We all have dates to remember – the singular days that have meaning above all else. I’m not talking about birthdays except actual BIRTH DAYS. I definitely put the days my kids were born in another category – although I can’t remember much as my mind was blown three times over. We remember wedding dates of course too. I guess I can throw in my bar mitzvah – April 23 if anyone cares. Plenty of people remember their divorce date or their puppy’s gotcha date or the date when an adopted child is brought home.
Of course, each generation has dates that resonate throughout subsequent generations. World War II brought several of those dates to us. We just had Pearl Harbor Day (December 7) – the day that will live in infamy. Of course D-Day (June 6) and then the 1-2 punch of VE Day (May 8) and VJ Day (August 15).
Every Nov. 22, we remember the assassination of JFK, all of the unanswered questions and all of the unfulfilled promise.
My generation’s first major date to remember was Jan. 28, 1986 – when most of us were in school watching the space shuttle Challenger explode on live television. I’ll never forget that day and the inability of my shocked teacher to explain what had just happened.
And then Sept. 11, 2001 – the hardest of days for this New Yorker. It’s the first time we referred to and remembered a date by its numbers. There hasn’t been a 9/11 since 2001 that I haven’t at least paused at 8:46 a.m.
Jan. 6, 2021 still makes me sick. And on Jan. 20, 2025 I might literally be sick.
Oct. 7, 2023. The second time numbers have been used. It’ll always be 10/7 to me – a day for yahrzeit candles and quiet reflection as most Americans go about their daily lives.
Dec. 18, 2023: the day I watched my dad take his last breath. It’s the date on his death certificate. And it’s the day I hid in my parents’ dining room so I didn’t have to watch the funeral home guys take him away. It’s the day I had to tell my kids that their Papa How was gone. And it’s the day my brother let me give him a hug – a very, very short one. It’s the day my mother and I argued over coffins and babkas. It’s the day my childhood home all of a sudden felt empty and quiet.
Dec. 18 is the day I will light a candle for my dad, say a prayer, and then celebrate him by enjoying one of his favorite meals over the last portion of his life.
Jews place a very special meaning on remembering when our loved ones have died. And with most everything else, there are rituals and customs to accompany. I prefer another Jewish custom – eating. And on this Dec. 18, I will be thinking about my dad and how happy he was in his final years with a classic lobster roll and a fresh corn-on-the-cob.
But Erev Dec. 18 is the date I really want to remember and likely always will. Dec. 17, 2023, was the 4th day of home hospice for my dad. He was in a hospital bed in the living room – in the same spot that he watched thousands of hours of Mets baseball, every episode of Band of Brothers a dozen times or more, and countless screenings of Home Alone. He really loved that Kevin. He had trouble breathing and trouble speaking. He couldn’t eat and eventually he couldn’t even drink. We knew the time was near. But late in the day on Erev Dec. 18, as I was sitting next to him, something happened. My dad opened his eyes and struggled to lift his head. He pulled his hand from mine and gently placed it on my left cheek. He looked right at me and as clear as can be said these three words, “My Baby Boy.” He held his hand there for a minute or two. Then he slowly went back to sleep, struggling to breath but still hanging on.
So, it will always be Dec. 17 for me – the day I heard my dad’s last words and the day I felt his hand on my face for the last time. It was the day he made sure to remind me, at age 48, that I was always his baby boy. It was the day that my brother and I, usually at odds, showed each other a little bit of kindness and a little bit of respect. And it was the last night I went to sleep in my childhood bedroom with my dad downstairs.
May he continue to be a blessing for you and your family.