A few days before Thanksgiving, on the 5th of Kislev, I am wading silently through grief. It’s the first anniversary of my cousin’s death after a brief battle with cancer. One week later, my elderly father is rushed to the emergency room and nearly dies during a procedure intended to save his life.
As I set up the menorah in our sanctuary, intrusive, vivid memories of the last year of my life intermingle with the anticipatory joy of Hanukkah, when my congregation will celebrate the rededication of three recently-restored Torah scrolls. I allow the contradictory feelings to coexist. I read poetry. I write poetry. I write my grief.
* * * * * * *
More than twenty years ago, my dad had his first aneurysm.
When my brother called to tell me Dad had passed out and banged his head, I caught the first flight from Atlanta to Newark. The doctors were performing tests to determine the cause of his fainting incident and I arrived in time to see him before they wheeled him in for a procedure. I leaned down to kiss his forehead and reassure him that I’d be waiting for him in recovery. Before my lips could make contact, he intercepted my tenderness with his trademark levity, “Oh my God, you’re so gray! Would you let me pay for you to get your hair colored?!
Later, we learned that he would need to undergo a seven-hour surgery to repair an aneurysm on the left frontal lobe of his brain, the area that affects executive function, impulse control, and emotional regulation. Dad found humor in having a diagnosis to justify his personality.
Of the three neurosurgeons he interviewed, he chose the one whose surgeries were videotaped as teaching tools. Dad regaled everyone with the doctor’s impressive credentials, repeating how the doctor delivered the news that his aneurysm was one that usually ruptured, causing near-instantaneous death: “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Jay. I usually see these kinds of aneurysms only on autopsies.” Then he would add, laughing, “That doctor had a funny idea of luck!”
Another one of his running jokes with me is about how he gets more useful professional help from my brother, who is an attorney, saying, “You know, I’m your brother’s best non-paying client.” Then, he quickly adds that it’s good to have a rabbi in the family, because he knows I’ll do the funeral pro bono.
I’ve lost track of how many times he’s given me “good advice” or said something he deems wise, and then shouted, “Write that down on your legal pad!” He likes giving me suggestions for Rosh Hashanah sermons.
He loves giving me material for his eulogy.
Another version of the joke, when I’m nagging him about not wearing his oxygen: “Stop worrying! It’s not time yet. I’ll tell you when you need to get your legal pad.”
* * * * * * *
Sixteen months ago, I moved to the northeast to be closer to Dad. I now serve a community of a few hundred kind souls. Those who know of my father’s illness regularly ask me how he’s doing. I don’t share any details, but I’ve occasionally dedicated our weekly Torah study to him and include his name in the misheberakh prayer for those in need of healing.
When they ask his age, I tell them he’s turning 83 on January 15th. I tell them I’ve invited him to come for Shabbat morning services to celebrate his second Bar Mitzvah, saying that I had connections and would make sure the gabbai gave him an aliyah. I flash them a smile, let them in on the joke. If he could see me, he’d be so proud of me doing a mitzvah—honoring him by employing his humor—and speaking truthfully, a Jewish value he instilled in me and my brothers. I’m grateful to be able to express my anticipatory grief with humor.
What I don’t tell anyone is that a few months ago, when he was really sick, I started writing his eulogy in my writer’s notebook.
* * * * * * *
Early Sunday morning on Erev Hanukkah there is a snow storm. Our quiet street in our quiet neighborhood is blanketed in silence. Until the news of the attack on Bondi Beach reaches us.
For eight days of uncontainable night, I endeavor to become the container for the anxiety, fear, and grief of my community members, while I test the limits of my own endurance. My dad’s health is failing again—although it’s difficult to evaluate whether this time will be his time, since I’m unable to make the drive to visit him. Now the roads are clear, but my calendar is not. Two women in my congregation are waiting at the bedsides of their dying fathers.
* * * * * * *
I last visited my dad on Christmas Day. Considering how weak he’d been a few weeks prior, he was in relatively good spirits during our visit.
Since then, I’ve been fully present with my community, unable to visit Dad and some days unable to call. When I do reach him by phone, he always cuts me off mid-apology, reassuring me that he understands. I’m surprised by his earnest response when I tell him I’m officiating at a funeral. “Of course, you have to spend a lot of time with the family,” he says. “You have to learn about the person, so you can write the eulogy.”
I don’t remind him that my practice is to encourage family members to speak. If they say they don’t think they’ll be able to get through it without breaking down, I tell them to write it down and share it with me. I promise them, “I’ll be your back-up. I’ll read it if you need. In my experience, that rarely happens.”
I don’t share with my dad that the deceased’s children had written the eulogy for their dad, or that I cried when I read it. Instead, I tell him the approximate time I’ll be leaving the cemetery and ask him whether we can talk while I’m driving home.