A Few Miles Off

The woman in the light blue tracksuit looked to be in her late seventies. The man sitting beside her seemed to be in his early sixties.

“This is my husband,” she said, beaming as she introduced us. He gave a slight nod while looking off in the distance. He didn’t speak. She lifted his hand and placed it gently on her leg as my mother and I smiled, nodded, and walked off to see my dad.

“Seeing those two breaks my heart,” my mother said. “But it’s worse when the man’s actual wife visits. She has to watch her husband and this stranger holding hands. They don’t seem to know who she is or why she’s there.”

My father was waiting for us in a chair in his room and he was happy to see us. He didn’t know that he was in memory care. Or if he did, he didn’t let on.

His late-night wanderings and growing need for physical assistance had become too much for my mom to manage on her own, so she moved him from their apartment to this facility a few miles away. He thought that my mom lived in the room across the hall and went into her room at the end of the day when he went into his.

He wasn’t wrong. He was just a few miles off.

My dad knew who we all were and said he liked this “new apartment building” well enough. “But the food is inedible,” he said. “It tastes metallic.” I could see how skinny he was becoming, skeletal even.

One afternoon I brought him a chocolate milkshake from Homer’s Ice Cream. He sucked it down, nodding approvingly every few sips. I was happy to see him enjoying it through the extra-wide plastic straw.

My dad got sleepy after his milkshake, so I got up to go. The nurse said she would take him to his room in a few minutes, so I kissed his forehead goodbye and drove to Neiman Marcus to shop for a tuxedo. My son Alex was getting married in six weeks. My wife already had her dress and reminded me that tailoring a suit can take some time.

We knew it would likely be impossible for my father to attend the wedding, but I hoped he’d be able to come for at least some of the reception. In our family, the oldest male said the blessing over the bread before the meal, and I quizzed him a few times to see if he still remembered it, which he always did, rapidly in one breath.

“Baruch atah Adonoy, Eloheinu Melech haolam, haMotzi lechem min Haaretz. Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”

He pronounced the word Adonai as “Adonoy,” like his father before him and his father’s father before that. I don’t say it that way anymore.

“Amen. Great work dad. Six more weeks till showtime.”

I was sucking in my stomach while trying on a tight Tom Ford jacket in front of a Neiman Marcus three-way mirror when my phone rang.

“Your dad is in an ambulance being rushed to the hospital.”

The milkshake must have been too much for him. He passed out, and they said the shake shot out of him in every direction. By the time I got to the emergency room my mom was already there.

I went into his room. His face was contorted. I would have thought he was dead, but he was moaning. My mom gripped my hand tightly as we stood there, waiting.

That night I dreamt that he was fully recovered, walking, talking, and thanking me for the milkshake, which he said cured him. I woke up proud and happy for a minute.

My dad went back to the memory care unit the following day. On my last visit before leaving for California for a few weeks, I had him recite the blessing again, which he did in one breath, again with Adonoy.

“Baruch atah Adonoy, Eloheinu Melech haolam, haMotzi lechem min Haaretz. Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”

“Amen. Perfect, dad. Just four more weeks.”

I was sipping a bourbon old fashioned with a buddy in San Diego on my first night there when my brother Steve called, telling me to catch the next flight home. Dad was slipping.

There was a red-eye leaving in a few hours, around midnight, but it only had a few middle seats available near the back of the plane, so I booked a first-class seat on the first flight out in the morning, at 7:00 a.m.

I landed in Chicago at 1:00 p.m. There was a voice message from my brother. My father had died while I was in the air. Steve said the funeral home would wait for me to see my dad before taking him away.

I remember taxiing to the gate, rushing off the plane, and then somehow pulling up into the circular driveway in front of the entrance to my dad’s place. I got out of the car and walked in slow motion, knowing that the longer I took, the longer I would still have a father.

My dad was lying on his bed when I got to his room with my mother and brother sitting on either side. My mother was stroking his hand. I kissed her cheek and hugged my brother and looked at my dad for a bit. Dead, he looked healthier than he had in the hospital a few weeks back.

My brother asked, “How was the flight?” and my mother asked, “Doesn’t he look so peaceful?” I said “fine” and “yes” and we sat in silence after that, looking at my dad, at each other, at the furniture in the room. The funeral director came, and my brother and I helped wheel my father out. Some prayers were said, which I thought was a nice touch. My mom stuck around to pack up his things. I can’t recall if I stayed to help or not.

It took some convincing, but my mother came to Alex’s wedding a few weeks later. We had pictures of all the deceased relatives off to the side, and seeing photos of my dad caught her off guard. We stood together and looked at him for quite a while before moving into the reception, she in a beautiful black dress, me in a too tight tuxedo.

Before the meal, the bride’s grandfather was invited up to the microphone to say the blessing over the bread. He walked slowly to the mic, and I wondered if he was proud to do this mitzvah or if he was thinking, “Oy, now I’m the oldest?”

After her grandfather, the next in line was my brother. Then me.

He chanted the blessing slowly.

“Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech haolam, haMotzi lechem min Haaretz. Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”

Adonai rhymed with “I” now.

I had never cried during that prayer before.

Thanks for reading. If you have any thoughts on the essay, please share.

Unrelated, I was recently interviewed by the funny and occasionally charming host of I Used to be Somebody, Carl Landau. I had a great time being on his show, and promised Carl I’d give him a shout out. Listen to our conversation here.