To Shiva or Not to Shiva

I certainly get the concept of Shiva -- the Jewish ritual of mourning. The family of the deceased shuts down for a week, friends and well wishers bring food, and kaddish -- the prayer for the dead, is said. Mom wanted none of that, and as I sat in the quiet house yesterday, the day following her death, I was relieved. Almost all of her friends and family other than her kids have passed -- either away, or out of her life. So if I hosted Shiva, I'd simply be in my role of gracious host to MY friends -- and I absolutely was in no mood to do that. Shiva. My friend Jorge emailed me asking if we were having it -- and reflected on its having the same name as the Hindu god, Shiva. He then recalled a great "Simpsons" episode where Homer saw Apu at the Quickie Mart, noticed the many armed Hindu Ganesha, and said to Apu "Boy, when they were handing out religions, your people must have been at the back of the line." Jorge can always make me laugh... So yesterday I fielded calls from close friennds, and a few well meaning but not so bright cousins, who offered condolences and then felt the need to tell me THEIR tales of loss, or impending loss in the case of my mother's one surviving sibling. I begged off the phone at those calls --again, I'm in no mood to hear others' tales of misery. I recalled when my Dad died. There was no funeral, but many of my Mom's neighbors and aunts flooded her small condo. Mom freaked out, retreated to her bedroom, and asked me to make them leave. I remember trying to politely usher some of these ladies away, and they grew mean and ugly, like characters from "Where the Wild Things Are." Mom got peace when the house was quiet. So today I await the call from the Neptune Society people, to do the planning for the cremation and burial. Wifey spent a lot of time culling through old photos of Mom, and made a FaceBook (tm) album of her through the stages of her life. It was beautiful. And one of the benefits of Shiva -- hearing tales of your loved one, also came to me courtesy of FB. My school friend Kathy emailed me. She's an academic pediatrician at UVA, and mother of two, and triathlete. We hadn't spoken in nearly 20 years until last week when she friended me. She wrote about a 3rd grade trip to the Statue of Liberty, where my Mom was class mother, and how she couldn't make the scary stairway climb. My mother stayed behind with her, chatting, and comforting her. She said that my mother inspired her to be involved -- she was her kids' class mother, despite a busy medical career. It warmed me to hear how my mother so positively affected someone -- over 40 years ago. Since I do like traditions --even when they're not my birthright, I shared in one last night. My friend and neighbor Pat came over, with some fine Scotch. We tore through more than half a bottle, toasting my mother, father, and his long gone Dad. So Sunny didn't have a shiva, but she did have a small Irish wake. I know she'd have appreciated that...

