A Death in the Family

A father's legacy of passion, service, and courage

| September / October 2003

Joy, shipmate, joy!
(Pleas'd to my soul at death I cry.)
Our life is closed, our life begins,
The long, long anchorage we leave,
The ship is clear at last, she leaps!
She swiftly courses from the shore,
Joy, shipmate, joy!

--From Leaves of Grass
by Walt Whitman

Three weeks ago, we concluded the funeral service for my 83-year-old father, Bill Rothschild, with those words, and they have since become my talisman of transition. Just a few weeks before that, my parents had returned from visiting my sister Janey, who lives in Australia, and my father thought he was having a bad case of jet lag. Then he thought he had the flu and, when that didn't pass, he was diagnosed, much to everyone's entertainment, with an ulcer. (He was surrounded by choruses of family and friends saying, 'How can you have an ulcer? You're the kind of guy who gives ulcers!')

Even though he didn't seem very sick, I decided I was due for a quick visit. Then, right before I arrived, he told me that his reputation had been redeemed -- he wasn't the kind of guy to get an ulcer: he had a tumor instead and would be having surgery right away. He came out of the surgery remarkably well, but in the next couple of days he seemed oddly agitated. The night before I was supposed to go home, I couldn't get to sleep until I realized that some intuition was telling me that I shouldn't leave. A few hours later, my mother woke me to tell me that my father had gone into septic shock. He came out of that crisis long enough to demonstrate that his sense of humor was intact and then got onto the roller coaster that culminated in his death.

The day before I left to visit my parents, my family buried our 13-year-old sheepdog mutt, whose tether to life had quietly, peacefully, become more and more tenuous until he died. The last days we carried him up and down stairs and out to lie in the garden, where airborne seeds and bits of fluff combined with moss and grass in his coat, making explicit his journey back to the earth. I kept feeling that Ozzie's passing was somehow a metaphor, though I didn't yet know for what.

My father had always been absolutely clear that when he couldn't lead an active life, he didn't want it prolonged. He went from astonishing power and vitality to death in three weeks, sticking around just long enough for his family to adjust. Though he died in the hospital, his passage, in its own way, was as full of grace as Ozzie's. I was so touched by the care he received from the hospital staff, so deeply proud of my family, and so awed by the strength, humor, healing, and magic that continue to permeate the experience.

Magic like seeing a perfect rendition of Ozzie in the clouds one night shortly before Dad died.

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