what time or day it was. My wife and I arrived at the hospital about forty minutes later. I entered through the emergency room while my wife parked our car in the lot.

“Good morning,” I greeted the receptionist.

"Good morning,” she replied.

“My father is here, Dr. Albert Busch.” She typed quickly.

“Yes, Dr. Busch. Exam room four. Right around the corner,” she turned around in her

chair. “There. Right down the hall.” I hurried away. I met Bobbie standing outside exam room four.

“Bobbie.”

“Hi. Your dad is inside,” she said, gesturing toward the door. Her expression looked foreboding. I did not know quite what to expect, but it couldn't be anything good. I entered. I saw my father, already changed into a hospital gown, lying down atop a gurney, several nurses attending him. He was dehydrated. Fighting unrelenting diarrehia and fever from a urinary tract infection, my father’s skin was yellowish. I had seen that skin tone before when, as a volunteer for the Jewish Sacred Society, I used to help wash and dress bodies before burial. I had never before seen my dad like this. I feared for his life.

I am here. Room 1616. Prentice Women’s Hospital. Watching his life come to an ignominious end, ravaged by cancer attacking his bowel. His intestines are at war against us. He’s lost control of them. They control him now and are making his life miserable.

"Call the nurses Alan. Please, please don’t do any more.”

"Dad, let me. I'll clean this up myself.” Determined to care for my father, I lost count of the number of times I had changed his gown and bed sheets. The nurses are giving, wonderful people, but I was frankly embarrassed for them and my father.

“I understand son but the nurses are faster. Let them do their job.” He was adamant. I stayed over the first two nights. We must have called the nurses four or five times during the early morning hours to help us clean up. The unrelenting nature of the diarrehia was demoralizing us.

I watched my father fade away. He had become frightfully thin. After more than forty-eight hours at the hospital, I reached my limit. I had to go home. My wife, Heather, came down to pick me up. I was exhausted physically and emotionally. Bobbie had arrived earlier so I did not feel guilty about leaving.

“Dad, I’ll be back on Thursday.”

“No problem, son. Go home and rest." Even had I protested, my father would have kicked me out. He seldom if ever thinks of himself.

“Heather, let’s go for a drink.” I felt ready to collapse not so much from physical fatigue as from emotional exhaustion.

“I saw a nice little place at the corner. What do you say?” She was agreeable.“This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do,” I said while sipping a martini. My wife ordered a diet pop.

“Come on. Finish up and let’s go home. I’ll fix something for dinner,” she said. Now that was really welcome news because for two days, I had grown tired of cereal and milk, pudding, chips and fresh fruit. Mind you, I was not going to starve but the hospital’s “food market” had a limited supply of kosher items.

We arrived home. I collapsed on the couch. My wife lit some candles, closed the blinds and put on some James Taylor “cds”. She knows how much I like him. I cannot really account for it, but there is something about his music that affects me emotionally. I felt I was just about ready to burst. By the end of his “Mean Old Man” (which by the way, my father is not!) I broke down sobbing, my shoulders heaving. I covered my head with the towel my wife had put on the back of my neck for extra comfort and simply … wept.

I woke up next morning feeling sluggish, still worn out.

"I'll be down there tomorrow. It's too darn hot. The expressway is a parking lot,” I tried to assuage my guilty conscience. I spent the better part of the day trying to fool myself, looking for and finding every excuse not to visit my father that day. I called my brother Ron around 7:30 p.m. He had flown in from St.Louis that morning and been with our father all day.

"Hi, Ron, so how was today?"

"Not so good," he sounded worn out.

"Oh ...?" I wanted him to continue.

"Can you come on down now?" he asked, barely masking an order to do so. Frankly, I was glad he did. Even though my father had been having a bad day, Ron's request relieved me of my self-inflicted guilt. I drove down.

"It's just that I've not seen him cry before except when he thinks about Ben (my dad's first grandson, my first-born son who died almost eight years ago).

"It's so darn pitiful," my brother remarked.

Tears. My father was crying while sitting on the commode. Disappointment. Let down. Ten days in the hospital and the diarrhea is still unabated. No warning, no bodily signals. It just comes when it pleases. I kept silent. What response is there? Here is a man who does not care about his cancer. He can deal with that.

"It's not the cancer. I accept that. It's this diarrhea that is taking me downhill," he said to his nephew Robert, my first cousin who is a soon retiring professor of medicine in Michigan.

Do you remember what General MacArthur said about old soldiers not dying but fading away? As a matter of fact, my father is an old soldier, United States Army, brigadier general, retired. And as with old soldiers, especially those who wear stars on their epaulets, there is no crying. Reminds me of that Tom Hanks line in A League of Their Own. “There is no crying in baseball!”

Think about what my father said about the diarrhea taking him downhill, and ask yourself this question: When we are just babies, what do our parents train us to do which is regarded as our first really great accomplishment? No, it's not "Da-da, ma-ma" or our first step without holding on. It's "toilet training”-achieving mastery over our bodies, controlling one of its most basic functions. My father has lost that! And to lose control over that which first defined us as kids and no longer babies, is emotionally devastating.

One of two lead doctors told me tonight that he has tried everything he knows, but he DOES NOT know how to stop the diarrehia. "There is nothing more we can do for your father
in the hospital," admitted my Dad's oncologist. My father was scheduled to be sent home. After nearly two weeks later, he came out "swinging", as I described him to several friends. It appears the Aibishter has other plans for my father. He summed it up rather nicely when he told his brother: “Don't worry Hirshy, I'm not ready to die yet."

If you're looking to measure a man's mettle, witness how he copes with physical affliction. It is ultimately a test of the substance and depth of his dignity. My father is the paradigm of a man who survived a plethora of indignities not only with his dignity intact but admired by the many family members and friends to whom he provided a remarkable example of stubborn courage.

Now that he is home, we spend much of our time talking and playing gin rummy. He tells his story and I listen.

"So Dad I've a few questions to ask you."

"Okay, go ahead. Ask away."

"I wanna know the stuff you won't tell me."

(to be continued ...)

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Letter to Ben and Related Thoughts (resent express mail) this first day of Chodesh Elul in anticipation of the New Year 5769.
(with an addition to the original "Letter to Ben" written Thursday night and early Friday morning just a few days before Erev Rosh Ha Shana 5766) ...

There are many greetings for the Yomin Noraim, the Jewish high holidays: A Gut Yontif, A Gut Yor, Chag Sameach, Shana Tova, among several others, but regardless of whichever one we choose, their common feature is they can be effectively answered by responding "Amen!"

