Author: frankisemptiness

June 29th, 2023

“Can I see your ID?”

I pulled my driver’s license out of my wallet and dropped on the counter in front of the young woman.

She looked at it and said, “Okaaaay, thank you.” She wrote my name down on some bureaucratic form. Then she asked,

“And what’s your phone number?”

I gave it to her.

“And the bag is for this person?” The woman told me the person’s name.

“Yeah.”

“Now, what do you have in the bag?”

“Uh, clothes hangers, feminine hygiene stuff…”

My wife interjected, “Lotion.”

“Yeah, and cigarettes. I’m not sure what else…”

The young woman cut me off, “That’s good enough. I just needed some idea of what you all brought in. Thank you.”

My wife, Karin, and I took our seats in the waiting area while the girl put the bag somewhere in the depths of the office.

As we sat, I noticed a sign above the counter. It read:

“Color of the Day/Color de Dia”

Below that was written: “blue/azul”.

The sign confused me. What was this “color of the day” thing? Were the residents of this drug treatment center supposed to wear certain colors on certain days? Was it some kind of way for the patients to show solidarity?

I hadn’t read far enough. Below the color, it said,

“If your color is posted, you have to drop before noon on that day. No excuses!”

Ohhhhhhh.

Suddenly, it was all clear to me. Each resident was assigned a specific color. When that color was posted in the morning, every resident with that hue had to take a random drug screen. The person we were visiting at the treatment facility no doubt was assigned a color.

Anybody who is in residential treatment is required to be clean and sober. That seems glaringly obvious, but patients still want their fix, and some try to beat the system. That makes no sense, but if a person is in treatment for an addiction, they by definition aren’t thinking clearly. Some folks just can’t do without the drug, even while they are trying to get away from it.

The people running the treatment facility try to stop contraband from entering the facility. If something does slip in, then the random drug screen will show when it’s going out. My experience with these treatment centers is that there is zero tolerance for smuggling, or for using. If a resident is caught doing either of those things, they leave, immediately.

It has to be like that. The fact is that all the residents are battling an addiction, a life-threatening disease. Most of them are probably there because they damn near died. They overdosed on something, wound up in the ER of a hospital, and then went to detox. A person who is using in a treatment center is like somebody with COVID in an old folk’s home. That person has to go. Lives are at stake.

When my wife and I first entered the building, we met a group of women residents who were coming for their afternoon therapy session. Almost all of them were smoking. That’s pretty standard. If a person can’t get the drug of choice, then they go to the next best thing. The cigarettes will probably kill them eventually, but not nearly as fast as meth or smack. These people don’t need to be completely drug free. At this point, they just need to survive.

It’s easy for me to observe the residents and think, “Damn, they look rough.” Of course, they do. People getting chemo for cancer look pretty damn rough too. Anybody who is fighting a chronic, debilitating illness is going to look rough.

I saw something else when I looked at the residents. I saw courage. These people are hurting. There is no doubt about that, but they are also fighters. They haven’t given up. The person we were visiting has not given up. These folks are trying to rebuild their lives, and the odds may be against them. They still have hope. They keep going.

I admire that.

June 29th, 2023

Asher and I went to the playground yesterday. Asher likes it there. The playground consists of two sections: one for preschoolers, and one for older kids. Asher, being 2 1/2 years old, generally prefers the area where all the toddlers run amok. The little ones climb and slide and swing, while their moms hover nearby, eyes glued to their smart phones, yet somehow acutely aware of the wellbeing of their children. A few grandparents, like me, watch over their charges, and observe them with a certain amount of amusement and concern.

There are two small slides in one part of the playground. They are purple in color, and they are side by side. Asher wanted to go down one of them, but two little girls got to the slides before him. The girls slid down, and one of them stood up and looked at Asher with curiosity. She was about Asher’s height, but not as stocky. The little lady had straw blonde hair, shoulder length with bangs. She wore a pink t-shirt with a picture of cherries on it that said: “Always sweet”. Asher stared back at her. Neither of them said anything.

The girl and her friend went down the slide again as Asher watched. The friend somehow fell down after sliding and started crying. Her mother had remarkably acute hearing and went quickly to her child. The kid got to her feet, forgot that she had ever fallen down, and ran off to play elsewhere.

