ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Thursday, January 25, 1996 TAG: 9601260057
SECTION: NEIGHBORS PAGE: E-8 EDITION: METRO
COLUMN: Between the Lines
SOURCE: BETSY BIESENBACH STAFF WRITER
For many years, I assumed that my family was somehow immune from death, disease, divorce and other difficult situations that seem to come up in every other family from time to time.
1995 made up for that complacency in spades, beginning in January, when my dearly loved grandfather died. A year later, I still miss him, but the hurt is lessened by the fact he was nearly 88 and had lived a long and useful life. I am grateful that I knew him as an adult, and I have memories of him that I will carry with me always.
Although I only saw my stepfather, Ed Gottfried, a few times a year, his recent death was harder to take. My mother married him when I was 25, so he had no hand in my upbringing; but I have always felt privileged to have known him.
At 65, he looked and seemed at least 15 years younger. He played squash, loved listening to the opera and to Bruce Springsteen, and doted on his two infant granddaughters. He was so vital that the fast-growing cancer that took his life came as a complete surprise. He was gone within eight months of his diagnosis.
Before his retirement a few years ago, Ed was a trade negotiator with the Department of Commerce. If there is such a thing as a genius for getting along with other people, Ed had it. He could talk to anyone at any time at any length on any subject, and his interest always seemed genuine, never forced.
At my wedding two years ago, he evidently went around and spoke to each one of the guests, none of whom he had ever met before, because they all, almost without exception, remember him.
Ed's wish was to leave his body to a university hospital. So instead of a traditional funeral, my mother held a memorial service.
It was a simple ceremony: four short speeches and a recitation of the kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead, followed by a reception at my mother's house.
My younger brother, Rob, was the first speaker, and he joked with me later about being the "token man." The other speakers were women. Evidently, Ed was one of those rare men with whom women feel comfortable enough to truly call a friend. His sense of humor was well-known and with him to the end.
Throughout the service, we heard more laughter than tears.
Ed's sense of humor was well-known and with him to the end. My mother says that when he was checking into the hospice where he would eventually die, he was disoriented, unsure of his surroundings, although he had been there before. She asked him if he recognized one of the nurses. He looked at the young woman for a long moment, and it was plain that he did not. Then he said: "Arthur!"
My mother and the nurse froze in sorrow and shock. Then Ed's face lit up. "Just kidding!" he said, and they laughed.
Rob was very sober during most of the service and looked faintly disapproving during eruptions of laughter.
I think I would have felt the same way a few years ago when I was his age. When you're young, and death is a stranger, you don't realize that it has a flip side - that it also offers a chance to remember and celebrate the deceased person's life.
Initially, Rob planned to walk back to my mother's place - it would have been a long, cold trip, but a fitting - not to mention dramatic - way to mourn.
In the end, he changed his mind. After all, it would have been a "grand gesture," and for a grand gesture to be effective, somebody has to notice it. Somebody besides your sister and her husband, anyway.
I think Rob has yet to understand that funerals are good for bringing the people who cared for a person together, but mourning - real mourning - doesn't happen all at once at an appointed time. It takes place in little snatches, at those odd moments when the person is missing from the day-to-day rituals of life.
In a way, I was sad that I was not as moved as Rob was by Ed's death. But the truth is, I did all my mourning when I heard he was sick and an oncologist friend told me it was unlikely that he would live.
Besides, in between his diagnosis and his death, Ed had enough good days that we all got to see him again at least once and to enjoy him as he had always been, as though his illness had never happened. We all were able to say goodbye.
It would be hard to begrudge him such an enviable death. It was quick and painless and peaceful. It was sad only because it came too soon.
Betsy Biesenbach, a part-time writer and free-lance paralegal, became a mother a week before the anniversary of her grandfather's death..
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