Such a wonderful word this "amen"! It's short, clean and efficient and, in effect, says: "Yes! I subscribe to everything you have said!"Beyond this, we pray that each of us will be inscribed in the "Sefer Ha Chaim"-the Book of Life-for the coming year-that we may be worthy enough to enjoy the mazel, brocho and hatzlacha, luck, blessing and success that the New Year affords!

As a boy, I remember hearing that without good health, all the riches in the world ... well, you know the rest ...We are all "basar v' dam"-flesh and blood-mortal beings for whom death-however untimely and premature as it so often seems-is as integral to life as birth itself; dialectical opposites each requiring the other lest what we euphemistically call "nature" gives way to chaos.

None of this however soothes the bereaved parent! That much I know very well. As a matter of fact, I have often found myself examining my own deeds-both present and past-in an attempt to uncover what may be a possible linkage between the absolute calamity of losing Ben and my own considerable failings and flaws. Then I "awaken" because I know in my heart that He does not rule over the universe in such a fashion that a child is sacrificed for the misdeeds of a parent! For as immeasureably much as I miss Ben, I blame no one and certainly not God Himself or ... for that matter the driver of the truck whose failure to signal a right turn led to ...

I even know his name and where he lives, but for the sake of Ben whose life I love(d), may I merit the strength to live life free from bitterness, anger and cynicism, and may you Ben dwell on high, high enough to look down through the clouds and see us. On this the first day of Chodesh Elul, on the "almost eve" of the New Year, 5769 I send you these few reflections:

Dear Ben,

It's now approaching eight years ago that you left us son. That Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving, November 22, 2000, our last morning together, those few minutes we spent chatting while I drove you to the train ... how grateful I am the vivid memory of that brief moment is mine. Life without you has been and continues to be difficult. There isn't a day when I don't think of you while pondering the many "what might have beens". I smile recalling how close you and I were! Sure we had our many differences and struggles, but what father and son don't?

We've all had to get on with our lives. We grow older while you remain forever as young as the day you were taken from us. Believe it or not ... today, September 1, 2008 is Zac's 21st birthday. He was only thirteen when you left. Over these several years, I have spoken to many parents who have lost a child, and learned each copes in his own way. I don't know how your mom has managed, but I imagine she has in her own way-not unlike your sister and brother and all who love you. While I search for the right words, Ben, my hope is they'll not only have particular meaning for you but for others who grieve as we do.

Please know that I love(d) you and will always unconditionally. As the older of my two sons and the eldest of my three children-though I take much pleasure in watching your sister and brother take their places in the world, I feel great anguish when I see the grownup sons of other men. We were all deprived of you Ben. It is just somehow so unfair! I recall one night when you, your sister, brother and I were together; it might even have been a Shabbat or yom tov-maybe one of our Passover seders. When the three of you were about to leave on your way back to Mom's house, I kissed you on your cheek and felt the stubble of your whiskers on my lips. Funny what each of us remembers.

Be well,

Dad :)
9/1/08

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Dear Friends,
It would be helpful to you if you first read the second installment of my series "Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me, A Continuation", which you'll find by scrolling down a bit. My intent and hope is to write and hopefully publish a five part series. More to come ...

“Stuff My Father Won’t Tell Me” Part 3

“Hello,” I picked up the phone.

“Hi Albert. It’s Marge.”

“No. This is Alan.”

“Alan? You sound just like your dad.”

“Well, I guess it’s in the genes. One moment, please. Dad, it’s for you.”

Not too surprisingly, I look like my father, dress like him, emote like him and, as you just learned, sound like him. In other words, I am my father’s son. Then again, so is my brother Ron with whom I have reconnected after a long hiatus these past two months due entirely to our father’s illness. Ron flew in on Sunday afternoon. He called me when he got to my dad’s apartment.

“Ron, can you fill in for me tomorrow? I can’t make it down.”

“Sure. How’s Tuesday for you?”

“Nope, I can’t make it then either. I’ve got some other stuff to do.”

Ron is anxious for the three of us to spend time together before he has to return to St. Louis.

“I’ll be down tomorrow, Ron. See you around noon?

“Hey, that sounds good. See you then.”

There is nothing more “nachasdik” for my Dad than to be with his sons. Personifying an amazing juxtaposition of “opposites”, my dad is a “tough guy” who has never stopped chaffing my cheeks when he kisses me. As a matter of fact, I attribute much if not all of my emotional make up to my father whose example taught me to kiss my children. In public, in private, it doesn’t matter. He’s always enjoyed showing us off- kind of like what I used to do when I would drag my kids around in a red Radio Flyer wagon on our way to the public library. We spent the better part of Wednesday afternoon together with my father at his office. He’s closing it down after more than a half century of business. Though my father has recovered remarkably well since leaving the hospital, he knows he can no longer treat patients. My father has been practicing dentistry in Chicago since 1953.

“One of these days, I’ll get it right,” he often quips with an irrepressible smile. Around 5 o’clock or so, I was getting ready to head back home. Ron walked me to the front door, opposite the kitchen. I could see our father sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. His wife, Bobbie, sat across from him.

“So, Alan, any words?” Ron asked.

“None at the moment,” I responded, hoping to preclude an emotional scene.

“God, I feel so … so guilty about leaving, but I’ve got to get home,” Ron confessed in an undertone.

“I understand,” I reassured him. My brother Ron feels bad. He’s got it tougher than I do. I can see Dad anytime I wish and do. I visit with him three days a week, and I think he’d agree this has been the best time we’ve ever spent together. Ron, however, lives in St. Louis. Not far away, to be sure. A one hour flight. Still, it worries him.

“What if … what if this is the last time?” Ron wonders.

“No, no. Not going to happen. Not now,” I assuredly insisted. “Dad is a pugilist, Ron, remember? He’s a boxer, a fighter, you know.” (As a matter of fact, my father was a “golden gloves” boxer in his youth).

Though Ron is only eighteen months older, it has always defined our relationship. It was an odd moment. I sensed a shift between us. For the first time, I was “taking care” of Ron-a good, big brother much like my son Ben had been to his younger siblings, Kimberly and Zac.

“Hey listen, call me if you want to get together tonight,” I clumsily changed the topic.

“I’d like to but I’d better not.”

“Listen, we’ll talk,” I reassured him. I picked up my computer bag. “Dad and Bobbie, I’ll talk to ya.”