That left the cherry girl with Asher. She beckoned to Asher with her hand that he should follow her. He did, like a little puppy dog. The girl wanted Asher to go down the slide with her. As they sat down together at the top of the slide, she tried to hold his hand. Asher snatched it away from her like she had COVID. They both slid down, and then the girl convinced Asher to give her a high five.

From there they ran around through the preschool section of the playground. There were two large frogs that were mounted on heavy duty springs. Kids can climb up on the frogs and ride them like rocking horses. Asher and the girl did that. Then they both climbed through a tunnel. There were some raised steppingstones like looked like mushrooms. The girl skipped across them and waited for Asher to follow. Asher wasn’t quite as agile as Miss Cherries. He walked unsteadily over the steppingstones, as the girl held his right hand. He fell off and asked me to hold his hand. This disappointed the girl. Asher managed to navigate the mushrooms this time.

The little girl smiled at Asher and said, “Good job!”

The two kids went to play on something else as I watched them with the girl’s mother. I told the mom,

“The boy is named Asher.”

She nodded and told me her daughter’s name.

I asked, “How old is she?”

The mother told me, “She is 3 1/2.”

“Ahhh…”, I thought. “And so, it begins. Another boy beguiled by the charms of an older woman.”

The mother abruptly called to her daughter, “C’mon, let’s see what the other kids are doing.”

The little girl ran off at her mother’s side. Asher stood there forlorn and watched her go.

Then, he turned around and ran to the swings.

June 26th, 2023

Karin and I seldom go to parties. Since we became fulltime caregivers for our toddler grandson, Asher, we don’t get out much. Asher is still a bit young for a babysitter, so any gathering we might attend has to be child friendly. We don’t go to parties in the evening, because Asher has an early bedtime. For that matter, so do I. In some respects, my wife and I are like new parents. Our social lives are limited and will be until the boy is of school age.

Oddly enough, we went to two celebrations last week. One of them was a farewell party, and one was a graduation party that morphed into another occasion to say goodbye. In both cases, the gatherings were for close friends, and it was important for us to be there. It was surprising to me that we actually made it to both events. With Asher, any activity we plan is a crap shoot. When we agree to meet somebody, depending on who they are, we always add the disclaimer of “God willing” or “inshallah” or “min ezrat haShem”. Karin and I never really know what will happen from day to day, or even hour to hour.

The first event was the farewell party for a woman from the synagogue. We have known her for about fourteen years. Our friend is a fascinating person. She spent her early childhood years in France, and then lived in Israel. She married a rabbi and moved to the United States. She has lived in Milwaukee for the last nineteen years. Now all her children have grown up, and she is ready to begin a new chapter in her life. Three of her kids live out east, so she is moving closer to them. It’s going to be an adventure for her, and she knows it.

The woman was hostess for her own party. Our friend invited a small group of people to her house. Most of her children came to celebrate with their mom. A dozen or more close friends showed up to wish her well. Karin and I knew most of the attendees. Most of them knew us, and they certainly knew Asher.

There was one woman who brought along some recordings of Israeli folk music with her. After people had something to eat and drink, this lady invited everyone to come out on to the lawn and form a circle. Karin and I went out there with Asher. The woman had us all join hands (including Asher), and then she started the music. She led us in a dance. We went around and around the circle as the melodies played. At one point she had us all move toward the center of the ring, and then move back outward again. We moved in and out and in and out several times. It was like we were all one, and we were breathing together in time with the rhythm of the songs. Our hostess joined the circle, and she sang the Hebrew lyrics of the songs as she danced. She was all smiling.

Before the last dance, the leader asked our friend to move to the very center of the ring. She stood in the middle of everyone as we danced around her. Each person, one at a time, came up to our friend and offered her some kind of blessing. Each of us encouraged her as she began her new journey in life.

After the dancing was over, Karin and I spoke with our friend. She invited us to visit her in Philadelphia. She wasn’t just saying that to be nice. She was being sincere. She really wants to see us again.

I don’t know if it will happen. It’s hard for me to see into the future. Karin and I don’t even know what we will do tomorrow. Will we ever travel out east again? Maybe, anything can happen, and it would a joy to see this friend once more. However, it is probably more likely that this party was our last opportunity to be together. When we said goodbye to this woman as we left the party, there was a finality to it, a sadness.