Sunny Auslander 1920-2013

Selma Goldsmith was born on April 13, or 14 1920 in the Bronx, NY, to Isidor and Anna Goldsmith. She was always cheerful, even as a baby, so her nickname became Sunny. She always thought her birthday was the 13th, and said 13 was her lucky number. But years later, when applying for Social Security, the records said the 14th was the correct day. Oh well -- my Dad always said she was a woman of mystery. Sunny was the 3rd of 5 kids in a typical NY immigrant, Eastern European household. The family was the classic "poor but we never knew it" variety. Sunny's early memories were of picnics to the country, keeping the food warm in the engine compartment, and tons of cousins, aunts, and rakish uncles wearing Zoot Suits and probably invloved in the Underworld. The family was happy to be away from the pogroms of Russia, and free of being drafted into the Czar's army. Sunny adored her sisters, brother, and parents. Sunny was VERY pretty, and as she grew had many suitors. But the one she liked most was a tall, dark, handsome, and bookish boy who lived right across the street, and was a year ahead of her at James Monroe High -- famous as the alma mater of Hank Greenberg, the Jewish Jackie Robinson. Sunny graduated in 1938 -- an average student at best, but one who fell in love with one special book: Pearl S Buck's "The Good Earth." The book led to a lifetime love and admiration of all things Chinese -- culminating with 2 trips there. The bookish, self taught intellectual boy was Hy Auslander, who wanted to go to college but couldn't afford it. He was working pushing dress carts through the streets of the Lower East Side, when the city stopped to listen to a radio broadcast announcing a "Day of Infamy --December 7, 1941." Hy, who became my father many years later, knew he'd soon be drafted, and he was. He wrote Sunny from Pasadena, where he as based, and asked her to come to California to marry him. Sunny agreed, and embarked on the first adventure of her life. This young girl who had never been out of the NY area boarded a transcontinental train, and a week later, was met at the LA train station by one very happy GI. Years later, he told me he couldn't believe how gorgeous she was when she stepped off that train. He took her to the little bungalow he had rented, and they retired. My Dad made a move, and was told not so fast, buddy we're not married! So Hy had to wait another day... That next day the base Rabbi did his thing, and Sunny and Hy were married. The marriage would last nearly 40 years. Sunny got a job as a secretary to the Dean at Cal Tech. My mother spoke to me often about him -- how he was an elegant Southerner, from Vanderbilt. He was Protestant, but surprised Sunny erev Yom Kippur -- telling her it was a very HOLY day for the Jews, and since the Jews were Christians' older brothers, she better honor that day. My mother loved working for him, and his buddies -- many of whom later ended up in the New Mexico desert working on the project that would finally end the war... Sunny got pregnant, and since Hy didn't know where the War would take him, told his young bride to return to NY to have the baby. She did, and in January, 1945 my sister Trudy was born. She didn't meet her father for nearly a year. Sunny joked that one day she saw a soldier in uniform in front of her building. He was a black man. Trudy smiled, reached for him, and said "Daddy!" Sunny knew it was time for Hy to come home. The War ended, and Hy manipulated his way out of being sent to Japan for occupation duty. He returned to the Bronx, where Mom had found an apartment to share with a lady named Hannah, her boy Arnold, and husband Julie -- returning from the Navy. After several months, with my Dad working 3 jobs to save money, they moved to their own place, on Dyckman Street, in Northern Manhattan. My sister Susan came along in 1948. Dad started doing better, as a salesman. Soon the family moved to Queens -- the upwardly mobile boro. By the late 50s, they even joined a country club -- the Roslyn Country Club, just over the City border on Long Island. I'm told they were probably the poorest members, but Trudy and Susan got to swim among the nouveau riche set, and a new creature of American culture -- the JAP... The girls were teenagers, and Sunny still felt young, so she asked her OB if it was ok, at 40, to have a child. He said yes. So she got pregnant, and then miscarried. Still ok to try? I like to think the OB said yes -- but no more than 3 packs of cigarettes per day! Mom got pregnant at 40, and I was born when she was 41, in 1961. A year later, the 2 bedroom garden apartment in Queens had become too crowded, with my baby stuff and all, so my Dad asked his boss Mr. Katz for a $3000 loan, and they used it as a down payment on a house on Long Island . We moved to South Central (Nassau County, not LA) in 1962. Trudy commuted to college in NYC, and Susan attended Levittown Memorial High School. I played with Tonka trucks, and GI Joes, and then Little League, and then girls. Sunny gave me the most wonderful, secure, and loving childhood. She taught me to be loved and adored by a beautiful woman -- something most men never learn. As a result, I never lacked in the self esteem department. As the 70s passed, and I was ready to graduate high school, Sunny's hatred of cold weather became more apparent. The winter of '77 was a particularly brutal one --with record snow and freezing temperatures. Mom went to South Florida with her sister Lorraine to move my grandmother from her Miami Beach hotel to a West Palm Beach nursing home. She returned in the Fall of 1978 and announced she had put a down payment down on a condo, in Delray Beach. This was totally out of character for Sunny -- my Dad did all the financial decisions. But Sunny was adamant -- Dad would retire, and they would live among her sisters Lorraine and Dorothy --and brother Marty -- all of whom bought in the same concrete block development in West Delray. Dad sort of shrugged his shoulders and acquiesed. The problem was me -- his adored son. I had no plans to move South -- Stony Brook with my Regents Scholarship awaited, with my career as a doctor to follow. But Dad applied to UM for me, and I won a 1/2 tuition scholarship. I graduated MacArthur High, went to a surprise going away party my girlfriend Alison threw for me, and left the next day for Florida. Dad died 4 years later. My mother filled the next 30 years with travel to China, Israel, Europe, the Carribbean, and all over Florida. She volunteered over 3000 hours driving disabled people to appointments, and later as a candy striper at Delray Hospital. She enjoyed 6 grandkids (the youngest 2 are my beloved Ds) and 4 great grandkids. She loved and savored her life. She drove until she was 89, and comically wrecked 2 cars by describing a backward circle in a local parking lot. She steadfastly refused to leave her condo -- even when it was time to -- about 3 years ago. Finally, last year she had a bad fall, and her hospital blood test showed she was near starvation -- she wouldn't eat on her own. So we moved her to Miami Jewish Home, so I could be closer to her. She flourished at first. She gained weight and grew stronger. But about a month ago, she declined. 2 weeks ago she had all 4 great grandkids, and 3/6 of her grandkids gather for her 93rd birthday. One week ago, she began to slip into a sleep. We got hospice to come and give her morphine, and this am her struggling breathing stopped. A wise man said it was all about the dash. The dash is what's on the gravestone between the dates of a person's birth and death. Sunny had one full, wonderful, loving and being loved dash. But no funeral. My father didn't believe in organized religion, and thought the funeral industry was one of the worst there was -- preying on grieving simpletons. So he was cremated and buried and his ashes spread at sea. Same for Sunny. She prepaid her deal 15 years ago, and reminded me each year of that fact. 10 years ago Mom was with me at a funeral. When we shovelled the earth and rocks on top of the casked -- she cringed. My brother Paul was next to her, and she said "Oh Paul -- I HATE that sound above all others!" To Sunny, earth on a casket was the ultimate nails on a blackboard... So rest in peace, my beautiful Mom. Grandma Sunny. Edith Bunker, as my father lovingly called her. Brava for a life very well lived.

