Whenever I/we go to a funeral, the recognition of just how little time may be left becomes, at least momentarily, unavoidable. R led the good life. I never heard him say a bad word about someone in public. Seemed to love his Kids, adore his Wife and include his Mother in his posse. He was famously a good Doctor who took care of little babies for a living ... those endangered infants who came out just-too-soon ... some, no bigger than a guinea pig. I knew him to be uncomplicated. We attended a prayer-group, together ... I had come there about 17 years ago ... the year before, M had met him in the weeks after his Dad died on the same day that M's Dad, Murray, had.
In those years, R would contribute to discussions ... always in straightforward yet fundamental ways. I recall one discussion where somehow the conversation about the Biblical text turned to the requisite need to think positively about one's illness. R wasn't suggesting a pessimistic attitude but one -- pointedly -- where the ill person didn't have the additional burden of being encouraged to believe that his illness was his fault. That stuck with me, as did, I think, everything else R said. He died two days ago. Yesterday, when I was discussing the weekly texts in front of the group, I heard myself saying and meaning that I remembered what he said more often than what I had. I then heard myself talking about Moses' Blessing/Curses at the end of Deuteronomy, a part of which has always moved me.
"May Z'vulon rejoice in his goings-out and Yisasschar in his ethereal studies."
One of the great commentaries of the 13th C, Simon Yitzchaki, comment, I thought I recalled (I haven't checked, yet) that these two Tribes of Jacob had an agreement. Z'vulon would indulge in what Simon Yitzchaki called in his Old French prakmatia ... pragmatics ... business ... earning a buck. In the meantime his successes would support Yisasschar's studies. Good enough, I recall thinking in Seminary in 1960, but Moses only addresses Z'vulon ... only bothers talking to the Pragmatist. I thought of R. as just such a pragmatist ... decent? always ... a gossip/trash-talker? never. Simpler, as the kids say it in describing the Mosaic distinction:
"Bullshit walks and action talks."
Or as the Poets might say it (like Lerner and Lowe):
"Don't talk of stars, burning above
If you're in love? show me!
Tell me no dreams, filled with desire
If you're on Fire, show me!
... Don't talk of love ... Show me!"
As his sons and Medical Practice partner and Brother spoke, I was to learn much more about R than I knew from our brief supportive moments in our prayer groups; R or I or both of us would show up exhausted after days of caring for sufferers:
"Y'OK?"
"Pretty Good."
I recall no bullshit. And I only was privy to a part of his life ... At the memorial service (what in my tradition is called "accompanying the dead" on their final journey), I was to learn that R. really listened to the Grateful Dead and Bruce Springstein on his way to driving his son last-minute 100 miles to see some great basket-baller? I had no idea that he loved Baseball, Football, was enamored of the local teams, skiing, Fly-Fishing, or that he had really encouraged his two sons to follow their dreams away from the Medical Practices that he, his Parents, and his wife had each built. I hadn't known that he and his wife met 40 years ago on maybe the first day of undergraduate studies or that he had built what his brother called a Full Life that Lady? He used the same expression when he was first diagnosed with Cancer 23 years ago ... "I've had a good ride." I knew none of this. Nor did I know that he'd been invited to testify on a Medical Miracle in the Vatican.
I let the cat out of the bag, didn't I? .... started school 40 years ago? So R was 58 when he died and hadn't yet been blessed with playing in the Fourth Quarter, as I think of it.
But fullness of life isn't measured in linear and equal measures along a stick or by hand shaped pointers running about a circular dial. When at 57, the Cancer returned and even in the many months that followed, it could be said by those who knew him:
We loved you, R ... we'll miss you.
Y'did real good!