Two days later, we went to graduation party for a girl from a family of Syrian refugees. We have known the Syrians for several years. They got to the United States in 2016, after fleeing the war in their home country. The parents were farmers in Syria, and they are raising eleven children. The eldest four kids are adults now. Somehow, that amazes me. I met them all shortly after they arrived in this country, when I was tutoring them for school. They were so young then.

Many friends of the family came to the party. Some were Muslim, some not. The Syrian family is Muslim. The walls of their rooms are covered with calligraphy, verses from the Quran. The mother and the older daughters dress modestly and wear the traditional hijab. Everyone had plenty to eat. The mother is an excellent cook and she made chicken, lamb and rice, beans, ground meat wrapped in grape leaves, various pastries. The house was overflowing of people eating and talking.

Karin and I talked with the new graduate. She just finished high school and will start going to college. This is a huge deal for this family. No woman from their relations has ever gone to college. This young woman is doing something new, something exciting. Her family is proud of her, and rightly so.

Asher ran amok during the festivities. There was always a young person to keep an eye on the lad. He ate and drank and played. He very upset when we had to leave.

Before COVID I used to go to their house almost every week to tutor the kids. I got to know them all very well. I had to stop tutoring during the pandemic, and then Asher came into our lives, and I was seldom able to visit with the Syrians. However, they live very near to us, so there has always been the opportunity to see them.

Karin and I found out at the party that the family will soon be moving out of town. There aren’t going terribly far away, but far enough that we can’t just pop over for a visit. They are getting a much larger house and I am happy for them. However, it means that we will see each other even less than we do now.

Our goodbyes seemed rather final after this party.

June 27th, 2023

Our youngest son, Stefan, comes over to our house usually once a week. Sometimes he comes because my wife and I need his help with something. I used to fix things at home, but since Karin and I became fulltime caregivers for our toddler grandson, I never get around to repairing anything. The little boy, Asher, keeps us running. Stefan has an intuitive understanding of how things are supposed to work, so he can mend something far more efficiently than I could, even if I had the time to do so.

Stefan sometimes comes here to use his tools. Stefan is a journeyman in the Ironworkers Union, and he is a skilled welder. All of his personal welding equipment is in our garage, along with several massive tool chests, and his air compressor, and his grinder, and a plethora of things he needs for working on his pickup truck. He does carpentry projects while he’s here. He works on his motorcycle. He is busy when he visits with us.

Stefan sometimes stops by just to hang out with Asher. Stefan is the boy’s godfather, and he has taken a strong interest in the lad. He will look at Asher and smile. He greets him with a hearty,

“Hey punk!”

Then he will pick up Asher, who squirms in his arms. Stefan says to him,

“Remember that I’m tougher than you are…for now.”

Stefan likes to show Asher how to use tools. Asher has often been in the garage with Stefan, while Stefan works on a project. Asher adores his uncle.

Stefan speaks bluntly. When he talks with me, he pulls no punches. He is definitely not one to flatter others. He has no qualms about giving me shit about things. He can be sarcastic, and he has a cocky attitude. The f-word falls from lips quite often, and he keeps encouraging Asher to use it.

Stefan did not give me card on Father’s Day. He has many talents, but he doesn’t like to write. It was a surprise to me when, a week after Father’s Day, he silently handed me an envelope with my name on it. He had also written “no response needed” on the envelope. I wondered what the hell this was all about.

I opened the envelope after Stefan went to work in the garage. There was scrap of notebook paper inside of it. On the paper he had scrawled a message. It read as follows:

“Hi Dad, 

Growing up I didn’t understand why sometimes you would be angry after work or easily set off. As I get older, I see so much of you in myself, and understand the sacrifices and effort it took to provide for us…

This world is harsh and takes so much sometimes. There are days I would almost give in to the weight that “being a man” takes. But I don’t because I think about how you would do what it takes to push through and do what’s needed. 

You created me and guided me to be the man I am becoming. 

I AM grateful for that…and for everything else you’ve done for me as a great father.

Love you.”

I haven’t talked to Stefan about the note. No response needed.