My father’s grief and “atheism” revisited …

My father is not an atheist-no matter what he says. He’s a grieving grandpa whose concept of God-as a beneficent and indulgent parent-not only failed to shield him but shattered when he desperately needed the “bitachon”, faith, that personal tragedy demands and “emunah”, belief, affords.

“I just don’t understand how you’ve done it,” my father has said to me on more than one occasion. “Ron and I were talking about you the other day,” he added, “and we both agree that neither of us could have done what you did.”

My father is referring to the fact I chose life after the death of my son Ben. I don’t mean to dismiss his praise of me, but a grieving parent has a very restricted range of choice in these matters: either he consciously and decidedly determines to choose life-albeit having to accept the presence of grief as a constant in his life from then on, or he becomes busy with dying. Contrary to my father’s generous appraisal, my decision to choose life was not a heroic one-simply necessary.

Losing a grandson … well, I just don’t know how that feels. Is it any different from losing a son? Like me, my father hasn’t been the same since November 22, 2000 when we stood almost within arm’s reach of Ben during his waning moments while a trauma team fought desperately to save his life. Something that day went missing in both of us. I don’t know what to call it or how to define it, but I suspect it left simultaneously with Ben’s neshuma-attaching itself as it were to Ben’s “ha'akev shel hanefesh”, the "heel of his soul", taking a little bit of us with him. And, as I can speak for my father in this matter, that is okay with us.

“Hirshy, I understand that,” my dad said to my Uncle Hirsh, his slightly younger brother with whom he has partnered their dental practice for fifty-five years. I stood by. Couldn’t help but hear the conviction of my father’s voice. “I’ve my grandchildren to live for, Hirsh. The ‘chemo’ can go straight to the infernal regions. My oncologist says continuing the chemo is a ’50-50’ proposition, so I’m choosing to live without it.”

There you have it. Despite his assertions to the contrary (that he could not have survived and lived his life well had either of his sons died) my father has proven himself wrong. He has not only survived the death of his grandson, but very unequivocally “chosen life”. Just prior to his most recent hospitalization for fever, a urinary tract infection and severe diarrehia due to chemotherapy, he had continued to practice dentistry for an additional eight years. Hardly a casualty of tragedy, he has been an inspiring presence and example for his grandchildren, my daughter Kimberly and younger son, Zac.

You see … Ben was my father’s “son”-as much a “father” to all of my children as he is to me and my brother Ron.

That is, I suppose, how my father’s spirituality works. By choosing “ … life, so that you will live, you and your offspring, …” he has shown there are really no atheists in foxholes.

Alan D. Busch
8/31/08

Where authors and readers come together!



Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me ... A Continuation


"Sooooo .... Dad, tell me this ... you ready for some questions and answers?" I'm still trying to have him give up the stories of his life I know he's holding back on.

My father has stage four cancer. He is home. I spend the afternoons with him three days a week. It's good for him, me and his wife, Bobbie, gives her a chance to get out and do stuff.

This is hardly the first time my dad and I have prepared for a lengthy disputation. As a matter of fact, we rather enjoy the experience of give and take, trying to better the other with the force of his argumentation. My father gets such nachas (enjoyment) from the experience. He thinks I'm so smart. Fatherly prejudice. As for me, I've always enjoyed bonding with my dad.

"Sure, go ahead." He gears up. I can see it. It's almost as if my father is testing my "sticktoitiveness" before he'll tell me the stuff that I really want to hear. And even then, it's just a "maybe". I may get closer but there will remain, a core of stuff that he'll continue to withhold from me. My goal is to have him tell me as much about himself as possible, before it is too late.

Perhaps, you find this sort of thing hard to read because it may stir up your own comparable memories. It's powerful stuff. Hits close to home, doesn't it?

I did not live with my father for very long at all. I grew up in St. Louis with my mother and grandmother after my folks' divorce. That is why I do this. It's a mutually beneficial sort of thing: I get to ask questions and listen while my father tells his story to his son, the writer. It's really quite dramatic when you think about it.

"Dad, what was your best day?" I asked, hoping to unleash a flow of words.

"Oh, that's easy," he said smilingly. The day you were born."

"No Dad, hmm, not what I want. I knew you were going to say that. Here now, excluding all those easy answers, births, weddings bla bla bla, excluding all of that, tell me about your best day."

Ah, now that seems to have struck a note. His mien changed remarkably. I know that face. I could see he was going back to the war, WW2, digging deep, exactly where I wanted him to go. I had tried before to elicit these memories, but he always stopped short. This time I think I had him.

"My best day was when I realized I was going to survive the war. You see ... that was my primary concern, for me Albert, I was intent on coming home alive! You know the old expression about there being no atheists in the foxholes?

"Sure. I've heard that."

"Well,, I assure you. It's the absolute truth. There were a couple of guys in my company, avowed atheists. We were gearing up for the Battle of the Bulge. Eveyybody and I mean everybody had a role in that. Well, me and these two guys found ourselves in the same foxhole with our heads in the mud. I dont know what it was, a grenade, a shell whatever. In my life, I had never seen so much praying. 'Dear Lord, please get me out of this. I'll be good. I'll never do that again.' You know the usual stuff that comes out under deep stress. So I says to these guys, I says: 'Whistling a different tune now, huh?' (My father has this peculiar grammatical habit of saying "I says". Really annoying but I keep my mouth shut.)

"How about you, Dad?

"What about me?"

"You know ... your belief?" (Finally, I had him right where I wanted him.)

"Me? Naw, I don't believe in God."

I was thunderstruck.

"Huh? What about the 'whistling a different tune' stuff, the foxhole?"

"Oh, I was just trying to 'raz' them."

"But, but ..."

There was definately something wrong with this picture. My father looked tired so I dropped it. He excused himself to take a nap. I thought about this whole thing for a while. His revelation bothered me. It really did.

A day or two later, I think I may have cracked the case, but it's only a theory at this time. Something had happened in his life that not only transformed him but shattered him and his belief as well. I think my father believed in God for the longest time-not religiously because my father is not a religious man, but a man who is (was?) spiritually inclined-just not in some grandly philosophical, ethereal way. In fact, I caught a snapshot of his theology the other day. He argued, as so many do, for the "proof" of the correctness of atheism that 'were there a God-a caring, loving, parent-like God (and it's important to recognize that that is their image of a God which for them pardoxically either does not or no longer exists)-He would not allow the terrible things in life to happen. It is a child's conception of God, an outlook stunted in its growth at an early age but adhered to for years of adult life. But then something happens that just shatters it, like so much glass. It's not a resilient belief so it shouldn't surprise us to discover it cannot weather the storms of life.

