“I’ve not seen Dad cry except when he thinks about Ben,” I

told Ron, my older brother, who had flown in from St. Louis

the previous Sunday to help take care of our father. Colon

cancer is killing him. Caring for Dad under these

circumstances is exhausting, emotionally and physically.

    
Ben was my Dad’s first grandson and my first-born son

who died on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving,

November 22, 2000. It was a day unlike any I had

ever experienced. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing

any of us could do but pray ... and pray hard.

We stood side by side, just my father and I, behind a glass

partition. Before us, the desperate efforts of the trauma

team struggling mightily to save Ben … Ben, all of twenty-

two years old, who had been fatally injured when crushed

beneath the right rear tires of a 26’ box van rental truck.

 And now eight years later, my father struggles for his life

just a few steps away from the family lounge where Ron and I

sit sharing a brief respite. The nurses help Dad clean up after

yet another bout with diarrhea. A cruel and debilitating side

effect of chemotherapy, this dreaded condition continues

unabated since my father’s admission to the hospital one

week ago.

My brother looks worn out. Dad’s day has not gone well.

He suffers terribly, his spirit wanes. Our desperation heightens.

The doctors have no answers, their treatments remain

ineffective. The medical consensus of opinion led by my

father’s oncologist is that the hospital can do no more for

him. My father is scheduled to be released tomorrow, but he

is not, in our view, ready to go home. We’re running out of

time and options.

I called my father’s gastroenterologist at 5 o’clock in the

morning, a man in whom my father has placed his full

confidence. But the “tincture of opium” the doctor had

prescribed several days before to treat my father’s

incontinence had yet to produce any positive results. “Doctor,

my family does not think he’s ready to leave the hospital.

There is still no change,” I explained as calmly as I could. It

wasn’t easy. I was at my wit’s end, ready “to strangle”

anyone who crossed my path. “I’ve tried everything I know

to do, but if the tincture is not working, I do not know

how to stop it,” he admitted. I felt disheartened.

“The prognosis varies with each person,” my dad’s oncologist

explained later that morning. “This could go on for as long as

three months, six months or even a year. There is nothing

more we can do for your dad,” he reiterated, shrugging

his shoulders and turning up the palms of his hands. It was as

close to the “emes”, as my father liked to say, as we were

 going to get. Dad was getting sleepy. We all needed a break.

Ron went downstairs to get a coffee for himself and Bobbie,

Dad’s wife. I wandered over to one of several computer

lounges with a fabulous view of Lake Michigan. How much

nicer it would have been had I been able to appreciate its

beauty unencumbered by worriment. It was one of those

moments, you know, when you just stare out of the

window …

“Prayer is like dialing long distance to “De Aibishter”. Dial His

number every day, Mr. Busch, and when you get to Shema

Koleinu, daven mit a bissel schtup. Be patient. The lines are all

busy but pick up He will,” I listened to the memory of Reb

Isser’s voice, my mentor, who years before had taught me the

fundamentals of Yiddishkeit. And so I did as he had advised,

patiently awaiting De Aibishter to pick up the line.

The sound of my brother’s voice “awoke” me. He had

seen me from the hallway. Bobbie was sitting with Dad. "It's so

darn pitiful," Ron sadly remarked, sitting down in the chair

next to mine. He had heard Dad quietly crying in the

bathroom that morning. “Is it still okay if your father cries?”

I mused while Ron detailed the particulars of what had been a

bad day for our father.


My father has always given generously of his emotional

vulnerability-whether to his grandchildren or a shivering

homeless man to whom I once saw him give his new long

coat straight off his back on a frigid winter day. I know. I was

there.  

Do you remember General MacArthur’s comment from his

1951 farewell speech to the Congress-that old soldiers never

die; they just fade away?  Well, as a matter of fact, my dad is

an old soldier, United States Army, Brigadier General, retired,

who is, in fact, fading away. There is less of him now than

before. His skin does not fit him anymore. He has lost so

much weight that it sags from his neck. His legs and

arms have become spindly, but there his skin has become

tightly stretched, transparently thin.                   

I watch him for hours while he sleeps. His face, once smilingly

bright, is now expressionless and gaunt; his characteristically

irrepressible smile turned down. I am reminded of how old

and ill he has become. ‘This is how he’ll look when he dies, I

suppose.’

Just outside our door, I catch a glimpse of the early

morning nurses’ aides as they scurry about on their morning

rounds. Ours is named Barbara, a heavy set woman in her

mid-forties, I’d guess. I like her. She is good at what she does

and seems to care about my father. I glance at the clock radio.

It’s almost 3 o’clock in the morning  and, though I’ve tried, I

can’t stop thinking of how near the end Dad looks. May he

and God forgive me.

I left Dad’s room. The early morning hours are interminable. 

‘Keep dialing His number,” Reb Isser’s voice faintly echoed in

my head. “He’ll pick up. You’ll see.” I returned to the same

lounge, facing east toward the lake. I turned around. Not a

soul, just me …

“Master of The Universe … You remember, I’m sure, how my

father, Avrum ben Rose, pled for his grandson’s life, the life of

my son Ben nearly eight years ago, but it was not meant to

be. I’ve learned to live without him, but now I stand before

You pleading for my father who is selfless and good and has

thus ever been. Heal his bowel so that he may live out his last

days in dignity and peace.”

We left the hospital next morning after nearly two weeks,

ambivalent at best. Dad’s cancer was a foregone conclusion. It

didn’t even come up very often for discussion except when he

felt pain in his gut. I summoned all the faith I could gather in

the hope that He grant my plea on my father’s merit. No one

I imagined could be more deserving.

And so I waited for the tincture of opium to do its job.

Dad’s first few days at home were tenuous. Would he spend

his last days in pain, exacerbated by the mean-spirited

indignity of diarrhea?

“Good morning Alan!”

“Dad?” I answered my phone, frankly surprised by the vibrant,

upbeat tone of his voice. I hadn’t heard it in a while.

“So Dad, what’s …?”

“My bowel! My bowel has normalized. I had time to get to

the toilet. The tincture is working Son. It has finally kicked

in,” he blared so excitedly I had to remove the phone from

my ear.

And kicked in it had, my father’s happiness … well, it

skyrocketed. “De Aibishter” had picked up the line and He

not only heard my prayer but granted it.

Alan D. Busch

May 5, 2009