It was an ordinary November morning. As I drove to my parents’ home for the purpose of taking Dad to a pre-scheduled medical appointment, I felt blessed for parents who had both attained ages well into their 90s in relatively good health. I am doubly blessed to have an older sister who, at great financial sacrifice, moved back to Pikesville to share a home with our parents.
But clearly something was wrong — no one answered the door. I used my emergency key to enter and proceeded directly to my parents’ first floor bedroom. Mom had not yet seen me. In obvious panic, she was desperately searching the bedroom, while muttering to herself something about "the telephone." Upon noticing my presence, she exclaimed "I think he is gone" and pointed to Dad slumped over his walker in the bathroom, eyes wide open, but totally unresponsive.
Yes, he did appear "gone," but having rehearsed this moment in my mind many times before, I first located the telephone, dialed 911, and then initiated resuscitation procedures in accordance with the 911 operator’s instructions. I shall always remember the operator’s highly skillful guidance and calming reassurance. As I proceeded, she constantly reassured, "the medical crew is now just 6 blocks away … currently just down the street … you’ll hear the siren momentarily … open the door for them now." Sensing that Mom was correct, just before the emergency medical crew arrived, I gently placed my hand upon his face and closed my father’s eyes. Other than noting how little pressure was required, I had no opportunity to contemplate the significance of this seemingly insignificant act. The crew arrived, attempted to work their miracles, but Dad was indeed "gone."
The ensuing weeks passed in a fog. After observing the traditional Jewish week of mourning — the Shiva — our minds became occupied with the banal, but necessary tasks that arise after a parent passes. Our newly initiated weekly synagogue attendance, first intended as comfort for Mom, became a welcome reprieve for us all. Several weeks ago, the Torah parsha, the Bible portion, that is chanted for that Sabbath, recounted the story of Joseph, son of Jacob (a.k.a. Israel).
Perhaps the story of Joseph is more widely known to most of us via the magnificent Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, rather than from reading the actual Genesis verse. Indeed, I was surprised to note that the entire story is encapsulated within a mere few pages of powerful biblical text. As we are told, there comes a time when the impoverished Jacob, still struggling in Canaan, is apprised of the astonishing ascent of Joseph in Egypt, and Jacob is personally invited by the Pharaoh to come and thrive in Egypt. Understandably, the elderly and frail Jacob frets the daunting journey, and fears his health will fail long before again seeing his most beloved son. But God intercedes and directly reassures Jacob, "fear not to go down to Egypt. … Joseph shall close your eyes."
Surely, I had read this verse before, but without recognizing its significance. God not only promised Jacob safe passage to Egypt. He promised Joseph would be physically present when Jacob finally passed years later. Of course, this came to be.
My memories of that November day shall surely fade, as will the ensuing weeks. One memory will not — the memory of those few seconds when I was further blessed and permitted to close my father’s eyes.
Jeffrey S. Gulin is a United States administrative law judge in the Baltimore-Washington, D.C. area; his email is jgulin@verizon.net.
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