What happened?

When my father's first grandson died, my son Ben, nearly eight years ago on November 22, 2000, my father's fragile belief, his glass-like spirituality shattered just outside the operating room in the ER of Cook County Hospital in Chicago. I stood right next to him as he pled with The Almighty. I was there, saw it all ... heard every word.

"Standing by my father, together we witnessed a fiercely desperate scene unfolding no more than ten feet from us. I turned my head momentarily to check on my dad and beheld a
“stranger” praying fervently for the life of my son. While holding his arms overhead with the
palms of his hands flattened against the glass partition, his body slightly angled outward and
feet spread apart, appearing as if he were about to be searched by the police, he pled with The
Almighty for His immediate intervention.

“Hold on Ben! Fight back! Please fight back!” my father, a sensitive though doggedly determined man, called out once, twice, thrice during Ben’s waning seconds, while there was yet a spark of life aglow."*

(to be continued)

*Excerpted from Snapshots In Memory of Ben.

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"Lamentations"

(to be published by Jewish Press (NY) October 11, 2008)

His clothing caught my attention. Wearing wrinkled slacks with barely a crease, a faded yellow, perspiration-stained shirt and a dirty beige, worn out cap, he bore the appearance of neglect.

“Good evening, Sir,” I greeted him. Smiling broadly, I chatted with him for several minutes. It was the right thing to do and besides, it made me feel better too. The previous several months had been turbulent. Not only had I ridden an emotional roller coaster, but I was stuck at the peak of the ride.

The summer’s heat was unrelenting and we were in the “nine days” before Tisha b' Av. "Good evening," he responded, an elderly man sitting alone in the shul’s social hall, looking sadly troubled. “I was worried. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv,” he said. "Oh, we'll have a minyan. Please don’t worry about that.”

“Your name is, Sir?”

"Irving Talisman.”

He seemed to be reading my lips. He stopped short of answering Yitzhak. I don’t know why he didn’t, but I gave him my undivided attention.

“Reb Talisman, for whom are you saying Kaddish?”

He twisted his left arm with his right hand to reveal six subcutaneous numerals. The dark shadows of his bloodshot eyes seemed as indelible as his tattoo. "My parents,” he whispered, drying his tears with a soiled handkerchief. That instant, I felt closer to the Shoah than ever before. Sure, I had seen the tattoos but never close up enough to become part of a survivor’s life. That was about to change.

I was determined to comfort this grief-stricken Jew. Was it not my obligation? "This way, Reb Talisman,” directing him to the Beis Medrash. We grasped the door handle. He hesitated.

"Should we enter?" he wondered. "Looks like the rebbe is busy with a bar mitzvah boy."

The shul was hectic. Not only was the sisterhood hosting a speaker from the Park District, but the junior minyan was learning mishnayos with the Rabbi’s son. I had never seen the Rabbi look so exhausted. Reb Talisman and I entered. Rabbi rose from his chair, out of kavod for Reb Talisman.

“Shalom Aleichem, Reb Yitzchak,” Rabbi greeted him warmly.

“Aleichem sholem, Rebbe. Another year, eh?"

“Baruch Ha Shem,” Rabbi respectfully responded.

"Abba, it is 8:05. We have a minyan," announced Rabbi’s older son whose four talmidim followed behind him.

I escorted Reb Talisman to a well-cushioned chair, the only one of its kind in the Beis Medrash. It had been the favorite of the Rebbitzen’s father. When I turned to check on Reb Talisman, I saw he had chosen one of the regular seats by the omed.

"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” the minyan intoned.

I looked over again to see how Reb Talisman was doing. He seemed more at ease now that we had begun on time. The usual several minutes for Mincha flew by.

“Yisgadal veyiskadash shmey raba …”.

Rabbi learned the halachos of the “nine days” with the minyan before the evening prayer.

“Al Yisroel v’al rabbonan …”.

He designated one of the younger fellows to daven Ma’ariv. I should have felt good about how smoothly everything was proceeding for Reb Talisman. After all, minyan began on time. I had helped him in my own small way, but somehow … it just wasn’t enough. I closed my siddur.

“V’hu rachum …”. I arose for Borchu, but I was already a world away. I couldn’t help it, but I turned my thoughts to my Kallah. She had left me two months before after only fifteen months of marriage. I struggled to reconcile our differences, but she was adamant.

“I need to find myself,” she was fond of saying. I understood what she meant because I felt lost without her. "Maybe she'll drive by and come in to see me," I mused, staring out the window. I turned around thinking I had heard a feminine voice. “Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered. “Still, she just might be there when I get home.”

Then I heard Reb Talisman’s voice. It brought me back. I had to finish what I had started.

"Oseh shalom bimromav …”. The beis medrash emptied. “Six o’clock tomorrow morning gentlemen,” Rabbi announced while his younger son replaced siddurim and Gemaras on the shelves. A few lingered to schmooze followed by the customary handshakes and yasher koach(s).
I escorted Reb Talisman to his car. I wondered what I could say to this man, but then realized our love of a fellow Jew had already spoken to Reb Talisman's heart.

"Good night, Sir," I smiled.

"Good night," he said.

I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he drove off. I fumbled for my keys. From the alley by my house, I could see she hadn't returned, but I expected as much. I sat for several moments.

“Maybe I’ll see her tomorrow," I thought. And I felt okay with that because I realized The Aibishter had taught me an invaluable lesson– one which, as a matter of fact, I had already learned but was prone to forget occasionally when I became self-absorbed.

He sent Reb Talisman to shul not only to say Kaddish but to remind me of the many Jews who grieve for losses far greater than mine. If I could but step away from my own tsorris, I could do so much good for so many. An act of chesed had brought comfort, friendship and a smile to an elderly Jew.

Chazal teach us we do not know what rewards await us in the next world for the performance of mitzvos in this world. I like to think though some reward may trickle down to us now. Four months after meeting Reb Talisman, my Kallah called me. We made plans to meet for coffee.

My prayers had been answered. “I'm ready to come home,” she said.

Maybe my reward had trickled down, but of one thing I was certain. Meeting Reb Talisman inspired me.

That day had indeed been a yom tov.

Alan D. Busch
author of Snapshots In Memory Of Ben
August 19, 2008

Where authors and readers come together!





