No longer did I chuckle at Robert's 'knighting' of my
patient, Aron Schreiber - "Sir Aron" he would say...
for his native, innocent colonial respect revealed the
deeper truth of Aaron's true aristocracy.
Never before had I a patient like this, combining an
incredulous body-will-to-survive,
coming back each time from the brink of death... with a
soul already tired of this world,
longing to re-unite with his beloved.
I arrive at noon to find him ashen faced and dyspnoeic.
He recognizes me, and then shakes his head...
I know - we've rehearsed this many a time - he a victim of
zealous caregivers
and a loving family, I a victim of my training - a warrior
against the malach hamavet (yet now
torn by my wish to honor his desire, his autonomy, his will
to leave, to be free of the
prison of his ailing and frail body).
Each time I see him suffering my resolve to help him be
free of his anguish is met with
the weight of tradition and ethics on my shoulders. Never
were the two so evenly
matched.
He is gasping for air but not from an inner desire to breath,
rather as if driven by some
mechanical power to inhale against a reluctant and
increasingly resistant chest. I go
through the motions... ordering blood work, gases, suction
equipment arrives, oxygen
tank, I.V. antibiotics for the aspiration pneumonia.
Esther cries" "Aaron...breathe!", "Aaron…drink!", "Aaron, do
you love me?" He answers "Yes,
I love you".
Two years ago, following the stroke, he had told me of his
fatigue, tired of life itself,
ready to leave this world...only to be brought back as we
medicated him, infused him,
intubated him, bagged him, fed him, catheterized him
incessantly. Then last year,
hospitalized, I see him again, and he shakes his head, and
again now. He knows I read
him correctly. He is holding me accountable to him. This
time, I cannot bring myself to
call the ambulance. A voice within says
"dal" as if this week's sedra that has God naming Himself
"Shaddai" was no accident,
and now these voices within are at peace with the
decision. No longer torn, I would
make him comfortable with oxygen and fluids and a mini
bedside ICU and be with him
for as long as it would take. No anger, no pain, merely
provide a space for his suffering
within my own, to give him the permission he was seeking
all along to leave. No more
cries to "eat" "drink" "breath" or even "live" and "love", just
give him the ability to choose.
The sun begins to set over the glorious bay, clouds reflect
its orange glow and Aaron's
eyes become glazed as he too looks towards the window,
the blue sky, as red and
purple hues begin to tamper with the confidence of the
day.
I want so much for this...to honor his decision,
I want so much for his dignity to remain, to the end,
I play a chazanut tape he liked, to usher in the Shabbat,
and tell him of the sanctity of
the coming hour.
Esther calls a minyan of ten honorable men to bring in, to
welcome the Sabbath Queen,
the Bride, his bride - I knew in my heart he was a romantic
- that love and music and
good fellowship were his life's blood, that his humor and
love of others could never be
quenched, that even at this moment, this hour, there
should be poetry in his passing.
The sky begins to turn purple, then blood red, then deep
dark blue, that sun, yellow,
large ball of fire, dips slowly towards "shkiya" into its
mikveh of purity.
Esther lights her candles and I ask her to light another set,
I Know not why - as if his
neshama, that light of beauty should remain long after...a
premonition.
We begin to recite Minchah and the sun slowly dips below
the horizon...I am gripped
with fear, a dread, for my own death? no...I grieve for my
own life...for his life, for the
utter tragedy of life, for the sunset, for the impending
inevitable darkness.
We begin Kaballat Shabbat and sing louder and louder
around Aron...
"Aaron...you must rejoice, the Sabbath Queen has arrived
to escort you...she loves you..."
We sing Lechah Dodi the way he liked, Young Israel style,
"Come my beloved...to meet your bride, we shall receive
the Sabbath..."
at that moment in time...yazesa nishmato...
with these words
among a fellowship of honorable men
surrounding him
escorting him to the threshold
where She...his Malka...was waiting...
Finally out of anguish and pain.
No longer yearning for all he had lost
and all that we can never have
at peace with his beloved
at last.
I ask the Kohanim to gently leave
we place him in the den
and close the door.
We sing louder still
between the tears
what utter pain,
what wound that cannot heal...he was
Only a patient - I've had many,
but what a prince, what dignity.
only a man - I've known man
but what an aristocrat, what a life!
only a yid...
but what a neshama - so beloved by all,
yazesa nishmato...be - lecha dodi
It is dark outside,
the lights of the bay skyline flicker as if to remind us of
what might have been, a taste of
the true light now hidden.
Despite the last hour
our meticulous preparation
having honored his wishes
having escorted him in dignity
and song
to the threshold,
we are in shock.
It cannot be,
a sentential human soul has left us.
The lifeless corpse remainsone
less neshama...one whole universe is gone.
Patriarch of the family, who lived and loved and joked and
sanghow
can we get over you?
we cannot.
Your subtle humor and song live on in our broken
wounded hearts.
All who knew you, family friends, colleagues, doctors,
nurses, and...caring gentle
devoted Robert...were loved by you and loved you-
Farewell, prince of men.
