The End of Shiva

So last night the week long mourning period for my father in law came to an end. My mother in law lit candles, and did her own version of a prayer. It was a tough week having her here. We wanted to be sympathetic and understanding, but she made it so amazingly difficult. Then it hit me -- she is our version of the great Seinfeld character Bubble Boy. Bubble Boy is a spoof of the movies, most notably one from my high school years starring John Travolta, where an immune suppressed kid has to live in a plastic bubble, and is so sad and endearing. The Seinfeld version makes the patient a supreme asshole. D2 came up with Bubble Sabta. This is a name with legs, I think. In any event, life moves on, and we had the business of attending to the celebration of D2's birthday. D1 made reservations at Christy's, our go-to celebration restaurant, and invited her boyfriend Joey, home from a corporate cruise. Wifey thought this might be the worst idea I had since trying to make a romantic connection between my cousin Steve and my sister of another mother, Mirta. We never took our in laws to fancy places. But I thought it would work out fine, and it did. The restaurant was packed, and noisy, and after a few aborted attempts at procuring the vital hot liquid, without which my mother in law, attempting to eat, will die, the nice Peruano waiter finally realized he had to nuke the tea, and it was hot enough. And they have chicken, the only thing my mother in law eats. The Ds, Joey, and I enjoyed cocktails, and the enormous shrimp cocktail. The Ds and Wifey had delicious fish, and Joey and I split two steaks (they had run out of prime rib!). The waiter brought some bread pudding with a candle, and we sang for D2. It was a lovely, lovely, evening -- a celebration of the young and living, following the proper mourning of the very old and departed. This am, D1 came back early from Mid Town, with some sort of healthy fruit bowl for her sister. We leave soon for the airport, so D2 can fly back to NYC and her awesome life there. Wifey and I will then return my suegra to her Pembroke Pines condo, and the old woman's new status as a widow. The plan is to move her to Palmetto Bay, to a condo we own and have rented out for the last 10 years, so Wifey will be just a 10 minute drive away, as the inexorable decline of a 91 year old progresses. Or maybe not. The woman is strong as an ox, and mostly sharp. She may easily make 100, or beyond. She told us her maternal grandmother lived to 94 -- on schtetl Poland, in the 1800s. Her own mother was killed young, by the Nazis. So maybe my mother in law is going to be like those Soviet Georgians on the old Dannon yogurt commercial. All I know is, life keeps flowing like a river to the sea, as the Scottish Jew Woolfson sang. And I hope it remains more about celebrating than mourning.

Not A Background Grandma

Now that my father in law has been buried, and Wifey has settled into the week-long period of official mourning, her observations about her mother have come to the forefront. MY mother, Grandma Sunny, was always easy to be around. Even as she declined, and heard little, she was content to be in the room, allowing the activities of the younger people to go on, and when she needed something, would politely and cheerfully ask. She was a pleasure. Wifey noted that in contrast, her mother was not a "background grandma." No, Rachel is deaf, and still peppers all with questions, even though she cannot hear the answers. She was told years ago she would be partially cured by a cochlear implant, a minor surgery to implant, essentially, a deep hearing aid. She refused, making all around her miserable. Wifey has wanted no visitors this week, except for her sister of another mother, Edna. Old friend Jeannette stopped by, as well, and last night Dr. Barry came by after work. My mother in law got him on the couch, and talked at him for quite awhile, before we rescued him by typing out on an IPAD that we wanted to feed him. D2 had come in earlier, and noted how "aggressive" her grandma is. Humor is the only way the situation isn't untenable. For example, Wifey put on the show "Jeopardy" with closed captions, and offered her mother the opportunity to watch. "I don't vatch NO TV -- I am in MOURNING" was the response. So we watched as she sat and looked away, but every so often she would bark out an answer -- her piousness not as strong as she would advertise. Another recurring funny thing is that the strange rescue dog, Vienna, for some reason can't stand the old woman, and barks at her whenever she gets up and traverses the room with her walker. She once nipped her when she tried to sit down, and Wifey and the Ds and I agree that if she ever actually bites my mother in law in the tuches, well, peeing in pants is permitted... So Wifey is coming face to face with the future -- a 91 year old who is absurdly healthy, mostly mentally sharp, and demanding, and petulant, and, well, difficult. My mother in law is largely obese, and yet proclaims her need to "eat healthy." I make her an omelette, she refuses because it's no "egg vites" and then gulps it down like my old Labrador when food fell on the floor. Yes, I feel for Wifey, but these days are just beginning...

