Fifty years ago to the day, three weeks after the initial moon landing and a week before Woodstock, my father, Bernie Sr., was finally released from the ravages of the rare and debilitating neurological disorder that had turned him from a healthy adult man into a bed-ridden invalid over a period of two years. And while August 10th is a day I remember and relive each year, I couldn’t let this particular milestone pass without comment.
When we start thinking and reflecting on events from fifty years past, we’re dealing with a serious chunk of time. Perhaps not so much in the grand scheme of the universe, or the relatively brief period of human existence on the planet, but from our own personal timelines and inevitable mortality march, fifty years is a number that gets your attention.
It started when I was fourteen. The occasional loss of balance, followed by a stumble that appeared to both surprise and embarrass him. Then came the falls. At first, the doctors wondered if perhaps the problem was simply the result of some sort of inner ear imbalance or other temporary issue capable of being treated and resolved. Soon, it was obvious that whatever was afflicting my father was much more serious. And not long after that, it became perfectly clear that not only it wasn’t treatable; it was terminal.
Doctor visits galore and short stays in hospital for who knows how many different types of diagnoses and testing all proved ineffective. And within a year, my father was confined to a hospital bed in our living room. My mother, assisted by me when she needed help, provided as much care and comfort as humanly possible, but it was impossible to miss the fear and stress the situation was placing on her. And she handled it with grace, power, and like everyone else in the family, a lot of silence. None of us seemed capable of actually talking through what was happening and the implications that went along with it. We all seemed to slip into a stoicism that is revered in some cultures and perhaps the silence was the best defense mechanism available to everyone in the core and extended families. But the public silence did nothing to quell the raging torrent of questions, fears and uncertainties that filled all our heads over those two very long years.
As his condition worsened, my mother and I dealt with every imaginable situation. We would roll him over in his bed and my mother would change his pajamas, doing her best to manage what had to be painful bed sores acquired over months of simply being unable to move or shift positions. But my mother refused to let me help her with the more intimate aspects of my father’s personal needs. There were just certain things she couldn’t allow her, by then, fifteen-year-old son to deal with. And my father would watch our administrations in silence, devastated I was certain by the entire situation and of what he had become and what we had been forced to do on his behalf. I’m also quite certain that whatever pain he was dealing with from the bedsores paled in comparison to everything else he was experiencing.
He and I would spend time together in the evenings. Sometimes we would read. But when he was no longer capable of even that simple task, our focus turned to television. We were watching the news one night in the middle of the civil rights riots that were currently raging in the southern states. And we watched in horror as cops beat civilians with batons, turned dogs loose on them, and sprayed black people of all ages with powerful fire hoses that knocked them flat on their backs and rendered them helpless. He shook his head in a mixture of sadness and disgust.
“What is it?” I said.
“You know something, bud, and I want you to listen closely. As you get older, you’re gonna find a lot of reasons not to like somebody. A whole lot of different reasons. But I’m telling you, skin color doesn’t even make the list. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I do.”
“Good. Don’t forget it.”
I’ve always assumed his perspectives on race developed during his time in the military. But perhaps they came from some innate quality he possessed from birth about the inherent goodness of people. Regardless, his words struck a deep chord that continue to resonate within me. And I know he’d be seriously troubled by many of the problems we’re still trying to deal with as a country so many years later.
Another night, before he had lost the ability to speak, I was sitting in a chair next to his bed watching TV. And I had one of those need-to-know moments many teenagers regularly experience. I turned to him and asked softly, “What are we going to do?”
With some effort, he turned his head and made solid eye contact before responding.
“We’re going to do the only thing we can, bud. We’ll do our best to deal with whatever bowl of crap life throws at us, and keep moving forward.”
Sage wisdom from a very sick man. And right up to the end, he took every opportunity to provide me with important life lessons. This one was most definitely about how to live. And as I look back on it, it was also a very valuable lesson about how to die.
And on August 10th, 1969, after a torturous battle with the inevitable, he was gone.
And fifty years to the day, those memories remain fresh and clear. Sometimes I can’t even remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but those memories are forever burned into my soul. The emotions healed, but they remain capped and stored, capable of returning with a vengeance from a quiet conversation, a silent moment of reflection, or the deliberate, painful creation of a simple blog post. Those memories now added to from the passing of my Mom several years ago; an event no less painful or tragic, but one I was somehow better prepared to deal with.
A robust collection of memories of the two people who made me what I am today. They’re the ones who provided the foundation, encouraged and cajoled, and kicked my butt when necessary. All I’ve done is try to remember what they taught me and do my best to live up to their standards while making the most of whatever talents I’ve been given and the opportunities that have come my way. I had the easy job. They did all the heavy lifting.
In four years, my father will have been gone longer than he lived. Another milestone lurks on the near horizon. And next August 10th, I imagine I’ll start thinking about how to memorialize that particular oddity in this journey we call life. But for now, that can wait. Today is a time for reflection, of remembrance, of smiles and tears, and at some point this evening, a toast to his memory, his life, and all the joy and love he brought me in the far too short time we had together.
Be well, my friends.
(And if you’ve been holding off on making that phone call or reaching out to someone special, I can’t think of a better day for you to do it.)
Bernie
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