June 23rd, 2023

Many years ago, at least a half century or more, there was a boy in my class whose parents were divorced. I would never have known this except that the teacher was confused about the student’s last name. Apparently, after the divorce, the mother had gone back to using her maiden name. The boy was embarrassed by the teacher’s questions, and some of his classmates, including myself, were shocked by this situation. I had never met a kid before who had divorced parents.

I told my parents about the student, and they told me to stay away from him, as if he had a communicable disease. They made it clear to me that divorce was a shameful thing, and this boy was probably trouble. They were trying to keep me from moral contamination.

Fast forward.

In the 1990’s and the 2000’s, I used to volunteer with a nonprofit organization that helped troubled teenagers and their families. By that time, divorce and blended families were common. The families that we tried to assist had grandparents in the mix, along with boyfriends, girlfriends, aunts, uncles, and whoever. My team of do-gooders defined a family as “a group of people who live together and love each other”. We dealt with an eclectic population. I got used to that.

Even so, once in a while, I would be surprised by the types of families we served. One time we assisted a lesbian couple raising a teenage boy. They had a host of issues that caused stress in their family. Honestly, I did not know how to work with them because, at that time, I had no experience with LGBTQ individuals. Somebody else from the team had to help this particular family. I was couldn’t. I was way out of my depth.

Fast forward again.

Now, my wife and I are raising our grandson, Asher. We are his legal guardians and primary caregivers. Asher’s mother has a strong relationship with him, but the boy does not know his father at all. We get help from Asher’s uncle, who is a male role model for the lad.

Across the street from us, a married lesbian couple is raising a high school age boy. The teenager is nice young man, and his two maternal mentors are doing a good job bringing him into adulthood.

Families come in all shapes and sizes, especially now. It doesn’t matter who makes up the family. There is an endless variety of people who might constitute a family. There is no such thing as a “normal” family. I don’t think there ever was such a thing.

Based on my experiences, raising kids and keeping a family together is heroic adventure. Many resources are needed to maintain a family: food, shelter, health care. The most essential ingredient is love. That sounds corny but it is a stone-cold fact. What matters is that they love each other.

June 20th, 2023

I am struggling with a problem. Actually, I’ve been struggling with it for over a decade. The current crisis is just the latest permutation. Somebody I care a great deal about is very sick and is apparently getting worse. The person’s condition is the cause of great anxiety for me. I see no sense in what the individual is suffering. I don’t understand why this is happening, and I can think of no solution.

I texted a young friend of mine about this situation. He is an intelligent man, and he is a devout Muslim. I told him,

“Sometimes I can’t find God in all this.”

My friend replied,

“You know, Frank, Allah said in the Quran, and I’ll be testing you with what you love. Maybe it’s a test for you and also God does not control every action humans take. Just be patient. I’m sure everything will be good at one point. I feel the same way sometimes too, but like I said, it might be a test just to see how strong you are!”

I am certain that my friend was trying to encourage me to persevere, however I am getting tired of being tested, if that is in fact what is happening.

The idea of God testing people is prominent in Islam. A major holiday for Muslims, Eid al-Adha, commemorates the time when Ibrahim (Abraham) was called by God to sacrifice his son, Ismail. In the Jewish tradition, the same story exists, although Abraham is told by God to sacrifice Isaac instead of Ismail. The Book of Job in the Hebrew scriptures is all about God testing Job and driving him to the limits of his endurance in order to prove to Satan that this man is righteous. This whole notion of God testing his creation permeates Judaism, and Christianity as well. Jesus was tested by Satan during his forty days in the desert.

I remember, years ago, talking with a rabbi about the Book of Job. It’s a disturbing text, and it does not show God in a very favorable light. The rabbi told me that Satan is often referred to as the “tempter” or “tester” or the “accuser”. He went on to say that all of creation, even the devil, serves God, willingly or not. My understanding from our conversation was that, like it or not, Satan reluctantly works as God’s quality control guy.

Every time I consider this notion of God testing humanity, I immediately ask, “Why?” What is the point of all this? God, if all-knowing, already knows the strengths and weaknesses of every person. So, why push somebody to the edge?