Acts of Empathy and Human Kindness

I've made some boneheaded decisions in my life, typically when I follow the advice of people I should realize are not the best advisers. And so it was with my condo purchase, in 2006. Miami real estate was soaring, and D1 was about to leave for college, and I was concerned that neither D would have an affordable place to live after both were done with school. My friend Vince, a good anesthesiologist, but horrible businessman, called me and told me there was a "preview" event for sales at a nearby apartment conversion -- a long time rental community was going condo, and now was the time to buy. I went over with him, and the frenzy in the small sales office reminded me of the one pyramid party I attended in the early 80s. I toured a unit, and one thought struck me -- this looks like the kind of starter apartment Dr. Eric and I rented when we lived together in graduate school, and if I had to guess it's value as a condo, I'd say about $75-$100K. People were literally screaming to buy them for $250K. Vince, the bigger idiot, bought a premium two bedroom unit, with a view of the pool, for about $250K. I, the slightly less moronic investor, bought the unit across from his, for $235K. As I signed the papers, I knew it was a dumb move. We found a tenant, a Burmese, or Myanmarese, whatever, doctor who worked at the VA and was transferred to Miami, and he moved in for $1100 per month. He then bought a place a year later, and the next tenant was a man I'll call Lenny, since that's his name. He was a salesman, and negotiated a rent of $1000. He bounced a few checks, but since we shared a common friend, and he was a nice guy, I let it pass, and started driving to his credit union near MIA each month to cash the checks there. Then the fun started. Another investor moved his white trash kids into a unit, and apparently while having some kind of candle fight, started a fire. No one was hurt, but 1/3 of the complex was ruined. Litigation over insurance followed, but for our unit, the benefit was new windows -- even though I had sprung for storm shutters, the unit got new impact resistant glass -- apparently the code now required it. The place was rebuilt, and then all was quiet -- NOT. The cheap pipes the gonif developer used burst above our unit, flooding it and several others. This time my own insurance kicked it -- drying the place out, and replacing the bedroom carpets with tile. Finally, the place was done and peaceful. Lenny lived there quietly, and I turned over the "property management" to Wifey. The market rates for rent crept up -- by last year, two bedroom units like ours were renting for $1500 per month. As for value -- following the fire, which coincided with the real estate crash, people were selling units like mine for $80K -- a 2/3 drop in price! As I said, I knew it, and went ahead. Shame on me. Last time I checked, the units are selling for $150K. We wanted to sell, but figured the time would come when we'd need to move my mother in law into it -- 10 minutes from our house, on the first floor, and walk to Publix -- actually a good senior living condo. As for the Ds...when D1 returned to Miami from Gville in '10, well, let's just say the thought of a suburban condo in Palmetto Bay paled next to moving to Brickell and the heart of the Miami youthful, city living renaissance. And D2 moved to NYC -- and when she returns to the 305, it won't be to the condo either. So we kept the unit, and after the second year of Lenny's lease, I emailed him and returned his last month's rent and security deposit -- gratuitously, I might add -- and told him we were now month to month, and if he wanted to move, just give me 30 days notice, and I would do the same. And Wifey now agrees it's time to move her mother here -- with her Dad gone, Rachel no longer has the twice weekly visits to the nursing home, and Wifey's case management job of this perfectly healthy 91 year old is going to get tougher. So she emailed Lenny, and told him of her Dad's death, and he needed to move by March 1. Lenny emailed back, offered condolences about the death, said he understood about the challenges of caring for a 91 year old widowed mother, and would start looking, and, by the way, thanks for saving him at least $5K per year on rent over the last 5 years. Ha! As if! He said he "didn't recall" this one month notice thing, and he was in the midst of a very tough time at work, and the last thing he had time for now was to find a new place and move. The truth is, as I told Wifey, the dude probably doesn't have the money necessary to pay security and first and last month, and knows an equivalent unit will now cost at least 50% more. Whatever. Our gravy train has gotten notably shorter, lately. Wifey responded that she understood stress -- she had it now with a dead father and caring for an elderly mother -- and, politely, get the F out by March. Hopefully this will go smoothly, and I won't need the assistance of an eviction lawyer and the Miami Dade police. And I shared the lessons with my Ds -- who like to think people are generally nice and caring, but often are selfish, uncaring, and, well, jerks. So this too, shall pass, and Wifey can now focus on a large undertaking -- moving the elderly woman here, and then selling the unit we own in Pembroke Pines, which has fallen into quite a state of decrepitude since my father in law moved to the nursing home. He used to keep the place up -- my mother in law hasn't. There is peeling wallpaper, and blackened tile grout. We'll have to decide whether to sell it as it, or whether it makes economic sense to put maybe $5K into it, to make it more presentable. One thing is for sure: I won't be asking Vince his advice.

