I am sure to grow old.
I can not avoid aging.
I am sure to become sick.
I can not avoid sickness.
I am sure to die.
I can not avoid death.
All things dear and beloved to me
are subject to change and separation.
I am the owner of my actions;
I will become the heir of my actions.
— Anguttara Nikaya
My father, “smilin’ Jack” Rosenbaum, never meditated or heard Thich Nhat Hahn say, “Breathing in I calm, Breathing out I smile.” However, Dad smiled frequently and naturally, even after he was diagnosed with mesothelioma, cancer of the lining of the abdomen. Somehow he could see the glass half full as opposed to half empty. He wasn’t daunted by his diminished strength or the need to move from his apartment in Mt. Vernon, New York, where he was born and had lived 79 years.
My father cheerfully moved into our house in Worcester, leaving behind lifelong friends, neighbors, the bagel man, and a girlfriend. He brought some clothes, colorful ties, some hats, art supplies, photographs and a certificate of appreciation from the Mt. Vernon School System. He also brought get-well cards from the fifth graders he had entertained and charmed by telling stories and reading to them. They were addressed to Grandpa Jack Rosenbaum and were now tacked to the wall in his bedroom.
His room, off our kitchen, was now his home, and like his old home office, was filled with clutter, all recently acquired. There were old newspapers, which he saved to cut out coupons, notepads, letters, and books. Outside the window by his bed he had us erect a bird feeder. He’d lie in bed and gaze out the window, taking pleasure from watching the birds and inventing new ways to keep the squirrels at bay. On the wall was a card he had made that said:
In order to get to the other side
you must leave the shore.
How wonderful. How excited he felt to be alive for another day. Every morning he’d greet me as I came downstairs towards his room by calling my name, “ELANA!”
I’d open the door of his room and he’d be lying in bed with a big smile on his face and proclaim “I’M HERE!” He made sure each day to say, “I love you.”
I told my Stress Reduction classes stories about my father. It impressed me that he seemed so alive and fully engaged in life. He even made new friends at a group for senior Jewish men. His joy, his ability to be present, his love and lack of fear at facing death inspired me.
Yet, my ability to appreciate my father and his zest for living and loving didn’t happen immediately. There was “old stuff” I needed to release first. So many of his characteristics — his impracticality, sentimentality, schmaltziness, his need to please — were hard for me to accept. I recognized these traits in myself and didn’t like them. I often felt he needed to be the center of attention and everyone else (me) had to take a back seat. Dad was very loving, but he also could be very embarrassing and demanding. In restaurants I noticed myself holding my breath and wanting to flee into the bathroom when the soup he’d ordered arrived at the table. He always ordered hot soup, “very hot,” he’d say. If it arrived lukewarm he’d scowl at the waiter or waitress and yell, “I ordered it hot! HOT! BRING IT BACK!”
When he was uncomfortable and in pain it was hard for me. He rarely complained, but at times, especially when being sick was new to him, he’d get very irritable and take it out on me, criticizing me or finding fault with something I did. To continue to care for him, I found that I needed to be assertive. One day when I came home from work, Dad was uncomfortable and particularly irritable. Nothing I could do was right. The more I tried, the worse it became. Finally, I sat down next to him on the bed and took his hand. “Tell me what’s bothering you,” I said. “I’m not leaving until you do.”
“Nothing . . . leave me alone.”
Stubbornly I remained, not letting go of his hand.
Dad continued to yell at me.
I sat there quietly. He kept yelling at me, “ I told you to leave!”
My temper rose, but in control I said, “Stop, I will not tolerate this nastiness.”
I continued to sit, holding his hand, consciously following my breath and noticing as my heart rate began to accelerate. My jaw was set. I was not leaving until we had an understanding. We were at an impasse.
The silence grew.
Dad started crying. He said he was afraid. Suddenly my perception shifted. The tightness in my body eased as I saw and felt his vulnerability. My genuine compassion and love went out to him and my anger dissolved. Then I could hold him, say “I love you,” and comfort him.
Now I could trust his “thank you” and “I love you.” I could even smile when he’d pull me in his room and tell me, “Be nice to David,” whom he held in high esteem. The encounter was healing for both of us. It enabled me to listen and see more clearly the love and sweetness of this man, my father. Loving him helped me love myself.
Dad spent his last few months with my brother Bob and his family, my nieces, Anna and Bekka, and Judi, Bob’s wife. He loved California and the Bay area where Bob lived and had hoped to spend the winter in this warmer climate, enjoy San Francisco, and then return to Worcester, where he had been for the past year and a half. Instead, he grew steadily weaker. Knowing he was failing, David and I traveled to California to be with him again.
It was January 18, 1995, my brother’s birthday. David had just returned home to Massachusetts and Bob had taken the day off from work. He and I were sitting and meditating by Dad’s bedside as his breath became shallow. We heard the rattle of his labored breathing and then there was silence. I opened my eyes and Dad’s arm moved. Bob was still sitting. I closed my eyes again. The silence filled the room. Breath did not return.
My father had wanted to live fully until the end. Just the night before, he, who almost never drank alcohol, had asked my husband for a beer and instructed him how to pour it so that it would have a head. It was important that it be just so. We couldn’t find beer in the house so David substituted root beer. Dad, the paint salesman, who loved color, form, and taste, wasn’t fooled. He, who was alive to new experiences, saw even the pouring and sipping of a beer as an adventure. He liked the taste, but he loved the froth. Later that night I wrote in my journal.
We love you, Jack.
We love you, Grandpa.
We love you, Daddy.
Then I jotted down what he had said to me and lived throughout my life and his.
Life is an adventure . . . Experience with all your senses . . .Enjoy . . . Smile.
Bob and I continued to sit a few minutes longer by Dad’s side until the doorbell rang and the hospice nurse entered. She went over to Dad and said, “He’s not breathing.” I told her it was my brother’s birthday and she said, “How wonderful; my mother died on my birthday.” Only now can I appreciate what she meant. Life continues. My father had died, but life continues. It continues in us.
My father had been wearing a t-shirt I had given him from our synagogue in Worcester. It showed a lulav shake, promoting the celebration of the holiday of Succoth, when you shake a lulav, a palm frond, to the four directions and in an upward motion toward the sky and down toward the earth. This represents unity and shows that God is everywhere. Emma, the hospice nurse, cleaned off the shirt and washed off the dried blood that was caked on his arms and in the crevice of his collarbone. She washed his goatee and combed his hair and covered him up with a lovely quilt. It was reassuring and comforting. Life does go on.
Bob and I sat with Dad again, this time in silence, breathing and guiding Dad’s spirit. Filled with love and peace we said good-bye.
Later, my niece, Bekka, came home and we all sat quietly together by Grandpa. After he was taken to the funeral home, Bekka, Bob, and I went to pick up Anna, who was 15, at her school. Bekka asked me why I wanted to go.
“To see life,” I said.
Puzzled, Bekka responded, “But life is here.”
On the way home Bekka turned to me and asked, “Enough life?”
And in my journal I wrote:
Enough life? Who knows?
I do know I’m going to give it my all to make it so.
Thank you, Dad, for teaching me to smile, to trust, to soar, and to live life and whatever it brings as an adventure, to see the beauty and the good that is here.
And three months later I discovered I had cancer.