So You're Going to Die Now

...is the name of the brochure Homer Simpson reads in a memorable episode of that great show. He finds it in a doctor's office where's he's referred for treatment of a mystery illness. It's on my mind today because I just put in a call to Seasons Hospice, to ask about care for my Mom. I returned to MJH for a second visit, and at first she was calm. In fact, when I first saw her so tiny in her bed, mouth agape and eyes frozen half open, I thought the end had come. Not so fast! The nurse's assistant came in with her food tray, and we tried to feed Mom. All she managed was 4 tiny bites of some lemon cake, and 3 sips of apple juice. The aid, from Georgia, unlike most of the Haitian born staff at MJH, said "the last thing they give up is sweets." Makes sense, I guess. I sat with Mom, and she mumbled gibberish. To pass the time I recounted the story of her life --from her childhood in the Bronx through her great adventure -- a cross country train trip to mee my Dad in California during the Big One --WW II. That was a big deal for a young girl who had never been out of New York state before. She stirred, and started moaning again. I asked the nurse about the sedative the Orthodox half doctor/half rabbi had supposedly ordered. "No --he neva did it" she answered in her heavy Creole accent. I called the doc, livid, and his staff figured out that he DID order the med -- but called the pharmacy instead of Mom's floor, and the two offices hadn't spoken. Nurse Marie assured me Mom would get the sedative. "Boy," I said to her " a person could DIE in this nursing home!" I don't think my attempt at sarcastic humor translated well. She just scowled at me. Paul marvels at my family's black sense of humor. When his mother was dying, it was pretty serious business. Our Rabbi friend played a large role, and Paul has dutifully said Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, each morning since his mother passed. Sunny's not at all religious, so that's not happening in our family -- but we DO emply humor to deflect the deep feelings of grief and sadness... I left MJH and drove the 2 blocks to Soyka. Dr. Barry met me there, and I downed a couple of Ketel One martinis. Talk about medically necessary drinks! Barry and I caught up, and he, of course, had tales of true tragedy -- 8 year old children who took sick and nearly died, and newborns who DID die, all on his watch in the ICU. Mom got 93 years -- no tragedies there. And Barry and I philosophize all the time about who gets how many years -- some with long lives are winners. I pointed out to Barry that typically the prize to the winners, like Mom, is a pile of steaming dog shit at the end. We agreed it's better to die younger than too old... So I'm waiting for Seasons Hospice to return my call. Geez -- you could die waiting for them to get back to you! I anticipate we'll meet, and they'll start an IV drip of morphine to calm Mom. Anything's better than her agitated state --crying out for her late relatives, and not being able to calm down. Her long, long trip down life's road seems to be coming to an end. My job is to make her as comfortable as possible... Tonight Norman, Vince, Jim and I are going to the final Panthers game. And even in their losing season, the Absolut (tm) bar is open. Thanks, vodka. No one should do death without you...