Dear Friends,

I am pleased to announce that my short story "Lamentations" (scroll down to the previous posting to see a near version of the story though I had to edit it down a bit to 1000 words) will be published in the Lessons In Emunah feature of the Jewish Press (NY) www.JewishPress.com in the coming days. I do not know the exact date, but I'll post it when I find out.

Special thanks to a special friend, writer and editor whose editorial suggestions were invaluble.

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!




Dear Friends,

Sorry to drag this out, but a fellow writer and editor pointed out a variety of flaws with the previous iteration, causing me to essentially rewrite the whole piece. It really is much better.

"Lamentations"
by Alan D. Busch
(revised: August 18, 2008)

His clothing caught my attention. Wearing wrinkled casual slacks with only the faintest hint of a crease, a faded yellow, perspiration-stained knit golf shirt, and a dirty beige, well-worn cap, he bore the appearance of neglect.

“Good evening, Sir,” I greeted him cheerfully.

Smiling as broadly as I could, I sat down and chatted with him for several minutes. It was simply the right thing to do and besides, I reasoned, it might even make me feel better too.

It had been a turbulent several months for me. Not only had I ridden an emotional roller coaster, but I was stuck at the highest peak of the ride. The summer’s heat was unrelenting and-to top it all off, we were in the “nine days” before Tisha b’ Av.

"Good evening," he responded, his mood perking up a bit, a faint smile overtaking his noticeably drawn face and chapped lips. An elderly man, he had been sitting alone in the shul’s social hall before I arrived, looking troubled and a great deal sadder than I felt.

“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock now, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv.”

"Oh," I quickly reassured him. "We'll have a minyan. Please don’t worry about that.” I paused for a moment. “Your name is, Sir?” He seemed to focus on my mouth when I spoke as if lip reading.

"Talisman, Irving Talisman.”

He had begun to say "Yitzhak” instead of “Irving” but stopped short. Perhaps he thought I wouldn’t understand him or felt uncomfortable referring to himself by his Hebrew name. I really don’t know, but I resolved to give him my undivided attention.

“Reb Talisman, for whom are you saying Kaddish?” I asked.

He twisted his left arm a quarter turn with his right hand, revealing six subcutaneous green numerals. He looked up at me from bloodshot eyes. Their dark shadows seemed as indelible as his tattoo.

"My parents.” he tearfully whispered, removing a soiled handkerchief from his pants pocket. At that very instant, I felt tangibly closer to the Shoah than I had ever before. Sure, I had seen the tattoos but never close up enough to become part of a survivor’s life. That was about to change.
I was determined to take care of this man. If I could help to comfort one grief-stricken Jew, was I not obligated to do so?

"This way, Reb Talisman,” I invited him to accompany me down the hallway to our shul’s newly dedicated Beis Medrash. We both grasped hold of the door handle. He hesitated.

"Should we enter? It looks like the rebbe is busy with a bar mitzvah boy."

It was an unusually hectic evening at shul. Not only was the sisterhood hosting a speaker from the Park District who spoke about local conservation efforts, but the junior minyan was learning mishnayos with the Rabbi’s son. The Rabbi, a physically vigorous man, looked utterly exhausted. I had never seen him looking so worn out.

Reb Talisman and I quietly entered. Never too tired to do the right thing, Rabbi rose from his chair in an act of "kavod" to Reb Talisman.

“Shalom Aleichem, Reb Yitzchak,” Rabbi greeted him with a welcoming hand and bright smile.

“Aleichem sholem, Rebbe. Another year, eh?"

“Baruch Ha Shem,” Rabbi respectfully responded.

"Abba, it is 8:05. We have a minyan," announced Rabbi’s older son whose four mishnayos talmidim followed in behind him like so many goslings.

I escorted Reb Talisman to a special chair I thought he’d like. Unlike the several hundreds of stackable chairs we have in shul, this chair was more comfortably cushioned, peculiarly but uniquely pink in color, and always placed adjacent to the book shelves. It had been the favorite of the Rebbitzen’s father. When I turned to check on Reb Talisman, I saw he had chosen one of
the regular seats by the “omed”.

"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” the minyan intoned, marking the start of the afternoon service. I looked over again to see how Reb Talisman was doing. He seemed more at ease now that we had begun on time. The usual several minutes for Mincha flew by.

“Yisgadal veyiskadash shmey raba …”

Rabbi learned the halachos of the “nine days” with the minyan during the brief interval before the evening prayer.

“Al Yisroel v’al rabbonan …”

Rabbi designated one of the younger fellows to daven Ma’ariv. I should have felt good about how smoothly everything was proceeding for Reb Talisman. After all, he made it to minyan on time. I had helped him in my own small way, but somehow … it just wasn’t enough.I closed my siddur.

“V’hu rachum …”

I arose for “Borchu”, but I was already a world away.

I couldn’t help it, but I turned all of my thoughts to my “Kallah”. She had left
me two months before after only fifteen months of marriage. All that summer,
I struggled desperately to reconcile our differences, but she was adamant.

“I need to find myself,” she was fond of saying. I understood what she meant because I felt lost without her.

"Maybe she'll drive by and come in to see me," I mused while staring out the back window in the corner of the beis medrash where I customarily sit. I turned to the doorway thinking I had heard a feminine voice.

“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I dejectedly muttered to myself. “Well,” I persisted in deluding myself, “She just might be there when I get home.”

Then I heard Reb Talisman’s voice. It brought me back. I had to finish what I had started.

"Oseh shalom bimromav …”

The beis medrash slowly emptied. “Six o’clock tomorrow morning gentlemen,” Rabbi announced while his younger son replaced siddurim and several volumes of Gemara back on the shelves. A few lingered to “schmooze” followed by the customary handshakes and “yasher koach(s)”.

I escorted Reb Talisman to his car. I wondered what I could possibly say to
this man on our way out, but then realized our concern for and love of a fellow Jew had already spoken to Reb Talisman's heart.

"Good night, Sir," I smiled.

"Good night," he said.

I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he got in his car and drove off. I fumbled for my keys and drove home. Her car wasn't parked in the driveway, but I expected as much. I sat for several moments.

“Maybe I’ll get to tell her tomorrow.” And I felt okay with that because I realized “The Aibishter” had taught me an invaluable lesson– one which, as a matter of fact, I had already learned but was prone to forget on occasion when I became too self-absorbed.

He sent Reb Talisman to shul not only to say Kaddish but to remind me how many other countless Jews grieve for losses far greater than mine. If I could but step away from my own "tsorris”, I could do so much good for so many.

