Many years ago I arrived to a funeral twelve minutes late hoping I could quietly take a seat in the back. But when I walked into the chapel it was empty. I inquired, and was told that a fight had broken out among members of the family and the service had been, shall we say, short.

I’ve also attended several funerals at which the clergyman began with, “I never had the good fortune to meet the departed, but he (or she) was…”

Somehow, I find that disrespectful.

For my father’s funeral last Tuesday morning we decided to hold graveside services with only family and a few close friends attending.

One of his grandsons was scheduled to return Monday night from a week long vacation on Maui but, alas, the plane leaked fuel onto the tarmac and his flight was canceled. This was at the end of the three-day Memorial Day weekend. Fortunately he was able to rebook himself on a return flight through Seattle and arrived at graveside a few minutes before we began.

Dad’s eight grandchildren served as pallbearers, and everyone told touching tales about Dad, many of which were new to me. Among the last to speak, movingly, was one of his great-granddaughters.

After our brief family gathering my nephew pointed out that my brother David’s grave was nearby. All of us spent a few moments there in silent remembrance.

Unlike the other funerals I mentioned, at my Dad’s memorial the feeling of family unity, spanning three generations, was unmistakable. The man from the mortuary said it was one of the most moving tributes he’d ever seen.

The morning had been quite difficult for me, recovering from two recent cervical spine surgeries, and I was flat on my back most of the following day (although I have been told, repeatedly, “this too will pass”).  It will take months.

But last Tuesday I was comforted to know that the two generations of my family who come after me are in the hands and hearts of articulate, kind, and caring people, and, knowing this comfort will endure forever inside me, I am at peace

My heartfelt thanks to all.

Love,

Alan

For the past few weeks while I was in the hospital, my Dad, who would have been 105 on July 14, was in another hospital where he was being treated for a foot infection.

Dad hated being in the hospital. This time it was even harder on him because Cristina, his regular caregiver (who he adored), was on a much needed two-week vacation.  Also, for an obvious reason, I couldn’t visit him.  He was at home when she returned last Monday. That was a good day for Dad, but the next morning he told his nighttime caregiver, “Get Cristina.”

When she arrived a few minutes later he was non responsive.  The medics from 911 could not revive him.

I know that when someone we are close to dies we often blame ourselves for having not seen them “just one more time” or for not having the opportunity to say “I love you” just once again. I, however, feel at peace.

For many years Dad and I visited regularly and a mutual “I love you” was always a part our temporary, and now final, goodbye.  That is why I sometimes eat my desert first. After all, you never can tell.

I’ve read that the only reliable paths to happiness are to help others, and to feel gratitude. Today is a day for gratitude.

Dad, I’m grateful that you were a large part of my life for almost eighty years.  I’m especially grateful for all you taught me, from an appreciation for how music is created to the importance of saving money, from relaxing my throat and speaking with a deeper voice to the joy in teaching others, and from the cultivation of long term relationships to loving and always being supportive of my children.

It is said that brevity is the soul of wit, so on this Tuesday when I share this blog with you, my family – your family – and I will be publicly sharing our joy in your being with us for so long, and our grief that this sharing has come to an end.

Rest in peace, Dad. Rest in peace.

Love,

Alan

I’m a planner, which means that I map out in advance my activities for the coming day, week, or month. I walk into my office in the morning with three or four priorities. Sometimes, of course, one emergency or another will push aside my best-laid plans and surge to the top of the list.

One such emergency was on March 27th, when my (first) cervical spine surgery took place. My recovery seemed to be going well, although afterwards I suffered from far more pain than expected. In fact, I made an appointment with the surgeon to get his opinion.  He took a look at the latest x-rays, admired his handiwork, and told me everything was fine.

Four days later I woke up with a white film on my pillow. My wife thought that perhaps I had spit up during the night, but when I got out of bed she saw my back and shouted, “Don’t get in the shower!”

She immediately took a picture of the back of my neck and emailed it to our son who is a doctor. He called instantly to say, “I’ll meet you at the emergency room with my over night bag. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

It turned out that I had a major infection, and it had “made itself known” by bursting through the sutures from my original surgery. One nurse almost fainted when my wife showed her the photo, which apparently was passed along to many others on the hospital staff.

So approximately six weeks after my first surgery the “A” team once again gathered at nine am on a Saturday morning for my second spine surgery, this one needed to clean out the infection and replace much of the contaminated hardware.

I’m now at home after a nine-day stay in the hospital. Hopefully you won’t ever find yourself in a similar situation but if so, here are a few hints:

1. Insist on having the best technician in the hospital draw your blood. My arm was stabbed once by an idiot who wanted to try again, and insisted that the hospital allowed him to make two unsuccessful attempts. I told him that my rule was only one. My wife told him to leave. Without warning he tried to lower the head of my bed on his way out. Ouch!
2. Listen to hints from the nursing staff. When I asked for a stronger pain-killer and reported my pain as a “four,” my nurse said, “Read between the lines. Your pain has to be at least a seven to allow me to give you the stronger dose. Now, what is your level of pain?” “A seven,” I answered.
3. Have someone stay with you 24/7 if possible. You will receive much better care, I promise.

This is how I spent my extended Spring vacation. I hope that yours was a lot more fun.

Love,

Alan