Do Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Dylan Thomas, the drunk, was a selfish jerk who had no business telling his fading father to resist the inevitable. Sadly, my Mom is declining rapidly. Two weeks ago at her 93rd, she was overwhelmed and out of it -- toasting "Happy Anniversary" to all there. We had hoped she was just disoriented by the many guests, but alas, it was not to be. I saw her last Wednesday, and although in her own world, greatly enjoyed an ice cream at the MJH gazebo. Today, one week later, I visited, and it was nightmarish. She was in her bed, agitated and in her own world. She appeared unable to find a comfortable position. She had no idea who I was or why I was there. She called out, repeatedly, for her brother Marty. Marty died 12 years ago. I held her hand, and she pulled it away. Every once in awhile, she'd cry out, like in a bad dream. The nurse came in and gave her pain meds. She seemed to swallow them, but ended up spitting them out. I told the nurse -- she was going to try again later. I called her doctor and asked him to prescribe a sedative. He said he would. We all talk about how much better we treat our pets than our relatives, and it's true. Our beloved dog Honey was in distress and ancient -- the vet lovingly gave her some injections, and blissful sleep came. I guess they allow that in Oregon, but no where else in the US. So I pray Mom DOES go gentle into that good night. She's lived 93 good years, and it's unlikely she's going to improve from this point. I'm heading back later this afternoon to sit with her awhile longer. I hope she's more restful -- seeing her thrashing and crying out is truly heartbraking -- even for a cold SOB like me. Dylan Thomas was an asshole...

Working Out

My father was never athletic, and for my entire childhood and adulthood, he was probably 30-40 pounds overweight. He hated fish, and LOVED meat -- especially corned beef sandwiches on rye. He also loved sweets. When he worked as a salesman, I'd find Cadbury chocolate bars in the glove box of his Caddy or Oldsmobile. "In case of emergency," he'd explain. Well he retired at age 60, and a year or so later was diagnosed as nearly Type II diabetic. So he cut out the sweets, and started a strict exercise regimen -- fast walking around the cell blocks of his condo -- dodging cars in the parking lot. (I always think the architects who designed Kings Point in Delray ought to be indicted in the court of architecture for making a retirement village so ugly and walking unfriendly). Soon my Dad was in the best shape since he was a soldier in WW II. He was 50 lbs lighter. And then he dropped dead, at 63. So I've always been somewhat reticent about getting into "shape." But after I wheezed walking up the ramps at Soldier Field in Chicago in October -- I decided to act. I started with Susan the Trainer in December, and I am feeling much better. I'm still overweight, but as I like to say, fat but strong! I'm bench pressing 150 lbs, and doing 130 sit ups per session. I do feel great. Today, Susan showed me off to another trainer -- Olga, a non appearance challenged lady from Venezuala. Olga ran her hands over my upper chest and said in Charo-like accent: "Oh yes--I see much improvement." So clearly I'm going to keep up with the workouts, but hope I get a very different result from Dad. Then again, I have Crestor -- he died before statins were available.

End Game Maybe

Wifey and I loaded the spoiled Spaniel and stange indeterminate dogs into the little girlie Lexus, and headed to MJH for a Sunday visit to the Olds. We planned to each fetch our parent, and meet at the gazebo. I took Vienna the strange dog and headed to see Mom. Most of her floormates were lined up watching an old movie on TV, but Mom was still in bed. One of the nice Haitian nurses saw me and said she wasn't feeling well, and wished to stay in bed. Vienna and I found her there, fitfully sleeping. She awoke, barely, when Vienna licked her hand. She was mostly out of it. I tried to talk with her, but all she could muster were a few non sequiters... and then the hallucinations kicked in. She asked me why "grandpa was still building the tent" and whether my "son was still sick." Wifey called on the cell to report that she had arrived with her father under the huge tree. I met them, and explained that Sunny wasn't up to joining us. My father in law looked hale and hearty, but asked after my mother 10 times. Ah, Alzheimers... Wifey wanted to visit Mom, and she did. She returned to the patio teary eyed. She thinks the end may be near. Who knows? We spent some more time with my father in law. He loved having the Spaniel in his lap -- petting her. Wifey took him back to his room, and I waited under the gazebo. I treated myself to one of Mom's beloved ice cream sandwiches. When she's up to going outside -- she savors them -- saying they're the "best ice cream I've ever had." Her toddler-like happiness is lovely. It wasn't to be today. Wifey and I drove to Harry's Pizzeria, and shared a few small pies outside, on N Miam Avenue. We watched the hipsters and their kids walk in and out. An adorable little girl, face painted from a Batman party, petted the dogs and giggled. The juxtaposition is so funny to me. My Mom's mother used to live in Old People Land -- South Beach. 10th and Collins was where the "EdVard Hotel," as she pronounced it, held Anna and many of her compadres. Now South Beach is the epicenter of cool. No old folks live there. 30 years later, Mom lives in a nursing home just blocks from the coolest parts of Miami -- Design District and Wynwood. And she's totally oblivious... I spoke to Dr. Eric about medical issues surrounding the endgame. He was so warm, caring, and informative. His patients are lucky to have him. He deals with so many VERY old folks -- he's truly expert in the final days... Of course, I'll stick to his plan. He reassured me that as long as Mom isn't in physical pain, which she thankfully isn't, she's not suffering. She's just living in her alternative consciousness, or consciousnesses...The suffering is for her family watching her slip away.