An act of chesed had brought some comfort of friendship and the faintest of smiles to an elderly Jew. Our rabbis teach us that we do not know what degrees of reward await us in the next world for the faithful performance of mitzvos in this world. I like to think though that some reward may trickle down to this world.

Although it didn’t happen right away, some four months after meeting Reb Talisman, my Kallah called me. We made plans to meet for coffee, an occasion for which I had faithfully waited and prayed.

“I’m ready to come home,” she said. Maybe my reward had trickled down, but of one thing I was certain.

That day I met Reb Talisman inspired me, and it had indeed been a “yom tov".

Alan D. Busch
August 18, 2008

Where authors and readers come together!







"Growing Up On the Phone ..."

NOTE TO READERS: PLEASE READ MY POEM 'FOR ZAC' BEFORE READING THIS PIECE. OK? THANK YOU! IT'S THE POSTING PRIOR TO THIS ONE.

"That was a very nice poem dad, I liked it very much."

"Well thank you very much, sonny boy. I spent several hours on it."

"But it doesn't rhyme."

"It needn't, Zac. Poetry doesn't have to rhyme to be poetry. It can be "free form"-seemingly

random thoughts but which actually tell a story poetically. Got it?"

"Well ..'

"It's in the language son. A good story teller draws the reader into his story by relating common

experiences in such a way that the reader ends up saying, "Hey yea, that happened to me. I can

relate."

"Ok, I've got that, but ..."

"But what son, what's on your mind?"

"I dunno. I guess what you wrote and I read is really our story, isn't it? It's like the whole world

gets to peak into our lives, our relationship."

"Now you've got it. You're thinking son. You're figuring it out. What you are understanding

perhaps for the first time on a meaningfully mature level is life itself."

"Yea, okay ... yea, " his voice trailed off.

"Zac, you know how parents often "threaten" their kids that they'll do the same stuff as their

parents someday after they've married and have kids? You've heard me and mom say that

before, right?"

"Sure, but I didn't believe it till now."

"Go on," I encouraged him to tell me more. It was getting real interesting.

"Well, you know the whole flowers thing?"

"Yes, ... what about it?" I asked.

"I'll have kids one day ... "

"Please God," I uttered softly.

"and I'll likely have flowers along my driveway like we had for so long."

"Zac, what do you mean "had"? They're still there son, perennials, you know. They return every
year."

"Right, right ... anyway ..."

"Go on ... "

"Well, I can easily imagine my son doing what I did, remember?"

"Yes son, I do." Zac was referring to how one afternoon years before he had plucked the orange

lilies from their stems. When I saw what he had done, I scolded him pretty severely. It was

coming together for him. I was taking lots of pleaure in this conversation because my younger

son was nearing the completion of the puzzle.

"When my son plucks the flowers, I can't imagine me saying anything else but what you told me.

Remember?"

"Yup it's in the poem."

"Right. 'Respect life son, its beauty.' "

I was kvelling on my end of the phone, about ready to burst with joy!

"So life continues from me to you, son."

"I got it."

"You got it?"

" I got it."

"Talk tomorrow?"

"Yea dad."

"Be safe."

Alan D. Busch

8/14/08

Where authors and readers come together!




For Zac, My Younger Son and Youngest Child

“May He Become … ”

A father’s son he prays be (come)

a person …

if, when and where there may be none.

I see him then as he was, but now he is,

no longer a boy …

but in process, a man

may he become.

Orange lilies along the way

I scolded him, once long ago.

his freckled face crestfallen.

Boyishly had plucked the flowers from their stems.

We laugh now at that memory, but its lesson

he retains …

respect life, son, its beauty.

Now at twenty, his becoming is but another beginning

Return now and again to the ‘abc(s)’

A good man lives with and accepts responsibility.

Befriend them who have few if any.

Respect a woman for she is another man’s daughter, as your sister is mine.

Learn from every teacher, especially those you may dislike.

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!




Making Lemonade ... Parkinson's Really 'Sux', Doesn't It?


You know how it is ... right?

Suppose you have this medical "issue" ... it can be any number of conditions. In my case, it is

early onset Parkinson's Disease that I have dubbed "fpd" ('friggin’ Parkinson's Disease) which I

contracted at the tender age of forty five. Funny how I mistook my first symptom, a slight

tremor in my left hand, for a weight-lifting injury. To the best of my knowledge, one cannot

suffer hand tremors from weight-lifting mishaps.

Nine years later, the tremor has evolved, progressed- as it were- to the point at which I have

(among other symptoms) chronic soreness in both forearms, soreness in my left shoulder (which
makes sleeping on my left side difficult and painful), partial but significant loss of fine digital skills
in both hands with the result that grasping things and letting them go become problematic.


Now there is a really interesting problem. Everyone understands what it is to grasp hold of

something. I mean we do it every day- perhaps hundreds of times: our keys, our clothes, books,

pens, pencils, laptops. We pick them up, we don't think about it. We don't have to. But what if the
act of letting go of an object becomes a problem? Sounds strange to you, I'm sure. Okay, are you

ready? Put the cup down, let go of the pen. Well, come on! Put it down, let it go!


What do you do when you know what to do, what has to be done, an action you've

never had to think about before but which now requires focus, time and care? When your

fingertips only reluctantly let go of the coffee cup, one at a time, you know you've got a problem.

I have often had to slide my hand up and off the can of pop rather than simply being able to let it
go.

Did you ever think you'd be reading about such things? But that is what happens when we can

no longer take for granted what seem to be innate physical capabilities, such as grasping and

letting go.


I was comparing Parkinson’s notes yesterday in shul with a friend of mine, Alan S. I enjoy Alan's

friendship. He is easy to talk to. Unhappily, he has a far worse case of “fpd” than I. When I look

at him, I can’t help but compare our respective symptoms. As selfish as it may seem or sound, I

thank God I have only what I do. I find that when my symptoms, especially the stuttering, do

erupt, I don’t suffer the embarrassment with Alan I feel when chatting with others. It’s a variant
of that old “misery loves company” thing, I suppose.

"So you say that amantadine doesn’t work for you?" I asked.

"No way. In fact when I took it I would hallucinate, all sorts of weird stuff. Ants where there

were no ants, people across from me making the wildest facial contortions. As a matter of fact, I

was the one making wild facial contortions, not them. There was this guy on the train one time

who saw me having a reaction to one of my meds. He asked me if I was alright. What do you say

in a situation like that?"

I nodded empathically.

