myjourneysinsight

I’LL STILL SEE YOUR LOVE EVERYWHERE

Posted on June 11, 2012 by Judy

I am wondering what made me laugh in this picture. I can still laugh easily, so that’s a good thing!

I begin my post by sharing some email correspondence with my cousin, Dorothy.

Judy,

I just listened to the recording of the funeral that you made for me. Thank you for sending it to me. I hope that you are getting your strength back. You do so much and make such a difference in so many lives. Take care, Judy.

Love, Dorothy

Thanks for your message, Dorothy. I am feeling more energetic today. My colitis problem reappeared a month ago and it has depleted me. I am hoping it will resolve soon.

I hope I can help other people. I am very human with many strengths and frailties. I plan to finish my audio book over the summer and look forward to the next phase of my journey.

Love, Judy

Judy,

Do you have any idea what is going to happen when you publish your book? It is going to touch so many lives. You have no idea how your words have touched my life alone. You are going to be just as successful with your words as you have been with your artwork. What a surprise you have waiting for you.

I hope that you are feeling better. Remember the words of your parents, take care Judy.

Love, Dorothy

Oh Dorothy,

I have tried not to anticipate anything with my book. I have been blessed already by touching people and accept that even if my book goes nowhere, I have healed. I am already excited to think about what my next book will entail. Over the past few months, I’ve started an outline and continue to improve the songs for that book. I just love what I am doing and that is what is important.

I can’t imagine how I’ve touched your life. You’ve always impressed me as a very loving and “together” woman. It’s hard for me to think I’ve added anything to that mix!

Today, I felt tears inside while looking at my Verizon bill. There was my dad’s phone number and total number of minutes used last month. I began to realize there wouldn’t be anymore phone minutes with him and it is painful. I am missing him very much.

My mother is on the upswing, lately. She came over for lunch. She did say, “Dad is dead,” but no sadness has registered with her. I remember how she was so angry when he got sick and wasn’t around. I think she mourned him back then. I am glad she isn’t suffering. She is eating really well and yesterday Miriam took her shopping to buy some blouses. She loved it. Your message made my day, Dorothy.

Love, Judy

Ps. I am sharing a picture from lunch with my mother and Miriam. My mom is wearing the new blouse I love because it has a butterfly on it!

Judy,

You asked how you touched my life. Well, when I read all that you went through you did not just give up. You continued to find a way and you did it through your writing and your singing. I admired you so much for coming out stronger and better for all that you’ve endured. This is how you touched my life.

–

I hope that now your journey will be much easier and you will get back all that you gave.

Love, Dorothy

–

Oh Dorothy, I have already gotten back everything I’ve every wanted. I’ve seen my children thrive and blossom, despite the challenges they’ve faced. My writing and music are like icing on the cake, because I’ve always had the satisfaction of being an artist. I never expected that I would allow myself to pursue something else that could bring me even more joy.

Every day, I am reminded of the miracles my children are. All three of them are doing spectacularly. I did a lot of advocacy and I see the payoff. I used to think that was my writing pursuit – to inspire people about what advocacy could do. However, my children prefer to be anonymous and I don’t blame them.

So it is wonderful that I have other avenues I can pursue now. Giving up was never an option for me. I am glad I touched your life. I also watched what you have done with your three beautiful children and you and I are the same.

Love you, Judy

Judy,

I read your e-mail with such a smile on my face and a wonderful feeling in my heart. Not only have you accomplished so much, but you have taken the time to appreciate it. I am so very happy for you and proud. This is all your parents could of ever hoped for you.

Love, Dorothy

Thank you again, Dorothy. I have so much clarity about everything and this phase of my journey is a very important one. I will continue to keep my head up, focus on my book and music and shower my children with love. I’m not looking to the future.

My goal is truly to take care of myself and be gentle. I need to be my own best friend now, since I no longer have my parents there to support me.

I am grateful to have you.

Love, Judy

My older brother, Norm (at the age of 12), on the walkway in front of my parents’ coop.

A message from my older brother:

There are no words to describe yesterday. For me, it was a mixed day of emotions; sadness that Dad was no longer with us, and happiness that we were finally cleaning up the coop. I always thought that Dad kept a lot of stuff. But I was blown away that it was even more then I ever expected.

Love, Norm

I see my mother’s black purse on the table, and realize I own a purse just like it now. I am five years old in this picture and am the “girlie in red!”

“Watching my life unfold”

Over the past week, I threw myself into my music and I worked tirelessly on vocal editing. I hope to release my audio book and music by the end of summer and I made great progress toward finalizing many of the vocal lines for my songs.

Occasionally, I played my guitar and wondered if I could discover a new song. For the last few months, I have tried to compose something. Several times I had false starts; that was unusual for me. Usually a song just flowed out without me trying to force it. It just seemed like every song beginning wasn’t compelling enough to follow to completion.

But two days ago, that amazing process began again. A new song started to emerge and the first three verses were so gorgeous that I became giddy with excitement. My emerging song was so soothing and healing, that it left me deeply inspired as I went through my day.

