As I faced the impending death of my beloved father, Alex Schoenbrun, I wondered how many more times I would feel satisfied saying and hearing “I love you” so that it would last me the rest of my life. For decades we had enjoyed a positive father-daughter relationship. Now since we lived on different coasts and my visits were divided into segments, I found myself challenged to compress the energy I had yet to give him, and to receive what I still wanted from our relationship, within a limited number of days.

Hospice care provided great comfort and peace of mind both for my dad and for our family over his last three months. He was comfortable and safe, assured that no matter what happened to him, he would be cared for at home (no more ambulances and hospitalizations and rehab). The beauty of the hospice workers’ excellent care was that it created the space for us to live our dad’s dying with a sense of normalcy, dignity and contentment.

I can say confidently that for me, my sister, and other family and close friends who visited, we were lucky my dad remained alert and aware until the end, sustained his sweet and giving personality, and was able to reach out to us. I believe that our open communication and his lifelong optimism contributed to his emotional well-being throughout the period of physical decline and eventual leave-taking.

Although he never said a formal good bye or spoke specifically about dying, he gave me many clues that he was getting ready. As I realized the preciousness of this time, it became my task to use it as productively and lovingly as possible. This meant tuning in to really hear what my father was saying, learn what he needed, and respond to how he was feeling emotionally and spiritually.

I began crafting ways for sharing this most unique last journey with him. He was focused on telling stories and reliving them. Knowing that stories and the important people who inhabit them (the good and the bad) help us define ourselves and make meaning of our lives, I suggested themes to encourage him. As he shared new stories and variations of old ones, I came to understand more deeply what had affected him most throughout his long life. For example, I was surprised to hear that he was still troubled by the estrangement from his older brother and only sibling (who had died decades earlier) and still needed to re-work that relationship in his mind. He expressed great love and admiration for his immigrant Hungarian parents and for what they sacrificed to help him become a dentist, even though their real wish was for him to take over the family-run men’s clothing store.

Some stories and memories made him cry; we held hands tightly when they did. These stories and memories were uniquely his and no changes in his physical condition would alter that. When my husband and two children visited Dad, I encouraged them to keep asking questions so the storytelling would continue for their mutual benefit and enjoyment.

I made efforts to diversify and enliven our visits, keeping the customary questions about his changing medical conditions to a minimum. I took digital photos of where I went each day, downloading them onto my laptop for us to share and discuss. We viewed his neighborhood park with its lush rose garden and the senior clubhouse that he had attended regularly for entertainment and movies. We made a ‘virtual’ visit to the Self Realization Center we knew and loved, where he had been inspired by its bringing together of all religions. We talked about the beauty of the lake and the calming effect of the resident water birds. Another time I showed him photos from various beaches in Los Angeles that reminded him of good times with his walking buddies.

Playing Sabbath songs on iTunes brought him back to services at the temple. We both loved the recording of the melodic Me sh’berach blessing for healing; as we listened and felt the spirit of the song, he picked up his weakened hands and conducted the music slowly. He seemed to savor these special experiences; I hoped that he held the thoughts and images close to him when he was alone in the comfort and privacy of his bedroom.

I bought three small cacti with prominent buds that promised to open within days. The most vibrant yellow, pink, and fuchsia flowers emerged from these dry, spiky plants. I held the blooming cacti over Dad’s bed for him to see clearly. They became a metaphor for us: we can choose to see only the dry and harsh exterior in life or see the possibilities of what can develop, knowing that growth can emerge out of the harshest circumstances and bring forth blossoms.

My dad’s life mantra was always “life is about accepting that change will happen.” Even when he could no longer eat solid foods and only take small sips of juice or soup, he did not complain. Instead, he would ask how I enjoyed my lunch that day. I told him he was "the man who delights in life, loving the length of his days, looking at the good"—a translation from the Hebrew found in Sayings of the Fathers. I used this descriptive tribute in my eulogy at his funeral in Los Angeles and then at the memorial service in Newton, MA, where I live.

Today I feel great joy and gratitude that during these last visits, we shared so many heartfelt words and moments of handheld connectedness. We left very little unexpressed, as together we lived his dying.

Left over from my father’s pipe-smoking days was a humidor mounted on the wall above his small desk. I discovered to my delight that he had also used it for another purpose: taped on the doors and propped up on shelves were family photos and snippets of practical wisdom. They had been there for a very long time, judging by the brittle scotch tape and yellowed paper. Some of them had been clipped from publications; others he had written by hand and cut down to a size to fit into the spaces.

I assembled these quotes into a booklet that I called “Wisdom from Poppy Al’s Humidor.” It so impressed a close friend that she brought the booklet to her “Ethics Meets Activism” class of high school students, who in turn put their own personal expressions into “artistic humidors” that were displayed at the school’s art exhibit. Here is one of my favorites from my father’s humidor collection (his adaptation of a quote from Einstein):


Strange is our situation here upon earth.
Each of us comes for a short visit, not knowing why,
However, there is one thing we know:
That man is here for the sake of other men.
Above all, for those upon whose smile and
well-being our own happiness depends.
Many times a day I realize how much my own
outer and inner life is built upon the labors of my
fellow men, both living and dead.
And how earnestly I must exert myself to give in return
as much as I have received.