"Yea," he continued on, " I was in court one day when the judge asked me if the ninth of October

would be a good day to reschedule a hearing. I checked my appointment book and realized that

the ninth was Rosh Hashana.“No, Judge. That happens to be a Jewish holiday.”

"Oh ok, what about the 19th?"

Hmm, uh oh …nope. Not good for me, Your Honor.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Yom Kippur.”

“You’re kidding, right? Oh my God!” I interjected.

“Not at all, but I became really confused when I had to explain why the next few days were not

good for me either because of Succos. I got all snarled up in the pages. What a mess!"

"Yea, I know what you mean ... the worst part of this for me has been its effect on my speech. I

answer with lots of ‘uh huhs’,’ okays’, and nod my head sympathetically. I just dont "wanna" get

caught up in the whole stuttering thing. This is where my writing comes in. I can write it much

better than I can say it.”

Alan nods back clumsily. He is having a reaction to his meds. Unlike the Samaritan on the

train, I knew he was all right. It’s just hard to look at. Having "fpd" has been a double-edged

sword, both a curse and a blessing. My approach has been to try to teach myself to think and

believe that I have “fpd” for a specific reason. Mind you, I am not referring to what has

happened in my brain, causing it to produce less dopamine. The issue for me lies in the spiritual

dimension.


The "Aibishter" sends afflictions to challenge us. They are supposed to empower. While true not

all people will be equally successful in meeting and overcoming these challenges, each of us so

afflicted must strive to do as much as he can, to accomplish his very best.


So ... how well can you make lemonade from lemons?


My sincere hope is that you never need to find out, but should you, just remember these few

simple steps:

Slice it. Yes, of course I mean the lemon.

Add ice to a pitcher.

Throw in the lemon slices.

Fill pitcher with water.

Add lots of sugar.

Stir with spoon.

Drink.

L'chaim.

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!




Dear Friends,

Please view my wife's digital photography at www.buschphotography.blogspot.com.

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!




Alan D. Busch is an independent writer in Skokie, Illinois. He has published poetry and articles in

Living With Loss, Bereavement Publications, the Chicago Jewish United Fund News Magazine,

Passing, An Anthology of Poems by Poetworks.com, Skyline Productions and Aish.com. He is the

author of Snapshots In Memory of Ben, reviewed professionally in the Jewish Press, the Chicago

JUF News Magazine and Poetica Magazine. He is a contributing writer in Everyone’s Got A

Story, edited by Ruchama King Feuerman and published by Judaica Press.


Dear Readers,

Please read a short story for Tisha b'Av, entitled "Lamentations", newly revised.


"Lamentations"

by Alan D. Busch

His clothing caught my attention. Wearing wrinkled casual slacks, having

only the faintest hint of a crease, a pale yellow knit, perspiration-stained golf shirt and beige cap,

he bore the appearance of not being well cared for.


“Good evening, Sir,” I greeted him cheerfully. An elderly man, sitting alone in

the shul’s social hall, he looked troubled and sad.

"Good evening," he said, his mood perking up a bit, a faint smile overtaking his noticeably drawn

face and chapped lips.

“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock now, and I've yahrzeit for

Maariv.”

"Oh," I quickly reassured him. "We'll have a minyan. Please don’t worry about that.” I paused

for a moment. “Your name is, Sir?” He seemed to focus on my mouth when I spoke as if lip

reading. “He’s probably a bit hard of hearing,” I thought.

"Talisman, Irving Talisman.”

He had begun to say "Yitzhak” instead of “Irving” but stopped short. Maybe he thought I

wouldn’t understand or perhaps he felt uncomfortable referring to himself by his Hebrew name.

I really don’t know. In either case, I gave him my undivided attention.

“Reb Talisman, perhaps for your wife or your parents you have yahrzeit?” I asked.


He twisted his left arm a quarter turn with his right hand, revealing six subcutaneous green

numerals. He looked up at me from bloodshot eyes. Their dark shadows seemed as indelible as

his tattoo.

"My parents.” he tearfully whispered, removing a soiled handkerchief from his pants pocket.

I wanted to take care of this man. If I could just help to comfort one grief-stricken Jew, isn’t that
what it’s all about?

"This way, Reb Talisman,” I invited him to accompany him down the hallway to the Rabbi Aron

& Rebbitzen Ella Soloveitchik Beis Ha Medrash. We both grasped hold of the door handle. He

paused.

"Should we enter? Looks like a bar mitzvah lesson going on." He was right.

It was an especially busy evening at shul. The sisterhood was hosting a speaker from the Skokie

Park District who spoke about local conservation efforts. The junior minyan was learning

mishnayos with the Rabbi’s son. Rabbi Louis, though ordinarily of good cheer, looked grumpy

after a long day of meetings, as if he were about ready to explode. And

to add insult to injury, I learned later his younger son had told him moments before we entered

the beis medrash that an electrical ballast had blown out in the shul’s high ceiling.

Reb Talisman and I quietly entered. When Rabbi Louis saw that I was escorting an elderly

gentleman to minyan, he reserved his upset for the next hapless fellows who followed us in after

we had shut the door. It turned out to be the talmidim of junior minyan.

"Close it!” Rabbi barked.

"Abba, it’s 8:05, time for Mincha. We have a minyan," announced Rabbi’s older son whose four

mishnayos talmidim cowered behind him.

I escorted Reb Talisman to a special chair I thought he’d like. Unlike the several hundreds of

stackable chairs we have in shul, this chair was more comfortably cushioned, distinctively but

peculiarly pink in color, and always placed by itself adjacent to the book shelves. It had been the

favorite of Reb Helman, the late father of the Rebbitzen. When I turned to check on Reb

Talisman, I saw he had chosen one of the regular seats by the “omed”.

"No problem,” I thought, “as long as he’s comfortable.”

"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” the minyan intoned, marking the start of the afternoon service. I

looked over to see how he was doing. He seemed fine.

“Yisgadal veyiskadash shmey raba … “.

Rabbi Louis learned the halachos of the “nine days” with the minyan during the brief interval

between Mincha and Ma’ariv. Tisha b'Av was just around the corner. After several minutes, he

designated one of the younger fellows to daven Ma’ariv, but by which time my focus had begun

to wane. I closed my siddur.


I thought of “kallah”, my bride of fifteen months. We had recently separated. "Maybe

she'll drive by and come to see me," I mused, while staring out the back window in the corner of

the beis medrash where I customarily sit. I heard what I thought to be a feminine voice. I

turned to the doorway.