Even in Eastern traditions, there is a mention of spiritual tests. The Buddha was tested before he achieved enlightenment. Western traditions seem to view any test as a pass/fail kind of thing. If life is a test, then an individual either attains endless bliss when they succeed or eternal damnation if they fail. The Buddhists look at it more as continuing education. The Eastern religions believe in reincarnation which means a person gets the opportunity to learn a lesson over and over until they finally get it. That might require thousands or millions of iterations. In Buddhism an individual does not pass or fail. Instead, at the end of their lives they usually get an “incomplete” on their cosmic report card.

My current rabbi once told me that when we ask, “Why do bad things happen to good people?”, we are asking the wrong question. That question is just a rabbit hole. We will never get an answer to it. Job certainly didn’t. The rabbi suggested that the correct question is, “What do we do when bad things happen to good people?”, because it is inevitable that bad things will happen to them.

So, in my case, what do I do when these bad things keep happening to a person I love? Do I run away from the situation? My experience has been that the problem follows me if I attempt to flee. Do I get angry and curse God? That I’ve done already, and it is only satisfying for a short time. Or do I accept that which I cannot change, act with compassion, and try to alleviate the suffering of others? Once in a while I can do that, but it is a real bitch.

My friend said that God is testing to find out how strong I am. God already knows the answer to that. He wants me to discover how strong I really am. It is a lesson for me, not for God. And it is a lesson that I can’t skip.

June 17th, 2023

Father’s Day is kind of a sentimental holiday, one that drips with nostalgia for families that probably only existed on television shows that were broadcast in black and white. The fathers in these TV series were always patient, caring, and wise. Fathers like that are rare. I know that because I’m not one of them.

Most fathers are imperfect, and they fall short of expectations even when they try hard to do the right thing. Generally, fathers look their best when they appear in an obituary. Prior to that, their flaws are obvious to anyone who cares to look. I have met people who have told me about how wonderful their dads were. I can never bring myself to completely trust those individuals. Either their memories are faulty, or they have been extraordinarily fortunate.

Father’s Day seems to focus on honoring biological fathers. I guess that makes sense, but there is more to being a dad than just donating some sperm. I know one man who considers himself to be a good father, and all he has ever shared with his son is his DNA. That doesn’t cut it.

It’s difficult to be a father. I think it’s always been that way. When a guy becomes a dad, nobody hands him an operator’s manual for nurturing the child. It’s all on-the-job training. In a way, raising a kid is like shooting at a moving target, while the shooter is also in motion. The child is constantly changing and developing, and so is the father. The process is dynamic, and everything is transitory. It is impossible for the parent to get a handle on the situation because every day the child is different and so is the parent.

I’ve screwed up many things as a parent. If you want details, you can ask my kids. I’ve caused needless confusion and trauma. I try to think of what I have done right, and I have trouble coming up with much of anything.

One of things that I did right was to introduce the kids to other male role models. Most dads get their fathering skills from their own fathers. My dad was good at some things, and absolutely horrendous with others. It’s the same with me. I tried to have other men in the lives of my children, guys who were trustworthy, but who did things very differently than I did them. Children need a variety of mentors. Sometimes, it’s a coach or a teacher or craftsman that inspires a young person. It’s not always the father.

Father’s Day should recognize and honor all the guys who help to turn boys and girls into men and women, not just the fathers who have a blood bond with the children. There are all sorts of men who are vitally important to a child but are not necessarily related to them. These guys are also fathers. Real fathers.

June 3rd, 2023

Nobody understands addiction. I am absolutely convinced of that.

Do I have any right to make that assertion? I’m not a physician or a psychologist. I’m not a therapist or a counselor. I have no educational background that would give me any credibility on the subject. So, how can I say that no one understands the problem?

The answer is: I’ve lived this shit.

Today is my younger brother’s birthday. Chuck would have been sixty-three years old. Instead, he died of a heart attack at the age of forty-nine. That was the official case of death, but his health problems were all related to his alcohol abuse. He spent the last decade of his life drinking himself to death.

Chuck was in and out for treatment for years. Nothing worked. He just got worse. I had a relative tell me after my brother died,

“I don’t understand why, after all the help he got, he couldn’t pull himself up by his bootstraps.”

