The Worst Day Of My Life

 So the Jewish holiday of Tisha B'Av is Sunday -- considered the saddest day of the year, as it commemorates the destruction of both holy temples. Also, apparently, other bad stuff happened on the same day. Oh well, it also happens to be my birthday -- I'm turning 60. So in all due respect, I don't plan to be very somber on Sunday. I happen to think the Big Man is ok with a little mixing and matching...

On the other hand, July 14, 1982 WAS the worst day of my life. I tell the tale each year, but the event of that day is one I never got over, and never will: my Dad died, in my arms.

I was having a wonderful, early 80s, college man Summer. I had come to terms with the fact that I was NOT meant for medical school, and my grades the last semester were a perfect 4.0. I was thinking what I might do with a BA in English -- long before the "Avenue Q" song, and pretty sure I'd apply to law school in the Fall to begin the following year. The first real love of my life had broken up with me the prior January -- not wanting to end up with some schlepper English professor, or worse, starving writer, and I had come to terms with the fact that it was for the best.

I was working a summer job at Jordan Marsh in a mall in Boca, with great co worker friends there and a comically inept manager named Jackie who told us all she was French when she was Haitian. My friend and co-worker Michael, like me an undergrad but at Michigan State, LOVED to accidentally on purpose ask Jackie "Back in Haiti, um I mean France, Jackie..."

My dear UM friends Eric and Barry were also working -- Eric as a camp counselor and Barry at the Movies of Plantation, and we'd get together and party well. All in all -- a great summer for this rising senior.

And then it wasn't. Dad had a heart attack, and recovered. He was home for a week, and set to see his doctor, Heller, for a follow up. I had plans to go to the beach with my friend Donna and her cousins from Wisconsin, and Dad asked me to go with him and Mom -- "in case the doc wants me back in the hospital -- to be there for Mom." I was annoyed -- I had been there for him during the hospital stay, and he was clearly all better now -- couldn't I go party? I could, of course, but never turned Dad down -- and off we went, first to the doc, who said he was fine, but maybe eat better, and then to lunch.

We went to Morrison's Cafeteria, and I chose the brisket. Dad hated fish, but said "Well, might as well start with more fish now," and thus chose what would be his final meal something he didn't like. I never turn down the NY Strip...

After lunch, he wanted a haircut, and so we went to a strip center with a Publix -- Mom went to do some shopping, and I sat in the chair reading SI. The haircutter was a young girl, about my age, with a mohawk and piercings, but very friendly and nice. And then Dad slumped over, and she freaked, but called 911, and we both gave him CPR until the Delray paramedics came. But I knew he was gone.

Mom walked in on the scene, and froze. I hugged her and said everything would be fine, but I knew it wouldn't. We followed the fire rescue truck to Bethesda Hospital, and were directed to a waiting room. About 30 minutes later the young ER doc came in, and wouldn't talk to us -- protocol I guess demanded a social worker be present when informing of a death. The poor fellow nervously fumbled while waiting, and finally I said "Listen doc, just tell us -- my Dad died?" He nodded. I couldn't abide stupid protocols -- even as a 20 year old.

And we went home. Without Dad. He wanted no funeral, and so the Neptune Society came and got his body and he was cremated and his cremains were spread in the ocean off Pompano Beach, according to a letter they sent us.

I spent the next days, including my 21st birthday 4 days later, picking up my then LI sister and her family, and California sister and her baby boy. Eric and Barry met me at a fern bar near FLL -- I drank too much beer and probably ought to have let my brother in law Dennis drive home, but hey -- what are ya gonna do?

And all of this was 39 years ago today. Wow. Nearly 4 decades.

Of course, July 14 has good stuff, too. My man Norman's wife Deb's birthday is today. I hope they're celebrating well. My dear friend Mike turns 60 today. I hope he and Loni are playing "Strict teacher and the naughty student" as I write this.

Yesterday D2 and Jonathan went to the funeral for Jonathan's cousin -- finally recovered from the Surfside collapse. Wifey drove to see the grandson. All three got stuck in awful traffic, as local Cubans decided the best way to win freedom for their old country was to shut down the Palmetto for the afternoon, causing a carmageddon. It's ok -- they all made it home fine, and Jonathan and I hit some Stoli Elit and I played old songs on the Sonos.

But man, I still miss my Dad. Terribly. I wish so much he had been around to see me graduate college. And law school. And marry Wifey, and have the Ds. He'd have laughed at my making some shekels, too -- always able to afford the double stuffed corned beef sandwich at the local deli.

So here's to your spirit, Dad. The obvious lyric to me has always been Dan Fogelberg's: "My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man." Actually, not really a poor attempt.