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

Kissing Dad’s Nose

by Alan D. Busch

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

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

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

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

“Come down,” Adela urged.

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

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

Alan D. Busch
5/28/10
Copyright 2010

Dear Readers,

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

At Heaven’s Gate

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

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

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

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

Alan D. Busch

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Dear Readers,

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

Sincerely,
Alan D. Busch

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

Sturdy Tree of Life, its trunk of broad girth,

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

Profusion of leaves from peaking buds bring …

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

Resplendency burst forth come season’s spring…

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

Turn back to reflections of innocent mirth.

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

I gazed at his beacon once time ago brightly fierce.

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

Steadfastly towers o’er broad horizons seen.

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

Fading verdancy from which I needst myself wean,

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

Dusk dimmed his light when fog it once pierced.

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

Violently tosses this storm a gale,

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

Cleave tightly to thine anchor’s chain.

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

Lest the tumultuous sea's calmness feign,

Entrusting man leads to despair and loss of hope.

Steer ship’s rudder toward windward sail.

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

Gaze the firmament for His infinity unknown

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

Accept thy portion with gladness by night and by day.

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

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

I remain strong because I know before Whom I stand.

Content thyself with what he hath sown.

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

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

Dear Friends,

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

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!


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

hopefully this link will work if the one below does not

A.Busch

Where authors and readers come together!

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


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

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!
Dear Readers,

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


Struggling To Do the Right Thing

by Alan D. Busch

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

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

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

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

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

He was glad I was there.

It was a time of our waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I listened.

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

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

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

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

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

We made a good team, Dad and I.

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

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

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

Alan D. Busch

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Dear Friends and Readers,

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

Sincerely,

Alan D. Busch

Where authors and readers come together!



Struggling To Do the Right Thing
by Alan D. Busch

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

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

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

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

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

It was a time of our waiting.

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

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

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


I feared the guilt of a poor decision.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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










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

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

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

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http://www.authorsden.com/alandbusch1

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

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These Lights We Kindle, (revised for submission)

By Alan D. Busch

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

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

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

that something bad had befallen one of my children.

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

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

just left your daughter Kimberly.”

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

Tell me where she is!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

phone number.


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

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

“Kimmy was in an accident.”

“Kimmy, my baby!” she cried out.

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

“What, what happened?”

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

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

I gathered my things and ran out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a ponytail like that of Pebbles on The Flintstones.

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

sobbing.

“Shh, shayneh madele.”

“Dad, can we go home?”

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

bags.”

I walked over to the garage’s office.

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

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

We settled up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

my daughter. I opened the door.

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

She nodded understandingly.

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

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

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

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

paramedics only minutes before.

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

“Yes, Sir,” my voice quivered.

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

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

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

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

on the emergency room operating table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

children but ended up with two.

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

lanes.

“You okay?”

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

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

made to her mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

receive.

Alan D. Busch

11/29/09

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These Lights We Kindle

By Alan D. Busch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where authors and readers come together!




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

Dear Readers and Friends

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

I appreciate readership and support,

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

Where authors and readers come together!

I Grieve For Ben at My Side

I devotedly await the impossible.

If only Ben could come crashing through my kitchen door on

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

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

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

adult son in the throes of diabetic hypoglycemia and the

torment of bear-hugging him while a grand mal epileptic

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

the devastating impact of not one but two chronic diseases

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

no parent can adequately prepare himself. My family

experienced both.

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

When ten and a half years old, he begrudgingly surrendered

his childhood to the pernicious demands of juvenile diabetes.

Gone were the yesterdays and tomorrows of his childhood.

His hopefulness for a normal future, his expectations of

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

basic requirements of diabetic care but insisted he live his

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

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

the urgency of the present tense than Ben.

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

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

tell you we did not welcome the additional burden of epilepsy

with which Ben was diagnosed just after his eighteenth

birthday.

Parental bereavement takes no days off. This year I will

commemorate the three thousand, two hundred and eighty-

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

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

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

and marveled at his gift for living life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

darkness that shrouds the life of a bereaved parent.

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

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

remain an eternal zikaron, an everlasting remembrance.

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

parents. Ask any one of us how it works.

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

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

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

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

and did.”

Contrary to the well-intentioned but wayward counsel of

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

in his life.

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

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

Bens, remains my steadfast companion.

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

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

enough to see me searching the starry skies for your

passing shadow.

Alan D. Busch

11/7/09

Where authors and readers come together!



I Grieve For Ben at My Side

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

Mind you, it was not always pleasant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alan D. Busch
11/04/09

Where authors and readers come together!

Cruising Route 66 With Dad, Revision 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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