Chuck was sick, really sick. Some people who are sick like that don’t get better. They just don’t. If somebody dies from cancer, nobody asks why they couldn’t pull themselves up by their bootstraps, but we almost always ask that about an addict.

My brother probably had caring and competent professionals trying to help him to get healthy. I’m sure everybody did the best they could for him. The problem is that the human brain is extremely complex, and everyone’s brain is unique. There are no one-size-fits-all solutions. Every successful treatment plan is based on knowledge, intuition, and a certain amount of dumb luck. What works splendidly for one addict may be useless for another. To a certain extent it’s always a crap shoot.

I know an elderly nun who worked in a refugee field hospital in Thailand back in the day when Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge were busy with committing genocide right across the border from her operation. She came back to America with massive PTSD from her experiences as a nurse. That along with other factors made her seriously ill. The sister developed stomach cancer. She had an operation and chemo treatments. She still struggles with the disease.

I talked to her about addictions and told her about how hard they are to treat. She said that addictions, like her cancer, can’t be cured. However, she has done things in her life in order to function although she can never be completely free of her condition. The nun changed her diet to eliminate gluten. She takes her meds regularly. She has made efforts to deal with her anxiety and stress. She stated that an addict can do what she does: take action to alleviate a problem that will never really go away. Her point was that there is some choice involved on the part of the addict, just like on her part as a cancer patient.

That’s true. My brother had extremely high blood pressure. He refused to treat it with his meds, and it eventually killed him. I also have high blood pressure. I take my meds.

It bothers me when well-meaning people overly emphasize the freewill that might be available to an addict. I have often heard folks say things like:

“They just need to learn how to make good choices” or “The guy lacks willpower” or “Those people want to live like that” or “They don’t have any morals”.

People with an addiction cannot always make good choices. The ones I have met have morals and they don’t want to live the “lifestyle” of an addict. A disease cannot be overcome be sheer willpower. Other help is necessary.

I don’t know why my brother died while other people have survived, and sometimes thrived. Nobody else knows why either.

June 1st, 2023

Asher has been upset. He’s two and a half years old, and it’s not unusual for toddlers to throw tantrums and be emotionally intense. However, this is more than just the typical moodiness of a small child. This is more serious than that.

On Sunday night, the person that Asher’s needs the most had to leave our home. The person was not behaving in a rational way and was a hazard to the rest of us. Alcohol abuse is a dangerous thing, and not only to the user. The person was aware that they would be kicked out, but they couldn’t stop themselves. They still can’t.

Asher knows on a gut level that something is very, very wrong. He doesn’t understand what that something is. I don’t understand what it is. Honestly, I don’t think that anyone truly understands addiction. If Asher was older, I could try to explain the situation to him, but how do I explain something to somebody when that something is by nature irrational? How do I make sense of it?

I don’t make sense of it. I can’t. It’s beyond me. It just is. I try to deal with the situation, and we try to care for Asher as best we can. My wife and I are his guardians, and we are morally and legally responsible for the boy’s safety and wellbeing. We just try to love him.

Asher loves the person who is now absent from his life. We love that person too, probably more than the individual realizes.

The current state of affairs is not sustainable. The person is still using, as far as we know. Eventually, something has to give. The person may go to treatment again. The person might die. We don’t know.

We are waiting.

May 24th, 2023

I parked the RAV4 in front of the synagogue. My little grandson, Asher, was already strapped into his car seat in the back. The elderly couple walked over to the car. The woman slowly and carefully climbed in the backseat next to Asher. Her husband climbed in the front seat next to me. Once they were both buckled up, we started our journey to the cemetery.

The old couple are friends of mine. They buried their son a month ago. Their son was only a year younger than I am, and I’m retired and on Medicare already. The family is originally from Ukraine. They came to America after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The son had been an officer in the Soviet Army. He was severely wounded in Afghanistan in 1983. For the last forty years he struggled with PTSD and alcohol abuse. He finally lost the battle.

As far as I know, the mother and father of the soldier had not been to the cemetery since they laid him to rest. I had been with them at the funeral. They don’t own a car and they don’t have licenses anymore. They asked me to drive them to the memorial park. I agreed to do so. It was the least that I could do for them. It was a half hour ride from the synagogue to the cemetery. I drove and the old folks talked to me.

