Death Vigil and Memory Lane

It was a rather hectic week here in paradise. First, my partner and brother Paul's mother Lillian perched close to the edge of death, last Monday. Paul asked our rabbi friend to visit her in the Broward hospice, to give the Jewish version of last rites. Rabbi Yossi called me, and we took the trip together. He did his Talmudic duties, and we sat and reflected with Paul, his girlfriend, sister, brother in law, and niece. It was great to see the family so together, at their matriarch's side. I compared Paul's family to my own, and we fell far short. My mother gets visits only from 2/6 of her grandkids. When her time comes, little of her family will be there for her. I told Paul he is the adult son I strive to be. Everyone talks about "love," but talk is easy and cheap. Love is changing the diapers. Love, as I told the rabbi, is leaving one's family on a weeknight, as the rabbi did, and taking a 3 hour soujourn to a bleak hospice to give comfort. The rabbi calls it religion -- I called it love. It took Paul's mom Lillian 5 days to die. She did, finally, last Friday night, and her funeral will be tomorrow. Paul says he's incredibly blessed to have been with her so long in her final moments. He essentially put aside his whole daily life for this task. About others who would NEVER do this -- with commitments like work and hobbies, he says, just, God help them. Coincidentally, D2 came home for a short weekend visit. Her Gators were going to Jacksonville, to lose to the Georgia Bulldogs, as it turned out, and many undergrads flee campus. She came in late Friday, and D1 and the spoiled grand dog came over to spend the time as well. I asked the ladies what they wanted to do on the glorious weather weekend (Hurricane Sandy skirted us, and left amazingly blue skies and cool temps in her wake). D2 said, without hesitation, that she wanted to visit my mother and Wifey's Dad at the nursing home. D1 agreed. Where did Wifey and I go right?, I wondered, stealing from the "Producers" song. So we fired up the aging Volvo SUV, took the spaniel and the strange looking rescue dog, and headed to Miami Jewish. I fetched my mother, and the ladies and dogs fetched my father in law. We sat among the majestic old trees, in streaming sunlight, and spend some precious time together. My father in law asked the same questions to my mother, and my mother answered according to her own inner dialogue. We laughed. We beamed. The sausage dog, apparently racist, barked whenever a dark skinned person walked by. We returned the grandparents to their respective buildings, and decamped to a great Greek place, Mandolin, in the Design District. The dogs sniffed other doggy diners, including an ancient dachshund named Wally, and a skittish Westie. We ate healthy, olive oil coated food, as the breezes invigorated the terrace. We came home, and D1 began the assignment I hired her to do: organize ALL our family photos, and prepare all the old VHS videos for transfer to DVD. Wifey, with many qualities, is, well, a clutter lady, and sort of just stuffed everything into the bottom of the wall unit I dubbed "Great Wall of Wifey." D1 is a master. Neighbors and friends hire her to help THEM organize their lives, and she's a natural. She tore through the albums, literally, and while she worked Wifey, D2, and I popped in some old videos. The first was a New Year's party, in 1986-1987, that doubled as our wedding rehearsal dinner. My dear friends, groomsmen to be, were there -- BOYS! Oh my --Drs. Barry and Eric looked like teenagers! Mike looked about the same, though his blonde hair is now silvery, and like me, he has evidence of his great financial success --a big belly. We watched videos from that time through D2's toddlerhood. We smiled at the now dead dogs that were much a part of our lives. Speaking of which, each D spent an entire babyhood and toddlerhood climbing on and being licked by an enormous black lab, Midnight, and a cute spaniel, Alfred. It's no wonder each has such a strong love for dogs. My in laws haven't changed so much in a quarter century. The Holocaust left them old, even in their 60s. But my mother -- ay caramba! She was so vital, and big, and beautiful -- in contrast to the wispy ghost she is now. There were several parties. One was an engagment affair to a fellow who bolted the family before the planned wedding. There was a toast, in which my relative said simply "Let's stick together." It was sadly ironic -- his family is more torn apart than any I know. D1 and D2 danced in the videos, and put on shows. D1 was the embodiment of Gilda Radner's little girl performing alone in her room character. She always had ideas, and they played in her head, as she told us, and she, even at 3, was choreographing ballet performances in Paris, starring herself. D2 was gorgeous, and mercurial --we filmed some of her tantrums. As she watched, she noted, wryly as she does: "This explains a lot." And it did. It showed Wifey and I we were amazingly rich, even back in 1986, when we had no money. We were blessed with love. Our friends were our extended family. We showered our Ds with the love. The videos show them always in my lap, or being chased and then hugged and kissed by me. Wifey asked them: "Do you see why we were and are so crazy about you two -- how adorable you were?" And so it was with Lillian. She, too lived a full life, full of love. She shared it with her children, grandchildren, and one great grandchild. They'll gather tomorrow, and say goodbye and farewell --to whatever awaits her sould. D2 is headed back to UF today, but Wifey and D1 and I will be at the funeral. The rabbi will speak his prayers in Hebrew, and I'm sure Paul will tearffully share his feelings, too. And it will be about love. So much of our time is spent acquiring money, and stuff, but it's about love. And Lillian was so loved. And I'm amazingly blessed to still be loved.