“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I dejectedly muttered to myself.

"Oseh shalom bimromav …”

The beis medrash emptied.


I escorted Reb Talisman to his car. I wondered what I'd say if anything on our way out."Good

night, Sir," I smiled.

"Good night," he said.

I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he got in his car and drove off.

I fumbled for my keys. "If only she'd be home when I pull into the driveway …" Her car wasn't

there. I wasn't surprised. I sat there for several moments.

“How nice it would have been to tell her about Reb Talisman … maybe tomorrow.”

I opened the car door.

“There must be a lesson in all of this."


It soon became clear to me that The One Above had sent Reb Talisman to remind me that

others are grieving too and for reasons far more serious than mine. I could do a lot of good for

them if I could step out of my own "tsorris".

An act of chesed brought some comfort, friendship and the faintest of smiles to an elderly Jew. It
had been a "yom tov".

Alan D. Busch
Revised 8/5/08

Where authors and readers come together!





Click on www.SeraphicPress.com

posted on 7/29/2008 2:35:00 PM

by Alan D Busch

My article, "Bitter Harvest", one of two that appear in Ruchama King Feuerman's newly published Everybody's Got a Story, receives a generous comment by writer Robert Avrech in his review of Ruchama's book.

Please read the whole piece at www.seraphicpress.com, posted 7/29/08, but here's the
excerpt ...

"Bitter Harvest reveals the torment and helplessness as a loving father witnesses the unimaginable: his son passes away before is eyes. This story, a wrenching memoir, was authored by Alan D. Busch, long time Seraphic Secret reader and commenter."

As a matter of fact, www.Seraphicpress.com is among the best in the Jewish blogosphere. Thank you Robert!

Where authors and readers come together!







Book Review

By Ricky Rapoport Friesem
Book Review Editor
Poetica Magazine
www.poeticamagazine.com


Title: Snapshots In Memory of Ben by Alan D. Busch, Water Forest Press, Stormville, New York$12.95

“The only antidote to the pain of our loss lies in the tenacity with which we remember our children. It is incumbent upon us that we refuse to allow their memories to die.”… Snapshots

Ben (Benjamin) Busch was fatally struck by a truck at the age of 22. This slim volume, composed of brief, intimate glimpses into Ben’s life and the lives of those who loved him, is a father’s sensitive and touching effort to come to terms with this tragic loss.

Alan Busch, an independent writer living in Skokie, Illinois, has written a reflective, sometimes agonizingly candid journal that surmounts its exceedingly personal content to convey universal truths. The text reflects his skill with words, his ear for dialogue, his attention to detail, but above all his profound orthodox faith and his unflinching honesty in confronting the untimely death of his first-born son.

Busch disagrees with the common aphorism that ‘Time heals all wounds’. “Parental bereavement does not heal with the passage of time. It really is best this way,” he writes, and proceeds in Snapshots to confront the pain and etch an indelible portrait of Ben. In so doing he creates an intensely moving image of a father’s love for his son and of the conscious efforts he makes to create and preserve family memories.

“The most effective, lingering and ‘memory-making’ parenting is measured in brief but wondrous moments that, unless recorded, would otherwise be lost as stories unavailable to both present and future generations of parents looking to transform the ‘every day’ into the ‘everlasting,” he writes.

In recording his ‘wondrous moments’ with Ben, Alan Busch has created a memorial that touches anyone who has loved and been bereaved.

Dear Friends,

Please find below the latest update of my father's recovery and the beginning of an article entitled: "Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me"

Before I discuss the stuff that my father will not tell me, I'd like to update you on his condition.I'm happy to report my father has been home from the hospital for a week and is doing quite well thankfully. To all the many readers who read my several accounts I wrote while my dad spent thirteen days in the hospital, I thank you.

He entered the hospital dehydrated due to diarrhea, with a urinary tract infection, feverish, with a yellowish skin tone I had seen before when, as a volunteer for the Jewish Sacred Society (Chevra Kadisha) I helped to perform taharas (ritual washing) on bodies before burial. I feared for my father's life when my his wife called me to the hospital. Nearly two weeks later, he came out "swinging", as i have decribed him to several friends-reminiscent of his pugilistic youth. In other words, it appears the Aibishter has other plans for my father Avrum ben Haskel.

Additionally, I wish to thank all who prayed on behalf of my father. He has regained much of his strength and has reaccquired control of his bowel movements. Again I apologize to those whom I may offend by this language, but as I said earlier it was the diarrhea and not so much the cancer that bothers my father. i am not suggesting he is going to capitulate. As a matter of fact, i overheard him tell his brother yesterday in a telephone conversation: "Don't worry Hirshy, I'm not ready to die yet.")

If you're looking to measure a man's mettle, witness how it is he copes with physical affliction (God Forbid). It is ultimately a test of the substance and depth of his dignity. I exaggerate not when I say that my father is the paradyme of a man who survived a plethora of indignities (as do other patients too) not only with his dignity intact but admired by the many family members and friends to whom he provided a remarkable example of stubborn courage.

I wish to cite the remarkable, strong and kind nurses and patient care technicians of the oncology unit at Prentice Women's Hospital in Chicago and thank them, one and all, who tended to my father when he was at his most vulnerable.(As we prepared my father to leave the hospital, a young woman cancer patient, her head covered by a pretty scarf, walked past us in the hallway. She was leaving the hospital too. Just five steps behind her, carrying several bags and bundles of her daughter's belongings, was her mom whom I had seen on the floor on several occasions about to burst into tears. Whether of joy or tragedy, i'm not sure, but It was a bittersweet instance of absolute devotion a heartbroken mother feels for her daughter. I am very fortunate to have seen this.)

I visit with my father during the afternoon on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. He has come along so well I don't have to tend him much. My father is very independent and fiercely opposed to any assistance now that he is home, and very mobile refusing to use a walker.We spend much of our time talking and playing gin rummy. He tells his story and I listen doing what Ruchamna King Feuerman advises in her latest book, Everybody's Got A Story in which two of my short stories are published. Ruchama advises that one ask his father and he'll tell you his story. Seems like a simple thing to do. One problem though ... there are certain things my father won't tell me. He served in the Army during the Second World War. I do know a few things about what my father did during the war, but there remains a "no trespassing zone". Despite my several attempts to coax him into teling me this stuff, he simply will not.

"So Dad I've a few questions to ask you."

"Okay, go ahead. Ask away."

"I wanna know the stuff you won't tell me ..."

(to be continued ... :) )