By Phyllis J. Lubin

“May His great Name grow exalted and sanctified.” These are the first few words of the Kaddish traditionally recited by a mourner during prayer services. I am a mourner. I have chosen to say this prayer in honor of my father. I cannot say “in memory”–because he is still alive within me. I see him all the time. I imagine conversations I haven’t had with him yet, and I try to remember conversations we had all the time.

“Who is going to spring me from this place?” This was one of the usual requests he had for anyone who would visit during the myriad hospital stays over the past few months.

“Why do I need to be here?” He asked that all the time.

I tried to answer him. I tried to explain, “You are in the hospital to get better, Daddy. As soon as you are better you will go home.”

And he did go home. We went back and forth to the hospital.

From time to time, the doctors would ask if we would like him to go to hospice. Hospice? My dad wants to live. He had told us that numerous times. We are going to make him better. And so we continued to return to the hospital for him to be treated for pneumonia over and over again.

Parkinson’s is a terrible disease. It takes hold of you and you never know what to expect. When people hear about Parkinson’s, they think of someone shaking. But that’s not always the case–at least not how it expressed itself in my dad. My dad would stiffen up. He would feel like he couldn’t move. What a frightening experience that was for him.

I remember that when I was in labor with my daughter Rochel, the doctor convinced me to have an epidural to ease the pain and hopefully cause an easier delivery. I had avoided the experience with my first three and was adamant that I could work through the pain. Finally, after hours of continued labor, I relented and agreed to the epidural. That was my first and last. After a few minutes, I felt paralyzed and couldn’t move. I yelled at the doctor and nurses, “Stop the needle! I don’t want this.”

They listened, and fortunately I delivered my beautiful baby shortly thereafter. But that feeling of terror–of not being able to move–I won’t forget. The pain of childbirth (and I’ve had six children) is a blank to me; I do not remember what it felt like. But the fearful feeling that I couldn’t move hasn’t escaped me.

But my dad powered on. We would remind him that though he felt he couldn’t move at that moment in time, once the medication would kick in, he would move again. And he did. He pushed himself because that is the kind of person he was. No matter what would happen, he always planned for the future. Time and time again he would tell us, “I want to live.”

During the week of shivah, so many people marveled at his fortitude to make it to shul on Shabbos so often. We are taught to spend the week planning for Shabbos. My dad did exactly that. Throughout the week he would prepare: setting up the candles; setting up his suit, shirt, and tie for Shabbos; and on Friday making sure the light switch in the refrigerator was taped and all the lights were set in the house for Shabbos. He would also make sure his trusty Shabbos-morning assistant, Curtis, was reminded to be on time to wheel him to shul. Although this terrible disease slowed my dad down, he would not let it stop him from doing the things he loved. Going to shul on Shabbos morning was at the top of his list. If the weather was too torrid to go, he would be depressed all day.

While he was in the hospital, we would try to give my dad the feel of shul on Shabbos, since he couldn’t attend in person. I told him that he gave me the opportunity of being the chazzanit–a role I hadn’t had since I was in elementary school! The best moments were when my dad could sing along. But even when he felt weak, he wouldn’t let me down and would follow along in the Siddur. I begged his forgiveness when I could not say every word out loud–too much for me to handle–and I would skip around to the prayers I was most familiar with. “That’s fine,” he would tell me or motion to me. Now, as I join the minyan that my father couldn’t attend for so long, I find myself skipping around. I want to say the prayers that I am most familiar with so I can keep up with the congregation and be in time for the next Kaddish. As the days progress, I am improving and becoming more familiar with the unfamiliar and hopefully making my dad proud.

I still have unanswered questions: Daddy, why did you call me “Fridy (my nickname because my Jewish name is Freida and I was born on a Friday) sweet elf”? Why is Jacob (my brother) called “Yanky Pinkly”? What was your favorite color? Why did you get a degree in law and never use it? (My dad was a professor of computer science.) The list goes on and on . . .

Each day, praying for Mashiach to come has never been so important to me. I pray for the day we can all be reunited with our loved ones. In the meantime, I will continue going to minyan to exalt the name of our Creator in honor of my dad.

Phyllis Joy Lubin is an attorney with Maidenbaum & Sternberg, LLP, who resides in Cedarhurst with her husband, Leonard. They have six children–Naftali, Shoshana, Rivka, Rochel, Yosef, and Lea–and a daughter-in-law, Nina. The author welcomes your questions and comments at MothersMusings@gmail.com.

 

SHARE
Previous articleHome vs. Home: U.S. Or Israel?
Next articleMindBiz

LEAVE A REPLY

Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here