Rest in Peace, FIL

My father in law Richard was a true survivor in every sense of the word. First, through feats of derring do, and tales out of the wildest Hollywood movies, he survived years of the Holocaust, as a prisoner and slave laborer of Nazi camps. Then, he survived not just battle, but special forces missions during the Israeli Independence War of 1948. He was chosen for SF because he was a war orphan, and single, and so the budding military's brass figured no one was left to grieve in the likely event he was killed. Fast forward over 40 years, to his much more prosaic life in Miami. He was married, with a single daughter he revered and prized, and this daughter, Wifey, had now given him a grandchild. The folks in Bethlehem and Jerusalem supposedly made a big deal when a baby was born to a virgin mother about 2016 years ago -- this was probably the equivalent to what Richard felt when D1 was born. Anyway, he passed out while cutting his lawn, and went to his long time doctor, who immediately sent him to Baptist Hospital with about to be fatal heart disease. I sent to VHS films of his tests to Dr. Eric, in training in Boston, and he called and said "He needs the surgery NOW!" So he underwent a quadruple bypass, and came through fine, and afterwards I asked his surgeon, the fine Brazilian fellow Dr. Cesar Brea his prognosis. He replied my FIL would probably have "another 10 good years or so." That was 1989. The surgeon and primary doc each passed years ago, and Richard kept on keepin' on. Part of it was how he cared for himself like, as the Cubans say, a gallo fino, or fine rooster. But I know the real reason is he was truly a survivor. In the 33 years I knew him, I never had a real conversation with Richard. He simply couldn't -- he communicated by barking, and really couldn't listen. There were no talks about life, or career, or, certainly, philosophy. But he made damn sure I knew how much he loved Wifey and my Ds by his actions: "David --did you check the tire pressure? Get good oil only!" He wanted to make sure I kept our women safe, at all times. I did. We moved him to Miami Jewish several months after my Mom became a resident. Richard adored my mother, and would insist their wheelchairs be parked adjacent when we'd get together for meetings in my Mom's beloved gazebo. He'd hold her hand, and my frail Mom would find this painful. When Mom died, in April of 2013, Richard mourned, and kept repeating her final moments, over and over: "She opened de eyes, she closed de eyes, opened, and closed..." And again his survivor instincts kicked in. The average nursing home stay is, as my Mom followed, less than a year. Richard lasted over two and a half, with two hospitalizations to Mt. Sinai, the last a long stint in Intensive Care. After that final one, in July, we decided there would be no more, and called hospice. They took over his care, and I thought the end would come soon. That was half a year ago. Saturday night, Wifey and I went to a lovely neighborhood gathering, a havdala service, which says goodbye to the weekly sabbath. We walked home, and as it was cool, but not cold, Wifey sat with me on our patio, as I lit a fire in my firepit. We talked, and laughed, and her phone kept ringing, with a number she thought was a recurring wrong one from a realtor. She finally answered, and it was the hospice at Miami Jewish -- Richard had died at 10:15. I called the funeral home at, it turned out, the wrong number. So Riverside picked up his body, when the contract was with Levitt. Even in death, it seems, there are mixups. I finally got it sorted out, and Wifey and I drove to Hollywood to make the final arrangements. Even though it was pre paid, they got us for an extra $500, as I knew they would -- shroud, special washing, etc... I thought of my Dad and his hatred for the funeral industry, which led him to cremation -- Mom, too. We then had to go to my mother in law's condo, and break the news to her. She took it...terribly. Even though her husband was dying for so long, and is over 90, I guess after a 67 year marriage, it's still a shock. Wifey had her pack a bag, and is with us for a week. We dropped her off at home, and Wifey's sister of another mother Edna came. She flew immediately from Atlanta -- the only one Wifey wanted at the funeral. Wifey knew that dealing with her mother would be such a headache, she wanted no further hassles, and so made it clear NO ONE else was to attend the funeral. We left mother in law home, to talk at Edna, and went to the cemetery. We confirmed the small chunk of real estate my in laws purchased, part of the Temple Beth Am section. It's funny -- they never would have been able to join that expensive congregation, and in the end they'll get to rest among all the big shots and movers and shakers of Miami... D2 was snowed in in NYC, and couldn't make it. She's arriving Thursday, and will spend the weekend with her grandmother, and us. And so we gathered in out tiny group, in a day of spectacularly beautiful weather. Rabbi Yossi officiated. I spoke, and D1 spoke, and Wifey read a letter from Ds, and added some heartfelt words about her Daddy. And then we shoveled the earth -- lots of it -- as this was an orthodox "full burial" where the family and friends must cover the casket before it is sealed. 90 years of a colorful life, one that truly was a microcosm of modern Jewry -- surviving the Holocaust, fighting to create Israel, and living the American dream. Rabbi Yossi noted that for a man who spent so much of his early life surrounded by people who hate and destroy, he spent the rest of his life building a nation, his family, and showering them with love. And so it was with my father in law, Richard. May his memory be as a blessing. It will for my family, guaranteed.