Over the past two weeks, many friends have called and emailed to check on me and see how I was doing. I was able to let them know that I was fine. I was amazed at how well I felt. There were no tears or anguish at all. But sometimes, I could hear my head screaming, “You’re father has just died!”

I did have frequent stomachaches and an overall aura of heaviness. The closest thing to feeling sadness, I would describe as having “pangs.”

I tried to ignore those Father’s Day ads, which definitely caused many pangs. Last week, I came across a blank card in one of my father’s paper bags at the nursing home. It was quite yellowed; he had saved it a long time and I knew he had wanted me to give it to him. My father hated anyone to buy him gifts and deeply disliked any attention. He didn’t want me to go to any trouble for him by having to buy a new card.

–

“Saying Goodbye”

I want to write about my experience of saying goodbye to my childhood domain, yesterday. With that, I definitely faced many more “pangs.”

Perhaps I was lucky to have never moved as a child. I lived at an address with a big “6000” on it from the time I was a year old until I was married at the age of 21. It was an apartment/coop where my parents raised their three children, and it has always been significant for me to mention that there was only one bathroom in it for five people.

With my father’s death, it became time to clear it out and sell it. The money would help to pay for my mother’s companion, Miriam.

I was impressed how my oldest son took on the responsibility to help clean it out. I never anticipated that and I didn’t ask him. He began the process on the afternoon when his grandpa died. I was glad he did, because it was better that he did not witness his grandpa’s last breath.

My son told me that he was doing this because his grandfather entrusted him to do it. They often went to the apartment together as an outing from the nursing home. It wasn’t easy for my father to get up the stairs and my son practically carried him. Each time they had an outing there, I asked my son if much was accomplished. My son would say, “Grandpa wouldn’t let me touch anything, so I just sat there and waited.”

When I found receipts in my father’s wallet from the dinners he had at Numero Uno with my son after those outings, I definitely felt pangs. I knew my father had saved them because it was a reminder of one of his greatest joys, until the end.

–

From the moment my son started on this task, he never showed how overwhelming it was. But he often called to ask me what he should do. I explained what to look for and told him that I trusted him to put most everything in the trash except for anything resembling photos or memorabilia.

I was very touched when my son expressed the desire to hang onto every piece of my old artwork – even items I planned to discard. He said, “Mom, you’re a famous artist and I know these are worth a lot of money!”

I laughed, and tried to explain to him that I was not a famous artist and those childish pictures weren’t valuable. He wouldn’t hear it and I was jumping with joy inside knowing he felt that way about me.

After a week, he told me that he had only gone through less than half of the items in that apartment. He sorted the items into piles in the kitchen area and living room. At the end of the week, I finally stepped in and ordered two large dumpsters for $190. In only one day, those dumpsters were completely full and it was apparent that many more were needed.

On Sunday, I was ready to see what remained. My son kept telling me how much better it was since he had already cleaned out so much. As I drove to meet my oldest brother, husband and son at that old apartment, I was grateful for the new song that continued to play inside my heart and mind.

I had long envisioned this day. For many years, I had wondered what my father kept under the many tarps in our patio or in the carport storeroom. The patio was tiny and there was never enough room to play because of my father’s encroaching piles. My parents fought quite often about the number of things my dad kept saving. I would hear my father beg for forgiveness and promise my mother that he would discard things. My mother did not believe him, for good reason because his “stuff” simply migrated to other areas. Somehow, my mother kept his problem at bay, because it certainly would have been much worse if she hadn’t gotten angry.

The irrationality of his hoarding always stunned me, because my father was such an intelligent man. When my father visited me, he always carried folders of old newspaper clippings to share with me; there were articles that he had saved for decades. I was often impatient and irritable to see the things he saved for me and didn’t hesitate to tell him so.

I parked and walked slowly toward my childhood abode. I had my camera and took my first picture of the big “6000.” As I came down the walkway to the patio where I would go in, I was startled to see how enormous the lemon tree on the patio was now. I remembered when my mother planted it so she could have lemons for my father’s tea. It was only a tiny bush then.

–

A memory returned about how as my mother declined, it became too hard for her to water anything on that patio anymore. That tiny garden was her pride and joy. Now it was hard to navigate through the patio. There were many thorns to dodge from an overgrown bougainvillea. My husband had brought clippers to cut it back.

–

As I came to the patio door, I could see that my brother was already inside. We hugged and then together we looked around. Both of us were horrified at the amount of work ahead of us. I could see that my brother looked sad. We both shook our heads as we looked at what our father had cluttered up our lives with.

Side by side in the dining room, we started tackling one box at a time. Our voices chimed in unison, as we would both exclaim, “Take a look at this!”

There were chocolate coins, which were at least 40 years old. My brother saw his acceptance letter to law school and into the trash It went. I glanced at a royalty statement from my maze book that was for $11.

I came across a lot of old artwork, and I laughed at one envelope my father had saved with the words on it: “Judy, rejected this.” I know he asked me whether I wanted those things, and when I told him I didn’t, he decided to save them anyway.

I will be writing more stories about my old artwork, for sure.