The Big Tent

So yesterday Wifey and I drove over to Tropical Park for the Crohns and Colitis Walk. D1 raised nearly $2500 for that great orgainzation, and we met her and Joel at the event. It was a gorgeous afternoon --kids playing in a bounce house, Killian High cheerleaders dancing and serving food. We planned to do the walk and then repair to Tropical Chinese for some Sunday night dim sum... And then, alas, Mother Nature, that nasty bitch, as my friend Vince's Dad used to call her, had other plans. She let loose with a torrential downpour. We huddled under the U Miami Health tent. I stood by the side, holding up a canvas sign, and getting completely soaked. It was ok, as the temperature was in the high 70s, and we were surrounded by a lot of great folks. And then it hit me! There was a vast array of differing ethnicities and places of origin. The metaphor for Miami was startling. Dr. K was there with her wonderful kids. Her oldest girl is graduating UM, and her middle son -- a charming, sports crazed junior, is studying Biochem and headed to med school. They're from Syria. Dr. A, the head of UM GI, is a Cubana, and her assistant Elaine was born in Venezuela. Elaine's husband huddled with us with their beautiful baby boy. Dr. Amir is PErsian --born in Tehran. Another doc -- Dr. D, is Indian, and D1's boyfriend Joel was born in Indiana! They're not related. Dr. Barry's interim boss -- the Chair of Pediatrics, huddled with us. Dr. S is a SBJG (smart Boston Jewish Girl). She was a bundle of energy -- I hear she keeps a treadmill in her office to run during the day -- which typically lasts 14 hours, after which she goes home to raise her 2 kids with her husband -- a Bolivian born Jewish guy. Wifey was born in Israel -- so sharing the shelter, and pressed together, was a Syrian, Iranian, and Israeli. In the Middle East, of course, these peoples aren't exactly friends. In Miami, they were just 3 people trying to stay out of the rain. The deluge lightened, and we walked away, soaked. D1 and Joel headed for Brickell. Wifey thought we should still go to TRopical, but I declined. Wifey was in the center of the tent and stayed pretty dry; I was essentially, one of its walls and was squishing with rainwater. Instead, we fetched some Thai food. The sky cleared, and we took the walk we intended -- dogs in tow. Wifey asked about the Indian doctor --Dr. D. He, along with many others, wore a T shirt from their organization: U Miami GI. The shirs read "UMGI." So Wifey has now added to family lore: "Wow --it's impressive that Dr. Umgi has so many people walking with him!" When I explained that his last name wasn't "Umgi," she protested "But you said he was Indian, and 'Umgi' sounds sort of Indian!" So the legend of Dr. Umgi was born... All in all it was a fine day despite the rain. Actually, the rain made it special and memorable.

