Kissing my dad on his nose seemed to elicit a smile, albeit

a very faint one  It was, however, about all he could manage at

the time. I had experienced a moment like this before when I

spent several minutes kissing my son Ben’s nose shortly after

he died on an operating table in Cook County Hospital eight

years before. They had such similarly handsome noses, Dad and

Ben, each with a gentle rise in the middle.

My father was hospitalized twice in 2008. Between them,

he spent two months at home during which time he and I visited

with each other on a regular basis three, sometimes four

times per week.

By the end of his second hospitalization in September of

2008, my father’s condition had worsened so much that Bobbie,

Dad's wife, decided to move him to a skilled nursing facility.

Caring for him at home-even with the assistance of a visiting

hospice nurse, would have worn her out in a very short while.

The facility's staff included a physician who made three

cursory visits to my father's bedside over fifteen days,

monitoring his decline. He administered no medicine, conducted

no examinations. As a matter of fact, neither my father’s

oncologist nor his gastroenterologist ever visited my father. I

guess he was already dead in their eyes. It became quietly but

quickly clear to me that Dad would enjoy no more temporary

oases of recovery as he had for a short time during the eight

weeks he spent at home. When I noticed that Dad was not

connected to a mobile drip, it confirmed my suspicion he would

not be going home again.

Dad’s body was in process of shutting down. Though no

longer tormented by severe diarrhea-a cruel side effect of

chemotherapy-that had afflicted him in the recent past-

he stopped speaking, his facial expressions faded away. We

had to intuit his needs. His appetite declined precipitously.

When he had had enough, he could only let us know by

refusing to open his mouth. He even stopped eating the ice

cream that he had always loved. His lack of appetite did not

dissuade me however from continuing to feed him, spoonful

at a time. To wet his lips was often enough. Bobbie and I agreed

one of us would be with Dad day and night. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        I I measured my father’s physical decline by the waning strength

of his handshake. Remembering how crushingly powerful it had

been until just recently (in fact, while he was in the hospital, I

challenged him regularly to arm wrestling matches and was

stunned how strong he still was) he could barely hold my

hand by the time he entered the nursing facility. Dad’s frozen

face and impaired hearing left me uncertain whether he heard

or understood me enough to squeeze my hand. Do you know how

it is when a baby’s tiny hand squeezes one adult finger? Have

you ever seen that before? Well, this is about what remained of

my father’s physical capability during the last two weeks of his

life. He would remain bedridden.

To my father movement meant life and he passed away soon

after losing his ability to stand on his own. Although he retained

much of his upper body strength almost to the very end and,

while still able, he’d attempt to swing his legs over the side of

the bed.  He couldn't lower the safety rail of the bed; that,

however, did not keep him from trying. So determined was he

that we even exchanged a few words one night around 2 o’clock

in the morning when my patience had worn thin.

Funeral Arrangements

My concern was that my father would not receive a kosher

funeral. I raised the issue with Bobbie after we had met with

a social worker. We agreed it was wise to make funerary

arrangements in advance and have everything in place. We would

need only to contact the funeral home when necessary.

We spoke briefly together in the lounge just across the hall

from Dad’s room. I was pleased when Bobbie ceded the final

arrangements to me. Several hours later, a representative of

the funeral home I had contacted arrived at the nursing

facility. Together the three of us made the awful but necessary

arrangements to lay my father to his eternal rest.

Bobbie called me Shabbos morning, October 18, 2008. My

wife and I left immediately. One of the staff nurses had alerted

Bobbie that she thought Dad’s end was near. When I arrived,

Dad was asleep as he had been for the better part of two weeks.

I stood at his bedside by the window. His breathing was quiet.

Wrapped tightly in clean white blankets, I watched for any final

signs. We had anticipated this moment for quite a while. Our

voices were hushed. I took Dad’s hand in mine. His fingers were

limp. I felt for a pulse. Dad was hanging on ever so slightly. I

looked up at my wife and Bobbie. Several minutes passed in

silence. We called for the nurse. My father had passed away

seconds before. He had suffered no apparent distress and was

now at ease. I called the funeral home from the nurses'station.

The attendants arrived about an hour and a half later. They

had run into some traffic on the way down. Bobbie and my

wife left the room when the attendants arrived. Two young

women, dressed in modest black attire, grasped my father’s

bed sheets and lifted him onto the gurney. The transfer was

seamless. I accompanied them down the service elevator to their

van. My father’s body was being well cared for. Of that I was

certain. My wife and I drove home.

I walked over to Rabbi Louis's sukkah. Benzie, Rabbi's

older son, was inside studying. His study partner Jacob was

there too. We spoke briefly while I awaited the right moment to

announce my father's passing.

A drizzle fell. What remainded ofShabbos was chilly ... gray.