My father had a stamp obsession, and saved cancelled stamps on envelopes in a ridiculous quantity. Those stamps were cancelled and had no value whatsoever, so they went into the trash. However, sprinkled throughout were amazing trinkets from my childhood, as well as memorabilia that made my eyes pop out. I set aside an area for items I planned to take home.

I came across a view master toy; it was one I used to love. I had put it into a trash box, when my husband said, “Don’t throw it away; it could be worth something!”

I hardly had the thought of that. I wasn’t interested in selling anything; I just wanted to be done with this process. My own life needed organization and the last thing I wanted was more clutter to add to my own home.

I enjoyed seeing many old letters, cards and correspondence. I put piles into boxes to read at another time. I told my brother, “I have enough material now to keep my blog going with pictures for at least another ten years!”

–

But as the day wore on, the pangs began to come in waves. Seeing my father’s tassels and his thesis was sad. It took him twenty years to complete his doctorate at USC. He once told me that it wasn’t worth it to him, because it took up so much of his energy and he never liked being called Dr. Goodman.

–

What really got to me was seeing my mom’s old recipe box. She cooked all the time when I was growing up. I have had little desire to cook for the last twenty years. What would I do with all her old recipes? I couldn’t throw them away, so I put them aside.

All the dust began to blacken my hands and I was coughing, too. As I organized my mother’s knick-knacks, I gazed wistfully at those special items she had treasured. What would I do with them? I hated having little decorative things in my own house. I ended up putting them into the box to take home.

My son kept bringing me boxes of pictures. I had put together my father’s slide show and poster montage with only a few albums of pictures and now there were quite a few more. I looked at the old photos of people I remembered as a child and was transported back in time. The pictures of my father when he was so young were beautiful for me; because it was the very first time I had ever seen him that way. My entire life, I never could picture him as a child.

–

My father with his parents as a young boy.

I entered my old bedroom. After a week of trash removal, my son told me that sunlight could now enter the room. My bed, which had been covered for at least 30 years with “stuff,” was now visible. I was reminded of the many pictures I had shared on my blog with that pink bedspread.

–

In my parents’ bedroom, I could see their closet was still full of clothes. I was sad seeing them because both my parents had shrunk to a fraction of their former bodies. When I opened a bedroom drawer, I looked at my mother’s undergarments and other items with extreme sadness. The pang that stabbed me really hurt this time.

–

My mother’s dresser. Her wedding picture was on it.

I knew that it had finally hit me. For decades, my parents’ home was always there. It was a place where I felt safe and secure. And that was all over.

There were only memories to hold onto now.

But I did not want to have this memory, of seeing trash everywhere!

There was so much work left. I could easily see that this was far more than I could handle. It had been several hours, and it was obvious that it would take months to clean at this rate. This was too hard.

I wasn’t sure whether I would come back and do this anymore. I knew my son could handle what was left and I trusted him to save memorabilia for me.

–

Life is all about growing up and change.

“I love you with all my broken heart”

I came home with many boxes to sort through; I was exhausted. After dinner, when it was cooler, I began to look at a few envelopes. There was one that said “Jason” and I wondered what my father had saved.

–

The items related to my deceased son, Jason, that were in my father’s envelope. The tiny shirt tag with Jason’s name on it was very sad.

I looked at every item, and each one gave me pangs.

My father had saved a stack of funeral programs, at least 25. He had also saved a lot of grief literature. The letter requesting blood donation made me sad.

There was a pamphlet that explained congenital heart defects, and I remembered reading it all those years ago. Jason’s old medical card, his drawings and sympathy cards were items that always touched me. But when I saw a tiny label torn from a shirt with Jason’s name on it – a huge pang began to pummel my heart.

I slowly read a Mother’s Day card I had written to my mother the first year after Jason’s death. My heart was definitely broken back then. I was getting tired because there were so many cards. I glanced at all of them, but there were still no tears.

–

I could hear my new song playing louder and louder in my mind. I still had not written a chorus, but I knew it was coming.

The last card gave me a smile.

I had found the perfect Father’s Day card for my father in heaven. I was glad he had saved it.

And I was happy knowing that he was able to see it long before he died.

Clicking on this makes it larger.

© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Tagged "sandwich generation", Aging Parents, childhood memories, composing, Daily Life, father's illness, GRIEF RELATED, hoarder, hoarding, inspiration, loss, lyric development, original songs | 3 Comments

HOW HARD IT IS JUST SAYING GOODBYE

Posted on June 3, 2012 by Judy

My nose is in the reflection!

Last week, I went to meet the rabbi who would officiate at my father’s funeral service. I had not been back in many years to the temple where I was married and had gone to Hebrew School.

My parents had purchased for a significant amount of money a memorial plaque to honor my dead son, Jason. I had never seen it and had no idea where it might be located.

After our meeting, I saw a long hallway lined on either side with memorial plaques. It seemed tedious and unlikely that I would find Jason’s plaque easily. Jason’s twenty-fifth birthday was the day before. I felt peaceful as I remembered him. Once again, I was aware that my healing was real because the sadness was gone. I told my brother and sister-in-law that it wasn’t necessary to look for it.

My sister-in-law gasped and proclaimed, “There it is!”