A Death Scare and a Lovely Sunday

Wifey and I typically visit Miami Jewish Home Sundays, where we see her Dad, now 6 months in hospice, and take her Mother out for lunch. We planned to do so yesterday, when a call came from Carole, my father in law's long time nurse: he looked "not good, wasn't responsive," and we needed to come. So we left a bit more hastily than usual, and when we arrived, Wifey asked me to wait downstairs for her mother, so I might prepare her for what was coming. Being the master of preparation, I called Rabbi Yossi, and told him he might be needed soon. He was on a family trip, in the not very Jewish place of St. Augustine, and would, of course, drive back if needed. Ha. As if. He would see to it that a replacement rabbi would cover the funeral. He would only cut short a vacation for a six figure donor -- as in six figure NOW. He didn't say this, of course, but I intend to happily grind him about this reality when I next see him. I called the Ds, and told them some sad news might be coming. But then -- not so fast! My father in law was asleep, but his vitals were all fine. He basically looked the same to me as he has on some of our recent visits -- like a 90.5 year old man who is dying, but not right away. He gripped Wifey and my mother in law's hands when asked, and seemed, well, so peaceful. I was convinced he would pass last Summer, after a bout of complete sepsis landed him in the ICU at Mt. Sinai Hospital, but he rebounded, strongly. So I'm done prognosticating about the end of my father in law's time here, although if I were a betting man, I'd bet he is going to make 91, this coming May. Wifey and I left and drove the short way to Midtown, where we visited D1 and her boyfriend Joey. Joey bought a unit 6 years ago at a condo there, on a short sale, and we marveled at his 12th floor views of Biscayne Bay and Downtown. Wifey caught up with her grand dog Mads, who seemed to enjoy Midtown. We left, and instead of heading South, were drawn to a pizza place on the first floor, I (heart) pizza. We ordered a few slices, and tasted pizza heaven. It was delicious -- crisp crust -- as good as any classic NY pizza place. The owner, sure enough was an Italian guy from the City -- I complemented him, and he told me in his thick accent to come back soon. Young people and dogs and babies clogged the sidewalks -- it was a lovely scene. It was so nice to see true city living come to that formerly decaying part of the city. We got back into Wifey's SUV, and there was still daylight, and comfortably falling temperatures, so we made a late visit to the U. The Beaux Arts Festival was there, and we strolled among the booths, appreciating the beautiful stuff. Wifey and I are on a strict de clutter program, so we didn't even think about buying anything -- but enjoyed the displays nonetheless. We walked across the new bridge outgoing squat president Shalala had build across the lake, and I told Wifey the tale about how it was funded, which was relayed to me by the Dean of students. We went to a Starbucks (tm) in the new student union, and sat outside, toasting the years we've spent together. Wifey knows how much I love being on campus, and I told her how D1 told me she shares that special sense of place -- she was on campus last week teaching a MS Dietetics class as a substitute for a former colleague from her last job at the med center. So the day went from death vigil to celebration of the best of life. Talk about a microcosm...

