đź“” NOTE: Below are two pieces; a public Substack piece about mourning and my journey, and a private Facebook post about my dad, including a gallery and thoughts as a truly wretched, unexpected summer developed.
Death, Loss, and Learning
My Father Wasn’t Jewish. The Official Channels for Mourning Are Complicated.
My dad was only 72. Learning how to mourn him will last the rest of my days.
Dad passed just over 2 weeks ago after 2 months with a brain tumor so big that they initially gave him only 2-3 weeks to live. By the time it was discovered, he was already out of sorts: Increasingly quiet, not conversing, and confused.
It was overnight dementia. We were robbed of my dad, Rob.
I never thought he’d be gone so soon, and I’m the only child left in my family who didn’t get to meet certain life milestones with him. Having kids. Getting married. Exploring a career with more success.
Indicative of the complex feelings my family has about spirituality was when the hospice service asked who to send to us that Wednesday morning at 5 am. A chaplain?
Absolutely not, my mom said. She then asked for a monk or a rabbi. They had neither on call same-day, nor that early.
So we sat in silence with Dad. I prayed, said the Shema, and passed back out, a full-blown summer cold knocking me out. My father, my life-giver, lay across me, departed.
From Facebook