I took pictures and reveled in how that was a sign that Jason was with me.–

–

My days have begun to go from blurry into some semblance of focus. I was back recording vocals and audio for my book two nights ago. There was no question that it was healing for me to be doing that.

A month ago, I had finalized the vocal line for my song “You Were There.” But with my father’s death, I ended up deciding to do a lyric rewrite. Here was the original lyric line:

“Although I try, I just can’t say goodbye to someone whose loved me all of my life.”

First, I changed the tense to “someone who loved me.” And then I revised it further:

“Although I try, it’s hard to say goodbye . . .”

The main reason for that change was that I was saying goodbye to the best of my ability.

When I wrote the original line of “I just can’t,” it was an expression of fear about impending loss and my inability to deal with it.

I also say “it’s hard to let go,” in my song “Set You Free.” I am honest because when you deeply love someone, there is no doubt that letting go and saying goodbye is very difficult!

The musical of my life fascinates me. My songs are like an emotional fabric of my life. They are all subtly connected and sewn together in a myriad of ways.

It also occurred to me that in my song “Saying Goodbye,” I say “But I should have known how hard it is just saying goodbye.” So now, I use the description of hard in three of my songs.

All of my songs continue to help me. I listened to my song “So Real” this morning and appreciated how my lyrics expressed disbelief. Although I have not felt anguished, I sure have missed being able to call my dad.

I gave his cellphone to my youngest son. Such an oversight – my youngest son called his older brother with it and almost caused my oldest son to keel over with a heart attack. His caller ID showed “Grandpa” was calling!

I have written that with Jason’s death, an opera played over and over in my mind. It is interesting how that has been happening with my father’s death. Although Jason’s opera had no melody or music, my song “Set You Free” continues to play over and over as I see the moment of my father’s death replayed throughout my day.

I accept it and I understand that it is my mind’s way of trying to grasp the concept that my dad is physically gone forever. But in so many other ways, he is still with me. Hearing how much he touched other people has been very meaningful for me.

A family friend wrote a beautiful tribute. I want to share that message below:

I was six when we moved to Oxnard Street into a tri-plex. Lee and Shirley, Norman (3-years-old), and Howard (2-years-old), lived downstairs in the front unit. My brother Stuart and I soon became “pseudo” family to Lee and Shirley.

Lee saw to it that every crisis we faced, we faced as one extended family. My father’s health and eyesight were deteriorating slowly from diabetes. Lee taught my mother to drive so she could be part of a carpool to Madison Jr. High. Then in latter years my mother drove my father to downtown L.A. every morning at 5 a.m. and they continued his sales business together there for almost 20 years.

Our father could not “fix” anything. Lee could fix everything! He came upstairs at in-human hours, to rescue us from an exploding garbage disposal, a gurgling overflowing toilet, a flat tire, Stuart’s pants caught in his bicycle key chain, and numerous lost keys and broken windows. My father kept his Tallas in the trunk of his car and on Yom Kippur would walk alone to Chandler and go alone to the Orthodox Shul. My only connection with the joys of being Jewish took place in Lee and Shirley’s home. We were invited to Passover and Chanukah’s celebrations. Their home became my model for raising my own family. Today, my daughter has a kosher home and her father-in law is a well-known Modern Orthodox Cantor.

Shirley and Lee treated my brother and I like their own children. Our birthdays were always remembered with gifts Shirley wrapped just for us. Events in our lives were shared and cherished together. When my father passed, Lee and Shirley continued to care for my mother. They never allowed my mom to feel left out or forgotten. Most Jews spend a lifetime waiting for the coming of the Messiah. That was not the case in my family; the “Messiah” was just a telephone call away. His name was Lee Goodman.

One more note: While driving I thought back to my childhood to the happiest day I could recall. My mother met me in the kitchen as I came home from school and she was gasping in anticipation of telling me all our prayers had been answered. My mom’s eyes were glazed as she screamed, “Guess what? Shirley is having a girl!”

I can’t remember my mom ever being more excited!

Love, Elaine

I love this picture of my parents. They both look radiant and happy.

As I close, I want to write about a special lunch from yesterday. I went with my oldest son, my brother, Norm, and sister-in-law, Jo, my mother and her caregiver, Miriam to IHOP (The International House of Pancakes). It was my father’s favorite restaurant.

Our family went there almost every week, and the manager and staff always welcomed us and saved a special area in the restaurant, which my dad loved. The manager, Jean, hugged me as a walked in and wiped tears away from her eyes when she heard the news. I shared with her what my brother had said at the funeral.

My brother, Norm’s eulogy ended with the line, “Dad, I hope there’s an IHOP in heaven!”

My mother was in excellent spirits. She seemed a little more alert than usual and definitely enjoyed seeing all of us around her. In many ways, the obvious things about my father’s death were in front of her eyes. Aspects of my father dying and funeral arrangements were openly discussed in front of her. When she was at my home after his funeral, she looked at his slide show and posters carefully. Nothing seemed to register, because there was no apparent sadness.

Her caregiver, Miriam, did tell me that occasionally she still asked where my father was. She also told a grandchild a week before he died, that my father was already in heaven with her brother and sister.