Watching Evil

It's been a really, really bad month. The day before yesterday there was a huge fertilizer plant explosion near Waco, Texas, and over 30 people were killed. That was an awful accident. On Monday, 2 loser brothers planted bombs at the Boston Marathon -- killing 3 and injuring dozens. That was evil. As I write, the TV is live, showing the manhunt for the maybe surviving brother. One was killed last night. These two picked a time and place designed to kill and hurt the most innocent -- they left the serious marathon runners who finished first alone, and went after the regular folks and their families who just like to participate. A Chinese grad student was killed, as well as a 30 year old girl from Boston. A beautiful 8 year old boy was killed, and his sister lost a leg. Our mortal minds seek answers. Why did this happen. How could a God above allow the slaughter of innocents? The answers elude me, of course, other than to accept that awful stuff just happens. Our ancestors were picked off by wild animals. Now our numbers get victimized by psychopaths and other human predators. All I know is it sickens us, and makes us appreciate each day, and each blessing. It makes wasting one's life that much more pathetic. I know plenty of folks who do that -- complain and make excuses why things are bad. They wall themselves away from others -- keeping score of slights and hurts... Not me! If there's any take away from this evil, it's that one must celebrate the good. Tomorrow D1 is taking part in a Crohn's and Colitis Walk. She's raised over $2500 for research. I plan to meet her, her boyfriend, her roommate, and roommate's boyfriend. We'll walk, and we'll laugh, and we'll celebrate. Of my manifold blessings, at the top is that my Ds give back -- a lot. And in a world with evil, where so much is taken -- well, that's as good as it gets.

Every Picture Tells a Story

So after a weekend of stark contrasts (sad -- my declining, weak, and out of it Mom) and happy (Art Walk and South Miami Dade with the vital and young and happy Ds), D1 drove D2 to MIA for a return flight to Gainesville. D2 has final exams, and is due back on May 5th -- a college senior! Last night Wifey and I engaged in our latest addiction: "Sons of Anarchy." Typical of us, we learn of a good show years after it comes out, and then watch entire seasons of it over the course of a few weekends. And so it is with this great Sopranos meets California biker saga. We're nearly "caught up" with the rest of the viewers now. Wifey is now my old lady, and I'm the president of the outlaw motorcycle club. No ink, though -- we both find that rather revolting... So I woke up this am at 4:30, and checked the latest photos posted on Facebook (tm). Wifey added several from this past weekend. I never take photos -- that's Wifey and the Ds' department. I used to take them when we vacationed, and then Wifey correctly pointed out that I took scene photos -- vistas and buildings -- that gave no indication that we were ever there. Wifey always takes photos of US at places -- so we can remember, in context, our visits. Since she pointed that out, I always chuckle when I see tourists shooting the London Bridge, or Times Square, or any other things that pros have already photographed millions of times. Of course -- the pros, like my friend Dr. Eric, are another story. Eric is a true artist, as is my nephew Henry, and when they take a photo they bring a new dimension to the image. Regular folks with cameras on their phones? Not so much. So I went through some of the Facebook albums -- one is called "We Are Family." Wifey posted shots beginning with the Big One, as Archie called WW II --through the present. There are several photos of my strong, strapping father in law -- movie star handsome -- in athletic poses in Israel. In some, he's hoisting fellow Israeli soldiers above his head, like an old Charles Atlas ad. He looks so vital -- so healthy -- so full of life. I contrast that with the image from last weekend --he's wheelchair bound, mostly, and gray, and confused. As my friend Dr. Vince's father used to always say: Mother Nature is one cruel bitch... Wifey also has wedding photos of my parents -- from Pasadena. My father was in uniform, and my mother looked like a Hollywood starlet out of an Andrews Sisters movie. She was truly a beautiful and stylish woman. Last weekend -- so frail, so gray, so out of this world. A true ghost of who she was... The photos paint a happier trail, too. The Ds were adorable little girls who bloomed into beautiful young ladies. There was D1 -- always poised and posing in the photos -- even as a 7 year old. And D2 -- hair out of place, with an impish smile -- like she had just done something she knew she wasn't supposed to. Wifey and I haven't changed, of course, except for a few things on my part. About 10 years ago I started having my hair stylist add gray to my hair -- to make me look more distinguished. She's been keeping it up all this time. And I've maintained a strict health regimen designed to keep me from looking malnourished. I was just a skinny guy when I met Wifey at 22, and I've been bound and determined to change that. So the photos tell the story -- sometimes of growth, and sometimes of decline and decay. As Tony Soprano used to remark, in one of my favorite lines -- well, hey what are ya gonna do?

