Magazine Archive
Magazine Archive
When Death Interrupts the Conversation
When I was 20, my father threatened to disown me if I didn't transfer out of the music composition track I was on at college, and get a “sensible” degree in elementary education. Out of pure fear, I did as he demanded. Three years later, when Dad was seriously ill, I landed my first teaching job at a private elementary school on Long Island, moved back into my old bedroom at my parents’ house, and hoped to find the courage to have it out with Dad.
And So Our Lives Continue
It's a rainy Sunday morning in April. My wife is driving down to the city to meet her daughter, who flew in to take her mom to lunch and a show. We celebrated on Friday, her actual birthday – with a pancake breakfast in bed; followed by a leisurely day with our puppy, Milo; and capped off with a romantic dinner at The Blue Heron Restaurant.
I'm sitting on our daybed on the porch now, my computer perched on my lap. Somewhat reluctantly, I turned on the gas stove this morning in an effort to temper the chilly April air. All I can hear is the steady patter of rain on the porch roof, an occasional flutter of ducks fishing on the river, and a contented sigh from Milo, who is lying by my side. Suddenly I catch a whir of red brushing across the porch window: A cardinal has sent his blessing for a sweet day at home.
What about Mom?
Funny how you can spend a quarter century raising kids with your blood, guts, tears and bottomless love. Then one day something changes and you don’t have a clue how to keep your family together. And then, finally, you begin to wonder if it’s your job anymore.
When my mom was 50 she was left with a daughter in her first year of college and three older sons who could be aimless at times. We were trying to figure out our young adult lives without Dad. But what about Mom?
To Be Transformed by the Journey
To journey and to be transformed by the journey is to be a pilgrim.
- Mark Nepo
It is 9 p.m. when my kids and I join my wife in her hospice room. We've come to tell her that her oncologist at Dana Farber has spoken to the hospice medical director and agrees that her feeding tube is only causing needless pain. That it is time to let her body die. Tough as nails, my wife insists that she speak directly to her oncologist. She wants us to call her immediately.
God-Wrestling With Sister Mary
If grief is a teacher, then perhaps we are all sometimes her reluctant students. My father died nearly half a century ago. After his funeral, Edith, one of Dad’s closest friends, offered me some rather blunt advice: “Rob,” she said, “you’ll never get over this.” I’ve always been grateful to Edith for letting me in on one of life’s best kept secrets; that our greatest losses may change us forever.
My first grief teacher
Grief was never discussed at home. It just played itself out as I watched and learned. I was four when Grandpa Sam died and Grandma Bertha moved in with us. She spent summer days in our backyard, planting and weeding with a passion. Her mind would drift to memories of her little Ukrainian village.
Look harder
A couple approached me while out walking this morning to ask if I’d look out for a missing dog named Bongo whose owner hoped he might show up on our trail. This got me thinking of the times I’ve looked for my own missing pets. Our cat Georgie, for instance, often slipped away for days at a time. He invariably returned home unscathed but for a few scars on his ear, or a matted coat of fur.
It’s not the weight you carry, but how you carry it
As my cousin Anselm approached his death from AIDS, he wrote detailed instructions for his own private memorial dinner. According to plan, after the funeral a group of Anselm’s closest friends and family members went directly to a friend’s Manhattan apartment. We crowded around a large table weighed down with casseroles, stews, traditional dishes, elaborate salads, and all sorts of deserts.