A good friend said to me, “Did you ever tell your mother straight out that your father died?”

That had me thinking. Honestly, she was right because everyone went around it. I had even told my mom to say goodbye to my father while he was dying. She said, “Goodbye, honey!” but it was clear she didn’t realize her goodbye was forever. It appeared he was only sleeping and snoring on that day we visited.

During our lunch, I mentioned this to my brother. He wiped his brow and told me maybe it was better she wasn’t aware. Although I understood on some level, I told him I was going to go for it.

The table became quiet as I said, “Mom, that big party on Thursday at my house was for dad. He died last week. And do you remember when I took you to his bedside so you could say goodbye?”

My mother’s face lit up. She became animated as she clasped her hands together and giggled. “Thank you, I am so glad you told me!”

It was obvious that she was delighted to have been included with the information.

My brother added, “Mom, he’s with Jason now!” Then he also mentioned her brother and sister.

My mother grinned happily as she said, “And mamma, too!”

I wondered what she meant by that. But it wasn’t hard to figure out.

Our lunch continued and my mother’s face shone. We all told my mom how our father told us she was the best part of his life.

Clicking on the blue link below will play an 11-second audio recording of my father’s voice:

My father’s words about the best part of his life

I learned many things I did not know about my father when I made a 28-minute recording with him a year before he died. I was very open when I told him that it would be difficult writing his eulogy some day without knowing more details.

So I asked him to share with me more information about his life. I wished we had made more recordings than just that day, because he was tired from his illness. He wasn’t able to finish telling me as much as I knew he could. My father was a history teacher and loved embellishing everything about his life by including historical facts. When I tried to redirect him on the tape he became upset and said, “You cannot expedite me!”

I encourage all people to try to have such open dialogs and make recordings before their parents’ die.

It is wonderful to have this form of legacy. It is already too late for me to do this with my mother because of her dementia.

There were time constraints at my father’s funeral. I had planned for more to be shared about my father’s life, but it wasn’t possible for everything to be included. I realize that I indulged myself by singing and sharing my joy.

–

When my mom received her AA degree, my father was beaming with pride. My mother was a few credits short of getting a BA; she gave up in order to help me with Jason when he was sick.

My older brother and I, gleaned some facts from that recording and together wrote out a list of relevant facts about my father’s life. I am glad that I now have an opportunity to share them here:

FACTS ABOUT MY FATHER, LEE GOODMAN:

Lee’s mother escaped from Cossacks in the Ukraine by jumping a fence, which was taller than she was. Her brother, (Lee’s uncle), was brutally murdered as she ran. She came to the United States (Brooklyn) on a ship.

Lee was born in Brooklyn, delivered by a midwife who couldn’t spell. She made 9 mistakes on his birth certificate. She decided to put his name as Leo Pold (instead of Lee), because there was a king by that name in Belgium.

His mother put the wrong age when he entered school so he skipped Kindergarten completely. He also skipped seventh grade because he was so smart.

He grew up in the town of Brownsville, which he said was considered the “dregs” of New York.

His parents took him to Pickens Avenue for outings, which he loved. He could get a yam for 3 cents and an ear of corn for 1 or 2 cents.

He was an only child. My mother once confided to me that he told her for the first time after Jason died, that he had a sibling who had died. I asked my father about that and he said his mother told him once that “he was not her first and only.” When I asked him more about it, he told me that he knew nothing else. He said he did not question his mother about it.

His parents owned a grocery store. They were one of the very few places that extended credit during the depression. It was a hard life and they worked all the time. When an A & P Market opened up down the street, it put them out of business.

Lee enlisted in the army during WWII so he wouldn’t be drafted and could then finish his last year of high school without interruption.

After the war, he went to training camp in Texas. He took a test and was accepted to dental school in San Francisco. He said he opted to skip it because “he wasn’t built to be a dentist.”

While in New York, he took dancing lessons and became an excellent ballroom dancer.

He moved with his parents to California because his father had progressive MS and the weather was better. His father died at the age of 44, when he was dating my mother, Shirley.

He met my mother at a dance at Temple Aliyah in Hollywood. He saw her across the room and said, “She was the one for me.”

My mother had a boyfriend at the time, but he was a hypochondriac. My father won her over. He asked her mother and brother if he could marry her. When I asked him why he didn’t ask her father, he said that my mother’s father was extremely religious and busy praying.

My mom’s brother, David paid for their wedding. There were 25 people.

My father taught my mother how to drive. He chuckled as he told me that one day he surprised her and took her for her driving test. That way, she wouldn’t have anticipated it and been nervous. He was delighted to share that she passed the first time.

My parents were married 61 years and had three children: Norman, Howard, and Judy.

My father worked for the L.A. Unified School District as a math and history teacher for 15 years. He worked at Grant High School, which was across the street from our house. Grant opened in 1959, the year I was born. My father always told me that I was the first baby born to faculty there.

My father was promoted to work as a supervisor at the Board Of Education in downtown Los Angeles. His department was Career Education. For many years, my father taught Algebra at night at L.A. City College.

My father earned his PhD over a twenty-year period under the mentorship of Dr. Peter, who was the creator of the term “the Peter Principle.”