93

Ancient Mom's birthday was yesterday, April 13. D2 flew in from UF, and D1 and I fetched her from MIA. We headed over to lawyer Dan's office in the Grove, to sign papers. Though the Ds are young, I had Dan prepare estate papers for them -- including living wills. Big Man forbid they get used, but the Ds have something I never had -- trust accounts -- and the wills seem like a good idea... We planned to have dinner with Wifey, but then I got hit with sickness that came like a summer storm. I got chills, and weak, and my body pressed the "eject" button. Oy, as my mother in law would say, vas I miserable. The Ds and Wifey shopped and ate while I flirted with death, or at least would have welcomed a relief from this nasty virus. But, happily, it passed within 24 hours. I self diagnosed a norovirus or rotovirus. The Ds asked why I didn't call Dr. Dave, and I answered I figured I'd either die or recover, like with most maladies, and happily it was the latter. So yesterday we drove in torrential rain, picked up 6 extra large Popa Johns pizzas, and headed to MJH. The rain caused some family havoc about location for the party, but eventually we settled in the welcome lobby. What a gathering it was, for Ancient Mom. My in laws, their two helpers Marcia and Stephen, Mirta and her lovely granddaughter Karen, my sister Trudy and brother in law Dennis, niece Courtney and her kids Jillian and Dominick, niece Cathryn and her girls Hannah and Emma, and Hannah's boyfriend Billy, and of course Wifey, the Ds, and me. It was the first time in a LONG time that Mom had gathered for her all 4 great grandkids, 3/6 of her grandkids, and 2/3 of her kids. We ate pizza and cake, and Mom was...bewildered. She seemed overwhelmed and out of it. She didn't recognize, or at least couldn't answer questions about who the grand daughters were. At one point, she toasted with a soda and said "Happy anniversary to everyone!" She looked at me seriously at one point, summoned her best Olivia Soprano, and asked me pointedly "So what are you going to do with the rest of your life?" Good question... My niece Courtney wheeled her back to her room, and we all left for home. Wifey and the Ds and I talked about it, and concluded that although Mom was out of it, we all benefitted -- it's the right thing to honor her -- understood or not. And, as Mirta noted, she just might have been overwhelmed by all the people. We dropped D1 off at Brickell, and headed back home for some naps. Like hipsters, D2 and Wifey and I then headed out at 830pm!!! for the Wynwood Art Walk. D1 was doing her cognac gig, and we visited her at some way cool salon. wifey sat on a couch and played video jeapordy, and D2 and I ventured out down NE 2nd Avenue. It was packed. It was young. The crowd was most eclectic -- the antithesis of what you find on Las Olas or Atlantic Avenue. We found some gathering of food trucks, and toasted with smoothies. It was a glorious Miami night. We marvelled at all the murals on the run down buildings, and passed some spooky scenes. One fellow sat alone in a vacant lot, playing guitar and singing to an audience of --well, ghosts. We hurried past. Back at the salon, among the tattoed and pierced, D2 danced with the owners adorable 3 year old, Noa. She looked like the Ds did when they were little. She was wearing a ballet costume, and told us her entire dance and activity schedule. Life is for living, it was clear. It's for the young... So happy birthday, Ancient Mom. Will there be a 94? Wifey thinks so, and she's usually good at prognosticating these things. I guess we'll see.

