You Never Get Over It

 When my law partner Paul's father died, shortly after I met Paul in 1988, my friend and mentor Ed sent him a sympathy note. Like most of Ed's brilliant writing, it was poignant and concise. I still remember it exactly: "I was about your age when I lost my father. I don't know that I ever got over it. I feel for you."

Like many other Ed-isms, I stole that one, and use it often when a parent of a friend dies. Wifey points out that I also use the one from the Jewish tradition: may the memory of your loved one be as a blessing. What more can we hope for?

So Wifey and I were home Wednesday evening, on St. Patrick's Day, which we didn't really celebrate. Our friend Elizabeth called -- she was feeling sad. Her father had died on St. Patrick's Day years before, and this year his loss was hitting her harder than other years.

Compounding that loss, Elizabeth's mother died 5 days later. The two had been long divorced, and married to others, but were still close -- living in nearby condos in Kings Creek in Kendall. It was as if the Dad dying triggered the Mom's death, too -- she was found gone in her apartment, and wasn't seemingly that sick. When Elizabeth called to say she was returning to Miami for a second funeral, at first I thought she had adopted my dark sense of humor. She hadn't -- we were standing  in that same cemetery off the Turnpike again, the the second time in a week. Very, very sad.

So we talked for awhile, and Elizabeth thanked us for cheering her up. And then the next evening, last night, after a happy day with D2 working here, with her enormous puppy, I had a few vodkas before dinner, and when D2 left, sat alone outside on the front porch -- thinking about the death of my mother. Her yarhzeit, as well as birthday, are less than a month from now.

Ah, Sunny. We still talk of her very often -- her adorable non sequiturs, and decidedly politically incorrect statements. 4:30 p.m. is forever "Grandma Sunny time, " as a result of her visit years before. She was in the back seat of our SUV with the Ds, and we were returning from somewhere, and she sighed and said "Ah -- it's FOUR THIRTY." We asked if the time meant anything, and she said no -- she had just looked at her watch, and her internal narration found it interesting. So if Wifey, or the Ds, or I happen to notice the clock in the late afternoon, we say "Ah -- Grandma Sunny time."

Also, when she learned the svelte D1 was becoming a dietitian, she said "Well she'll do great. Look at her. Who would go to a dietitian who was a big, fat horse?" Of course, the very essence of D1's professional advice is to avoid fat shaming, or healthy at any size, as she says -- but, well, that was my Mom for you.

I was talking to my nephew Henry the other night -- a very wise young man. We were speaking about a very troubled family member -- one with a long history of mental illness and drug abuse. Henry noted that he could never enjoy the moment -- his brain was always tormenting him - or he was focused on imponderable things. Henry noted that he finds joy in the little things in life -- watching people, a beautiful natural setting, a particularly good sandwich.

Henry is his grandmother's grandson, to a T. Sunny, even in her final weeks, living in the nursing home, found joy each day. When I'd wheel her outside, she'd look skyward, and thank Mother Nature for how great the sun felt on her skin. When we'd get ice cream sandwiches at the gazebo at Miami Jewish Home, she'd savor each bite, allowing as to how it was the most delicious ice cream she'd ever had.

And to anyone who thinks a nursing home resident is just a burden, with nothing to offer, I submit my friend Mirta as contravening evidence. Mirta would often visit my mother, and says it changed her life -- seeing how one, even in the final days, and wheelchair bound and incontinent, could show such joy, and such appreciation for each moment on the planet.

And Mirta's frequent visits brought us closer as friends, too. I call her my sister of another mister now.

So no, when you lose a beloved parent, you never do get over it, as my mentor Ed knew well. Hell -- he died in 1993, and I still think about him a lot -- typically when I encounter a dumb ass lawyer, and I wonder WWED (What Would Ed Do?).

Sunny turned 93 on April 13, 2013, more or less. There was some question about her actual birthday -- but she always used the 13th and proclaimed it her lucky number. She died two weeks later, on April 27th, in the morning. I wasn't with her -- I had gone home to sleep, and was literally right next door to Miami Jewish Home getting gas for my car when the Center called to say she had just passed.

No -- I never got over it. I most certainly never got over my Dad's death, and that was back in 1982 -- the year before I met Wifey. She started dating a still partially messed up guy, and now, close to 4 decades later, is married to a partially messed up guy.

I feel for our friend Elizabeth. May her parents' memories be for a blessing.