My parents lived in the same co-op for over 50 years in North Hollywood. My father was a pack rat and filled every inch he could find with his treasures.

My father said that the best thing in his life was his wife, Shirley and his three children and numerous grandchildren.

When my mother became ill and my father could not cope, they moved in with me for a year until there was an opening at The Jewish Home for The Aging. They lived there in assisted living until my mother fell and broke her shoulder. She had complications and was on a respirator for seven weeks.

My father was devoted to my mother and always worried about her. He made sure she was cared for until the very end.

–

My cousin, Dorothy, gave a beautiful eulogy at my father’s funeral. In this picture, I was not yet born. She spent the summers with my parents and brothers.

My father at age 13 on his Bar Mitzvah. He looks like an angel to me.

I never saw my father as this fit. Wow!

This does not look like my dad. I find it amazing.

This is a picture taken from when my dad taught at Grant High School.

I think he overdid the gel a bit. My father had his hair until the very end. He always had a high forehead, and I think that was because he had an enormous brain in there.

I still feel like that little girl inside.

This is the last picture taken of my father. He is opening a card for his birthday from Norm. He is not happy because we ate at Coco’s instead of IHOP. I am sad about that, but certainly could not have anticipated that it would be his last outing.

Tagged "sandwich generation", acoustic guitar, Aging Parents, composing, creativity, dad's death, death, dementia, father's death, father's illness, grief, GRIEF RELATED, healing music, IHOP, inspiration, International House of Pancakes, loss, loss of a father, loss of a parent, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, Memorial Plaque, memories of dad, Music, music and healing, original songs, saying goodbye, singing, spirituality | 1 Comment

WHEN YOU ARE GONE

Posted on June 1, 2012 by Judy

JUDY’S EULOGY

I just want to thank everyone who is here today to honor my father, and to support our family with this loss. My father was a simple man, but I know he touched many people. I have always been extremely close to my parents, and it was one of my greatest fears that I could not manage without them. Two and a half years ago, I wrote as therapy when my mother became seriously ill. I discovered that I could fill the void with writing and music. After that, my life completely changed.

Certainly, the greatest blessing was that I was able to share my healing and joy with both my parents. Because they suffered alongside of me after the death of my firstborn son, Jason, it was beautiful that they lived long enough to see their daughter happy!

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Jason died in 1992 at the age of five, and I did not speak at his funeral. Being able to stand up here today – with the ability to speak and to sing is a testament to how much I have healed.

Dealing with my mother’s mental decline from dementia has been very difficult and sad. My father and I clung to each other and tried to cope with it as best we could; my father lost his wife and I lost my mother. Over the past year, we became very close, and in some ways that makes his absence hard for me.

One year ago, when my father was in the hospital and I thought he might die, I was inspired to write my song “Set You Free.” My father recovered, but after that he lost his independence and steadily deteriorated. As my father became sicker, there were very few things that brought him joy. His children and grandchildren were always the highlight of his life. Every outing or visit, became the brightest light in his day.

For two years, I have been creating an audio book that tells my fairy tale story of healing from my grief through music. I became even closer to my father when I shared my emerging book and songs with him. The compliment I treasure most in the world was when he said, “You are a terrific lyric writer!” My father was a man of few compliments, so I knew his words were sincere. He told me my book and songs made him cry, because although he knew I was happy, he was sad knowing how much I had suffered with grief over my son’s death. That is why I know he wouldn’t want me to be crying now. Not that there’s anything wrong with tears; I have those, but these are happy ones.

I believe that singing is the best way for me to express my feelings. Although it was challenging to sing before burying my father, it brings back memories of how I sang at my own wedding. My mother was a strong person back then, and it wasn’t easy to go against her wishes; she was adamant when she told me, “Brides do not sing!”

But today, I celebrated the essence of my father by singing from my heart. Everywhere I look, I see reminders of both my parents’ love. I am going to miss my dad, but I know more than anything he wanted me to be happy. I am happy knowing that he is not suffering anymore. He received his birthday wish.

I just know that at this moment, he is looking down and smiling.

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TO HEAR AUDIO, CLICK THE BLUE LINKS BELOW:

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Judy’s performance at her father’s funeral – May 31, 2012

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Judy’s eulogy for her father – May 31, 2012

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SOME AMAZING THINGS I PULLED OFF IN THREE DAYS:

Sorted through boxes and boxes of old photos that were hidden in my father’s closet at his old house

Scanned several hundred photos

Assembled photos into two, huge poster montages

Created a slide show with music

Practiced my guitar so I could perform without fear

Created a handout with my songs’ lyrics and artwork

Wrote a eulogy

Just a few of the stressful things I went through in those three days while trying to do the amazing things:

My father paid for a different mortuary than the one at his burial site. Unfortunately, the nursing home called the wrong one and it I had to pay $375 to get my father’s body released to the correct mortuary.

Just as I was telling my son to be careful because the floor might be slippery since our carpets were wet from cleaning, I slipped and fell flat on my tush. Once again, I had a guardian angel that protected me from harm. But I did walk funny after that.