A Dad's Funeral

As Wifey pointed out, we're at the stage in our lives when the elderly parents are, more and more, leaving us. Yesterday it was Dr. Dave's Dad Herb's turn. Herb was a classic Greatest Generation guy. He was born poor in Brooklyn, and dreamed of being a jazz saxophonist. But he was drafted right out of high school, and sent to the front lines in Europe because of his ability to translate German to English -- due to German's similarity with his second language, Yiddish. He liberated a few concentration camps, and returned to the US and the GI Bill. He ended up getting a college degree and then went to Brooklyn Law. Afterwards, he tried his hand at "ambulance chasing," as his lawyer hating daughter in law Maureen wrote, but found he HATED being in court. So he found a niche in real estate law, and built a very succesful practice and business portfolio. He and his wife Phyllis had 4 kids -- the oldest being my friend and doctor Dave, born in '52. Herb had homes in LI and Boca, and gave his 4 kids and grandkids a great help in life. Tragically, years ago, he lost one of his sons to cancer. He never got over that, of course. The funeral yesterday was on Atlantic Avenue in Delray. It brought back the many awful memories I have of West Delray -- the place my beloved father died, and later, the destination of many long trips to look after Ancient Mom. Herb was an avid supporter of Veterans Groups, and he had full military honors: 2 Marines attended. One played Taps, and then they folded the flag draped over the coffin, and handed it to Dave. We then drove to Eternal Light, out on 441, the cemetary that holds most of my dead aunts, uncles, and grandmother. Wifey and I were there less than a year ago for the burial of my partner Paul's mother Lillian. Ancient Mom won't be going there. She shared my father's disdain for the funeral industry, and will be cremated and her ashes spread at sea. Mom HATED one sound above all: dirt and rocks falling onto a casket. We heard it yesterday after the Israeli born rabbi said some grave side prayers. Afterwards we decamped to Ben's -- a deli in West Boca that Herb loved. We chatted with Dave and MAureen's lovely daughters. One is headed to Vet School at Penn, the other for a Master's at Ga Tech. We've known these girls since the younger was D1's pre K friend. It's a blessing to see how they've bloomed into amazing, lovely, and accomplished women. I made my way through the Mercedes and BMWs of West Boca. My father always chuckled at the noveau riche Jews' love for German cars. I've leased a BMW and bought one for D1 -- my father, even when he made money, stuck to GM. So another of his generation is gone. The Rabbi remarked how wonderful it was that 7 of 8 of Herb's grandchildren were at the funeral. This was rare these days, he noted. And so it is. My mother gets regular visits at the nursing home from 2 of her 6 grandkids, even though 4 of them live in Florida. I guess it's easy to let the very old fade away -- out of busy lives. Somehow Herb packed them in yesterday. His was a life well lived.

Gorgeous April Weather

Usually it's getting hot in Miami this time of year, but this year Winter was late. We've been enjoying amazing weather -- following a rainy Friday. It's been gorgeous... And as if to reflect that weather, D1 received a letter from her Master's Program Director. She was nominated for Dietetics Student of the Year -- for the whole state of Florida. Her professor told her she only infrequently nominates one of her students -- and they typically win. Whether or not D1 does win, it's an amazing honor -- to be told you're the best of a graduate program. We were thrilled for her. Up at UF, the Phi Beta Kappa D2 toils on with her studies -- but not this weekend. We saw FaceBook (tm) photos of her and dashing boyfriend in Orlando, at a Greek formal. She's coming in Friday for the weekend -- and a rest before her junior year finals. So last week the law business heated up. I was referred a case in which a young woman was killed in an auto crash -- and Paul and I met with her mother to start the case. Then an old client called. We had represented her daughter -- I thought 5 years ago, but it turned out it was 11 years passed. The Mom was hurt in a ceiling collapse at her office. Yesterday Mirta came over, and we traveled to MJH for an Olds visit. My sister and brother in law had fetched Mom, and we all sat in the glorious sunshine. Mirta and I fetched my father in law, and it was a meeting of the very olds. Today Wifey's headed to MJH, and I plan to stay home -- maybe walk a bit around the 'hood. The sun is out and calling...

Rainy Day Lunch

I glided the man sized Buick to Brickell, and hit the office for some catch up. A few new clients called, and then I followed up with a few matters with Brian. Paul called, home from a week in NYC and D.C. and we decided to meet for lunch. He didn't want to drive Downtown, so we chose Soyka -- a great place on 54th Street. We ate and caught up on matters business and personal, and a hard rain started to fall -- a little unusual for early April. The rain let up, and I wanted to show Paul my new ride. I drove a few blocks, and realized I was a stone's throw from Miami Jewish Home. I dropped Paul off at the restaurant, and figured I'd stop by. But I couldn't do it. I visited 3 times last week, and I just couldn't bring myself to pull into the lot. I felt guilty, and deservedly so. My Ancient Mom is in the end game of life, and all moments are precious. She no longer has a good conception of time, so each time I visit she can't tell if I was just there or hadn't come for several days. Still, it's my duty as her child, and I fell short yesterday. Instead, I headed back to the office, before driving to a meeting with a client -- a favor for an old client. Tomorrow I have an early breakfast meeting, and I'll stop by MJH after that. Mom turns 93 in a week and a half. Will she see 94? It doesn't seem likely, but only the Big Man knows. D1 started the second of her 4 internships, and likes it. She works with UM dieticians, and is learning clinical practice. D2 continues to grind out classes...she's coming home for a pre finals break next week. She'll be able to go to the pizza party we're planning for her grandmother. The Ds are in their prime, and it's great to share the times with them. Mom keeps on slipping and sliding away...but I'll get over there tomorrow.