I had brought Asher along with me because the elderly couple love the boy. Usually, they can make him laugh and smile. Not this time. Asher would have none of that. The father tried to make funny faces at Asher, and Asher recoiled from him. Toddlers have their moods, and Asher’s not very friendly. However, as we drove, the mother said to me in her thick Slavic accent,

“The little boy, Asher, he lets me hold his hand. I like sweet little boys who do that.”

The mother started to tell me a story about her deceased son. It was a bit hard to follow at times. She did not have all the right English words to explain what she meant. At times, her husband would clarify things for me. It was a sad story, and it struck home to me. Her son had often refused help and advice from others. He insisted on handling his problems alone, even when it was obvious to everyone else that he couldn’t.

The father told me,

“It is hard for a successful person to admit that they need help. Doctors, lawyers, engineers (my son was an engineer), they don’t want help. They think they don’t need it.”

That’s true. I never wanted help. I didn’t accept any help until there was no longer any choice in the matter. The old man’s son had been a decorated military officer in the Soviet Union, and when he lived in America, he was a highly paid radio engineer. The guy had been very successful, and the father is still proud of his son. The son could do damn near anything, except deal with his PTSD and his addiction.

I think it’s just human nature to want to be independent. Asher is just starting to ride a bike, and he wants no assistance whatsoever. His mantra is: “I got it! I got it!” The goal of being self-reliant is strongly reinforced by our culture. As Asher grows up, he will be encouraged to do things on his own.

Did the son refuse help because of hubris? Maybe. I don’t know. I never met the man. From what his parents have told me, their son experienced a great deal of hardship and trauma in his life. He often had to fend for himself. He learned to use his many abilities, but he never recognized his limitations. On the surface, it was the alcohol that ended his life. On a deeper level, it was his inability to accept help that killed him.

Before we arrived at the cemetery, the mother asked,

“Is there place I could buy flowers?”

The father talked to her in Ukrainian, and she did not reply to what he said.

The old man turned to me and explained,

“We do not put flowers on graves. Christians, they put flowers on graves. The Jewish tradition is to put stones on the graves. Flowers? What good are they? They wilt after one, maybe two days. Stones, they last. We have seven stones on our son’s grave: two for me and my wife, two for our daughter and her husband, and three for the grandchildren.”

As we entered the cemetery, the old man pointed to where his son was buried. He said, “That is a part set aside for Russian Jews.”

I parked and the parents got out of the car. I got Asher out. We were a few yards from the plot. There was rectangle of fresh sod on top of it. The grass there was a darker color than the rest of the lawn. The ground had not settled enough for there to be a headstone, so there was a small placard with the son’s name written on it. The little sign was on a stick stuck into the ground.

The old couple stood next to the grave. I took Asher away, so that they would have time alone. It was a gorgeous spring day with all the trees showing off their fresh green leaves. As I walked with Asher, I noticed all the headstones with small smooth stones on top of them. Some of the headstones had writing with Cyrillic letters. They all had words written in Hebrew.

I glanced back at the parents. The old man stood straight and immobile. His deeply lined face betrayed no emotion. The mother hid her face in a handkerchief as she silently cried. She wept for her sweet little boy, the one who had held her hand. She cried for the son who was now buried several feet below her.

That broke my heart.

I walked a bit more with Asher. Then the father beckoned for us to come. We hadn’t been at the grave site for more than a few minutes. The parents were ready to leave. Asher was too. We all got back into my car.

It was a thirty-minute drive from the cemetery to their apartment downtown. There was dead silence in the car, except for when the mother sniffled in the back seat. The father sat next to me and wore wrap-around sunglasses. I couldn’t see his eyes, and his face held no expression.

As we got close to their home, the mother said to me,

“The little boy was tired. He is asleep now.”

I pulled up to the entrance of their building. I told them that I was staying in the car so that Asher would not wake up. The old man said,

“Thank you, my friend.”

From the back seat the mother said, “We are indebted to you.”

I replied quickly, “No. You’re not. Don’t worry about it.”

They said goodbye, and I pulled away from the curb. It bothered me that they felt like they owed me something. I was glad to help.

It was such a small thing to so.