The mortuary told me that the burial site would have some “additional costs” for me. My father had prepaid all of the costs, right down to 6 copies of death certificates. He would have been appalled by this. Those additional costs totaled $1,800. I was shocked, but paid it; I knew there was no possible recourse. It felt like I was being kicked while lying on the ground.

Those costs were since 2008 when my father paid for everything. There were things like: dirt removal, permits, opening and closing the vault, and many more things that caused my blood to boil. Being in an angry place was not helpful for me. I found out this was a common practice and those extra costs were typical. It’s amazing to me that many people aren’t aware that such a scam exists.

I prepared my home for an onslaught of people as it would be the first entertaining I’ve done in well over two years.

I received a call from the mortuary that there was another plot for a man with my father’s name who was also married to a wife with my mother’s name. Fortunately, we were able to solve the mystery as to which one was correct.

It was sad for me when I realized that I couldn’t call my father to even complain to him about these things. I missed him already.

I love to write and will certainly be back to update my blog again soon. I want to share a few of the interesting pictures I found and one that is from the reception at my house.

Miriam brought my mother to the reception. My mom did not comprehend that my father had died, but enjoyed seeing many family members whom she recognized. In the photo above, my oldest brother, Norm, is on my mom’s right. Her grandson, Sean is on her left. A family friend, Sue, is behind my brother and to her right, is my sister-in-law, Jo.

One of the pictures I scanned showed my mother, Norm and I at Disneyland. How fascinating to see the aging process through pictures!

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Although the picture below has a double exposure, it is one of the few I could find that depicted my friendship with Steve de Mena, who has done more to help me with my music than I could possibly explain. As children, we were inseparable playmates.

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This picture is from the early 1900’s and is of my father’s parents. I only knew my grandmother as a very old Russian immigrant who never smiled. How interesting to see her when she was young!

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This last picture speaks for itself. I wish my father would have allowed me to clean his house out while he was alive. He would have enjoyed watching me discover these wonderful treasures he saved for so many years. The paper Burger King bags he collected, I could do without!

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Tagged Aging Parents, childhood friendship, death, father's funeral, GRIEF RELATED, inspiration, memories of father, memories of parent, Ordinary Life | 1 Comment

WE’LL BOTH BE ALRIGHT

Posted on May 25, 2012 by Judy

I hardly knew what picture to use for this post. I chose this one. It has been so long since I’ve seen my father smile. He is smiling now.

Dear friends and family,

I am sharing the news that my father passed away at 3:30 this afternoon.

It was an amazing experience to witness his last breath and to assist him in leaving his tortured body. The beauty of it will never leave me. I was blessed that I was with him when he died. It was truly the most loving gift he could have given me as I begged him to let go.

I do not yet know about when the funeral will be, but I estimate that it will be probably on Wed. or Thursday of next week. I will email the info when I know.

You are receiving this message from me because I feel close to you and wanted to share my intimate feelings. Sharing has helped me cope, and I am honestly relieved and happy that my father is finally free. I will miss him, but it would have been selfish to expect him to suffer any longer for that reason.

With much love, Judy

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“Day Five”

Yesterday, I wrote: “You know you are a songwriter when you write a song while your father is dying.”

That is true. I am in the process of composing the chorus for a new song, which already has two verses. This happens in my mind, no matter what I am doing.

Today, I can write: “You know you are a writer when you feel the urge to write about the experience of your father’s death while it is still fresh in your mind.”

That is also true. I can close my eyes and be at his deathbed in a fraction of a second. It has only been a few hours since he took his last breath and I am writing because more than anything else it comforts me.

Why is writing so comforting? It is because I am hopeful that by sharing my experience I can touch other people and be inspirational. I feel like there is a light shining all around me. It lights up what once used to be darkness.

I grew up with a lot of fear surrounding death. For me to watch my father die, without repulsion or fear, simply fills me with amazement.

I am no stranger to grief. Grief has been my companion for so long that it would be easy to become intimately reacquainted. But today, my grief has taken a back seat.

I’ve had no experience with watching someone die. My first experience with death was seeing my own child’s corpse four hours after he died. It was shocking and haunted me for many years.

That is why it is so interesting for me that I did not carry any fear with me into this experience with my father.

I am not a doctor – so I can only guess. But I believe my father had sepsis. He did not appear to have had a stroke. He was dying from the constant infection he had been plagued with for almost a year. His catheter was truly a terminal condition and he was always moaning.

Only a few weeks before, I was called by his urologist’s office and told that my father had a resistant bacterial infection again. He was miserable because this time he would be given antibiotics through an IV. I asked what kind of bacteria, and was told E-coli. I knew it was a matter of time before my father would tell me he was done with antibiotics.

When he could not be awakened on Monday morning, which was his 88th birthday, my complete focus was to fulfill my father’s wishes and help him die as comfortably as possible.

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I felt like a midwife coaching a birth. My priority was to get my father through as best I could. But all along, I felt like I was only a coach. To witness the birth would be miraculous.

I did it my way. I rested and made sure to pace myself. My father wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. It was always hard when I left his bedside to go home. I did not know if he would still be alive when I returned. Every goodbye felt as if it were the last.

