Dear Nancy,
I just arrived for a short visit to YYY and ZZZ [names redacted]. The last time I was here was two years ago around Chanuka. At that time Avi was lively and supportive and intellectual and fun to be with.... and now he is no more. Only the memories of the few times I met him. These are some of them:
* He came to my presentation at Har Tzeon on “Why did Moses break the tablets?” and he brought a tablet splitting device that cuts pills if you need only half a dose. It added a humorous touch to the morning.
* He went out of his way to come to a talk I gave a seuda shlishit at Rabbi Kranz’ shul and asked stimulating questions (and saved me from embarrassment of having no questions and comments at the end). I think he came then with one of your sons.
* He was very encouraging and gave me boots when I was snowed in during a blizzard and I had to get from your house to Shamai’s apartment.
* He was supportive when YYY and ZZZ were going through their trials and tribulations.
I even have an email from him from last year when Prof. Roald Hoffmann was looking for an Orthodox Jewish scientist in the DC area. I can’t bring myself to delete it... it is as if it is a little remnant of him.
He seemed to me young, which is why I am so taken aback at his petira.
With belated condolences,
Shira
Friday, November 15, 2013
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Dad
This post is dedicated to my older sister Chavi. She is kind enough to discuss baby health matters with my wife. And, of course, as new parents that is a thing that we are always scared about. I'm glad I can offer my wife, through no work of my own, the generosity of my sister. And I'm sure in more than one dimension Chavi's solicitude is inherited from my father.
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I remember the day my father told me he had cancer. I was twenty and I must have been in University of Maryland. My father asked me to go on a walk with him. That was something we didn't do much, certainly not as a pair. (In later life I got my father on a few walks alone and that was the wisest thing I have ever done. If only I had done it more. But he balks at certain things with his kids. Complicated.). We walked around the Kersey block; it was a short walk. I can't remember anything specific of the conversation only that I was so angry at him for his tone. Everything he said about the cancer was spoken in a gentle, mild, fully-digested tone. Now that I am older, and I am a father who must work to dismiss anxieties around my daughter, I know it must have taken him hours/days/weeks of constant and uncomfortable reflection and meditation to distill that terrible news, that anxiety-twisting and gut-wrenching bunch of emotions, into an even and balanced explanation for his children. Though no doubt terrified, he refused to communicate off-centeredness to his family. A priority for him was that his family should continue, and not worry, especially over things out of our control.
I yelled or maybe complained. His tone was too even, maddeningly resigned. I quoted the poem by Dylan Thomas: "Rage against the dying of the light!" I can't imagine I made much sense. I was not a good communicator at that point in my life.
I know he took all my siblings on that same walk. He was very democratic sometimes.
Even though he reassured me that the doctors estimated that he would live "another five to thirty years," I began preparing for his death immediately. I spent many years feeling the impending shadow of his death. I thought I would be prepared, anyway. Pretty arrogant. When he died, as bad as he looked and as much as he was suffering, I could not have been more unprepared. Total shock, like a swoon. Sickness and death, how can you really prepare for them. How can I allow the people I love to die.
----
I remember the day my father told me he had cancer. I was twenty and I must have been in University of Maryland. My father asked me to go on a walk with him. That was something we didn't do much, certainly not as a pair. (In later life I got my father on a few walks alone and that was the wisest thing I have ever done. If only I had done it more. But he balks at certain things with his kids. Complicated.). We walked around the Kersey block; it was a short walk. I can't remember anything specific of the conversation only that I was so angry at him for his tone. Everything he said about the cancer was spoken in a gentle, mild, fully-digested tone. Now that I am older, and I am a father who must work to dismiss anxieties around my daughter, I know it must have taken him hours/days/weeks of constant and uncomfortable reflection and meditation to distill that terrible news, that anxiety-twisting and gut-wrenching bunch of emotions, into an even and balanced explanation for his children. Though no doubt terrified, he refused to communicate off-centeredness to his family. A priority for him was that his family should continue, and not worry, especially over things out of our control.
I yelled or maybe complained. His tone was too even, maddeningly resigned. I quoted the poem by Dylan Thomas: "Rage against the dying of the light!" I can't imagine I made much sense. I was not a good communicator at that point in my life.
I know he took all my siblings on that same walk. He was very democratic sometimes.
Even though he reassured me that the doctors estimated that he would live "another five to thirty years," I began preparing for his death immediately. I spent many years feeling the impending shadow of his death. I thought I would be prepared, anyway. Pretty arrogant. When he died, as bad as he looked and as much as he was suffering, I could not have been more unprepared. Total shock, like a swoon. Sickness and death, how can you really prepare for them. How can I allow the people I love to die.
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