A Clean, Well Lighted Place

Hemingway loved a good bar, a refuge from the craziness of the outside world. Unlike my Dad, who wasn't a drinker, I do, too -- a few cocktails with good friends, maybe even some live music, is a great time for me. Two of my favorite spots, Tobacco Road, and Fox's, have closed. I go to the place where my office used to be, Trulucks, but it's a little too nice for my taste. So I'm always on the look out for new spots, and last night I found one. My sister of another mother, Mirta, suggested we try a place called Neme Gastropub, which opened on Coral Way, in the old Roads neighborhood. The Roads was a mostly Jewish 'hood in the 40s through the 70s, and now mostly Cuban. Recently, there's been a gentrification and diversification of the restaurants and bars there, especially close to Brickell. Neme is part of this new wave. I got there first, as usual, and struck up a conversation with bartender Claire, a thin gringa. She told me she's a 4th generation Miamian who went to New World School, and has been a bartender 20 years. She looked to be in her 30s, but I guess she's older. She had stints in LA and Vegas, but is back home, she said. She poured a nice Ketel One martini. Soon Mirta came, and then her friend, and then Carole, my banker friend. The ladies had blackberry martinis, with fresh fruit, and the place got crowded. Mirta knows the cook, AJ, a late 20s UM grad who left his field of study, sports medicine, to pursue his passion. We moved to a table and ate, and it was delicious -- creative chicken and veggie dishes -- my dietitian D1 would approve. They have jazz Thursday through Saturday, but the music starts at 10 pm...we joked we'd all be fast asleep by then. The owner came over, and sure enough, Mirta knew him from 20 years ago -- he owned an import business near the old Miami Stadium, where Mirta worked after high school, and the stores did business. It was a nice reunion. Nene invited us back, and I plan to go. It's a 5 minute drive from my office, even in traffic, and the drinks and food are terrific. A place that gives refuge from the real world -- a true find.

Here Comes the Rain Again

As Dr. Eric noted on the phone last night, this has been the rainiest winter he can remember. It has -- only a few days strung together without rain, and then the northeast-looking gray skies reappear, like today. But the forecast calls for clear and cool later in the weekend, so maybe I'll get to use my favorite possession for the first time this season -- my $59 firepit, bought from Target. I love to start a fire and watch it burn, and if it's not too cold out (above 50), Wifey and a dog or two even join me. I've been at the office most of the week -- meeting new clients in Doral, and assisting my roomie in a fun case -- a rare one, where chickenshit turned into chicken salad. The clients were only in Miami -- a South American Jewish engineer who became a fireman late in life, and also a soccer referee -- beaten up at a private school after he made a call the spoiled rich kid didn't like. Apparently he's going to hire a firm that specializes in "soccer law." Really. But meeting him was worth the effort, especially since my roomie John and I got to have a few Titos and tonics near the victim's house, waiting for the thing that never happens: a dying down of traffic. The other case is one in which there's limited insurance coverage, and the carrier messed up, and failed to settle. We'll get it settled for at least 20 times the policy limits. As I just finished paying thousands for home, auto, and umbrella coverage -- money I'll never get back -- it's nice to get money back from insurance carriers, too. D1 is the world's busiest 27 year old -- she opened her practice, and when not seeing clients, is meeting with all manner of referral folks -- doctors, therapists, etc...She also agreed to teach as a substitute at the U -- she told me she loved it -- and maybe will make that a steady, part time gig. D2 is fighting a cold in the bleak NYC winter -- I told her she is now an official New Yorker -- miserable. Wifey and I are headed there in less than 2 weeks, to celebrate her 24th birthday and wonder how it was just a few months ago we took home a big baby from South Miami Hospital. In disappointing news, I did NOT win the $1.5 billion Powerball drawing. Well, actually I did -- I got the powerball correct, and will collect $4. I was already making plans for the Dave Foundation, where I would work full time figuring out which charities to give to, and setting up the new big family business devoted to tzekekah. Oh well, not yet. I figure I still have to ground out a few more shekels the old way... Wifey and I had an evening out of the ordinary -- my old friend KEnny and his wife Joelle took us to see Seraphic Fire -- a local chorale group that played in a Greek Orthodox church -- and it was awesome. They sang so beautifully -- old Negro spirituals, and other Appalachian folk tunes -- we left truly elevated. Kenny's cool Aunt Judy came along -- in from Reston, Va. I last saw her 26 years ago, and our meeting became family lore. I had one year old D1 for the day, and we drove up to see Kenny's grandparents in Hallandale. D1, always a cheerful baby, was fussing, and unhappy. When I changer her diaper, Judy pointed out that I had put her outfit on inside out, so the zipper was cutting into D1's little neck. When I reversed it, she became the happy baby again, and I became the butt of countless clueless Dad jokes, all well deserved. So into the rainy Friday I'll slog -- looking for fun, as always, and laughter.