I wished it were, because watching his body struggle was the saddest thing I have ever seen.

I countered that sadness with the knowledge that this was exactly what he wanted. However, it wasn’t quick enough for me. He could not move, speak, nor swallow. My father was aware of his circumstances up until the end; I saw many signs of that.

An IV would have prolonged his agony and was something he told me long before he adamantly did not want. The hospice nurse told me, “If he had any liquid, it would only end up congesting his lungs in this situation.”

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I made my father this sign when he first went into his facility. He loved to sleep. It’s interesting that his death occurred as if he were sleeping.

“The Greatest Gift”

Last night my father gave me one of the greatest gifts I could have ever received. He indicated to me that he appreciated my presence. It was encouraging.

He might have been snoring with his eyes closed, but I knew he heard everything.

The tiny tear that escaped the sides of his closed eyes was more beautiful than anything in the universe. His clear hand squeezes that night to my oldest son, confirmed it even more.

But today he gave me an even greater gift.

He allowed me to witness his death and soul soaring free.

I was able to leave his side knowing that he didn’t die alone and was free from pain.

I felt so happy that I had become so close to him over the last five years. He lived 88 years and was deeply loved by many people.

11:00 a.m.

I wasn’t nervous as I entered his room. I hadn’t received the phone call announcing his death, so that meant things were still the same.

My son was with me. My oldest brother had already visited my father earlier in the morning.

I could tell it was getting harder for my father. His dryness was even more evident; he was skeletal and had been that way for a while. Watching the effort of his breathing reminded me of a machine that was going until the batteries ran out. Although I knew he was more than ready to quit, his body was not going to oblige.

I asked my son if he could feel my father squeeze his hand. My son said he felt a very slight movement. Then he asked him, “Grandpa, are you in pain? Squeeze my hand if you are.”

My father squeezed his hand. I said, “Dad, do you need more morphine?”

He squeezed my son’s fingers again.

I went to check on when he was due to receive his next dose.

As I walked down the hall, I wondered why a pet could receive a shot to relieve pain and end their tortured existence while my poor father had to suffer. For what purpose was there for him to go through this?

I had entered into this fifth day with all my coping mechanisms intact until I found out that my father was not receiving morphine every two hours as I had instructed his hospice team. I was incredulous. It had been agreed to the day before!

I might not be able to overdose my father, but I wanted to do whatever was in my power to relieve his situation. “His situation” was one I would definitely deem as suffering.

His wish was to be dead, not to be prone on his bed with a high fever and without water for five days.

How can anyone tell me that is not suffering?

My head was pounding as the charge nurse explained to me that hospice had written orders of every four hours, but it could be given every two hours – as needed.

My voice was shaking with anger, “Excuse me, it COULD be given – but that hasn’t been happening. It hasn’t been given because no one wants to make that decision. My father cannot move or talk or tell you he’s suffering. Why take that chance? I trusted that when I left his deathbed last night, he would be given this comfort measure every two hours!”

Within five minutes, calls were made and the orders were rewritten.

I went back to be with him. My heart was racing and tears of fury filled my eyes. I took deep breaths to calm down.

3:00 p.m.

I had left my father’s side during lunchtime so I could briefly visit with my mother. I went home and rested for half an hour. My son planned to go back with me in the evening.

My son said, “I’m going to go over to grandpa’s apartment and start helping clean it. I was going to do this with grandpa anyway today – we had a plan for me to take him and to eat dinner together afterwards.”

I took a shower and decided not to wait until after dinner. The ticking in my head was getting louder. Time was running out. I just knew, I was drawn to go back. I couldn’t wait until evening.

I looked forward to being alone with my father. Then I had an idea. Earlier in the morning, I thought it would inspire me to write my father’s eulogy if I listened to a recording of his memories. I had done this a year ago with him. We both sat in the sunshine as he recounted stories about his life.

I found the twenty-minute recording and put it on my iPod. I brought a speaker so I could play it aloud for my dad.

I came into his room and could see my father was definitely weaker. His pallor was almost completely white. He was struggling to breathe and it was awful.

I tried to moisten his sandpaper lips, but it was useless. All I wanted was for this to all be over.

The room was quiet. I began to play the recording. My father’s clear and strong voice filled the room. I said, “Dad, can you hear your voice? I am so glad we made this recording together! I can listen to it and I’ll be able to have you with me. Everyone will know about your beautiful life!”

His breathing started to relax. He was no longer struggling. I could tell that he was enjoying it. I just knew.

The recording was twenty minutes long. His very last words at the end of the recording were in response to a question. I had asked him, “Dad, tell me, what was the best part of your life?”

My father’s voice on the recording answered sweetly, “Shirley, my beautiful Shirley.”

The recording was finished. I looked over to my father.

His breathing stopped.

Then it started. Then it stopped. I became excited. It was happening!

I said, “Dad, you can do it! Give me the greatest gift you could give me. Be free and go, go to Jason! He’s right there taking your hand!”

My father suddenly opened his eyes. It was for the first time in five days.

He definitely saw something I could not see.

He gurgled and a noise escaped his lips.

It was over.