Death is a tough subject for one who’s been clinically dead. I have been through tremendous trauma. Flatlined. Suffered. Struggled.  And I have experienced the miracle of survival. 

The same can be said about my father, except the last part.

My father had COPD and Emphysema. He had been suffering from the disease for many years. During my AFE and subsequent coma, he prayed and begged G-d, as he watched my lifeless body being supported by machines, to take him instead of me. 

As I got better, he got worse.

He had bounced back many times after being hospitalized.  He had gone from breathing on his own, to living with an oxygen tank. From walking to a wheelchair and then finally being bed-ridden for the last 8 months.

Every time I would bring my children around, they would write cards, hug him, call him and pray for him to get well soon so we could go on our annual family cruise.

In the last week of him life we moved dad into hospice. My 6 year old son Jacob said “Is Papi going to die?” I responded with a “Yes.. very soon.” With innocence and probably more of the lessons he has learned from my own experience, he says “It’s ok mommy, he can die for 37 seconds and then come back.” 

Without missing a beat, my 8 year old says “Mommy tell Papi how you fought to come back and not stay in Heaven, you HAVE to tell him quickly.”

Shit. Everyone is going to therapy when I get back home.

He had visitors 24 hours a day in hospice. Nurses and doctors who treated him, did not stop visiting him just because he was comatose. His ICU nurse, Mary, once asked him: “Ralph, even with all of your suffering, you still want to make people laugh. What is your secret to happiness?”  He answered with a smile: “Be surrounded by people who love you.” 

From personal experience, WE CAN STILL HEAR YOU when we are in a coma. So TALK to your loved ones. They are not absent. Their bodies are resting, their souls are not. 

I was restless watching my father lay there in his lifeless form.  I felt an instant role-reversal from our positions just a few years earlier. I told him and G-d.. “I don’t want to die, again, but I will take 100% of his pain and physical ailments so my dad can walk, talk and laugh again.”  My prayers weren’t as strong as my father’s. I was healed, he was not.  And yes, I do feel more than a twinge of guilt from this.

My dad passed just before the Sabbath.  Jewish law requires us to bury within 24 hours, unless the person dies on a Friday evening. Then one has to wait until Sunday.  In this case we had been told it would be next to near impossible to get everything done in 6 hours as the cemetery was busy with other burials, torrential downpour had started and the grounds were almost 2 hours away.  And even if we got everything done, there is no guarantee anyone would show up or care. 

The miracle came. The skies opened up. The rain stopped. The traffic was light. And 50 people came and mourned a great loss.  This was my dad. And it was G-d.  We were in shock, but we shouldn’t have been.

I believe with every fiber of my being the SOUL LIVES ON.  But for me, right now, I am grieving. I am numb at the loss of my daddy. His physical absence is jarring. The patriarch of my family has always been there for us, for his friends, for his clients. Where is he now? In a better place? No pain. No suffering, yes, of course. But we, who are left behind are. 

I will miss all of him for a long time before I can come to terms with his transition. And I am ok with that.  Because even when I see other’s loved ones after they have passed, I am not ready for the validation yet that my father has. 

I will miss you forever Papi. Te quiero. Te extraño. Mucho. 

Bones.

(A nickname I used to despise, but now I embrace as it was the last word he used after he told me “I love you, Bones”.)

My father was born in 1937. The number 37 is forever emblazoned in my heart and my soul.