Homie’s Story

I’ve been meaning to write this for years.

My dad and I, as many of you know, shared hundreds of stories. They were hilarious, unforgettable, and uniquely ours, shaped by a friendship that grew stronger over time.

Not long ago, someone asked me about my father and what life was like for him in his later years. It reminded me how much I’ve wanted to tell this story. It’s personal and vulnerable, but I believe it matters.

To know my dad was to love him. He was also deeply human, imperfect, complex, and struggling in ways that many of us can relate to. I want to share this because it’s real. Because he deserves to be remembered in full, not just for the laughter and warmth but for his truth.

This isn’t a polished story. It’s raw, messy, and honest. Some might wonder why I would share something so personal, and I don’t have a perfect answer. I just know it feels important that it’s read and seen.

If you choose to read it, please do so with care and compassion. There is no motive behind it other than love, remembrance, and truth.

And yes, there will be typos. No ChatGPT here, just me trying to tell it before I talk myself out of it:

I’ve been putting this off for quite some time now. Honestly not sure why. I think because there is so much there… there is so much ‘to it’ all that getting out of my brain and chest feels almost impossible. Maybe I’m holding onto the story/narrative because I’m afraid that once it’s out there, part of it will leave me and be gone forever. I’m holding onto it like a child would with a beloved stuffed animal. It’s a deep and almost comforting part of my story. Typing that out and seeing those words so starkly on paper is gut wrenching because embedded in this story is my largest regret. An element/chapter of it is arguably… no…definitely one of the most difficult things I have ever had to go through. That sounds so flat- to read it back. “Most difficult things” … it doesn’t even come close to touching the surface of the amount of suffering that was endured throughout this one specific evening. I’ll get there, but for now I will start at the beginning.

I have mentioned in other writings that my father was a very abusive man. In my earlier years, more specifically, up until the age of 17, he was very angry. Not like Edele, he wasn’t vengeful or brutal. He wasn’t manipulative or even histrionic in any way. He was violent. He suffered a lot of loss as a child and quite honestly, it followed him and created a self defense mechanism that translated very poorly. He was honestly, if I could put it into the most simplest of terms, just a very angry man. Terrifying almost. He was a big guy for most of his life and used that to his advantage. Slamming things, screaming loudly, throwing things, hitting etc. I, of course can’t necessarily diagnose or state anything with certainty, but what I can say is that he suffered a great deal. He was self aware, too. He knew he suffered. Especially in his later years. To that, I will jump ahead a bit.

• I can, of course go into greater detail and provide examples of his abuse. There are many to choose from. Overall, though, I think it’s more important to paint the picture that both my sister and I were terrified of him for the majority of our lives. All encompassing. That having been said, I moved in with him when I was 16. There is more to that story that I have written in another narrative and quite frankly, that isn’t the purpose of this piece so I will keep the details out for the time being. Bottom line is that I chose the lesser of two evils and when Shayna went away to college, I picked up and moved out of Edele’s house in NJ to his place in Florida. In that respect, he saved my life. Undoubtedly, I would be a completely different woman in a completely different set of circumstances if it wasn’t for him taking me in. I don’t know why he did it. I don’t know why he advocated for it but BOY did we have fun. Truly. My time with him from the ages of 16-18 was a healthy mix of hilarious, abusive, and just plain chaotic. Neither of us knew what we were doing, but during that time, he made it a point to “deprogram” me. That was his phrase for it, and aptly so. It took quite some time for me to acclimate to not being in Edele’s universe. Her specific type of abuse was unmatched and undoubtedly left me with behaviors and habits that were maladaptive, unhealthy, and can only be described as post traumatic. Larry, my father, took it upon himself to create a safe enough space for me to feel like I could do the simplest of things, like get up and get water whenever I wanted. To walk around the house and make noise (closing doors, flushing the toilet etc) To be able to regulate my nervous system even in the smallest of ways.

How exactly I ended up with my father is yet to be uncovered. Stroke of God, the universe, take your pick. I do remember though, the event that got the ball rolling so to speak. It honestly started with weeks of Edele pretending I didn’t exist which was a common occurrence in that home. I was adamant that I wanted to move in with Larry. He had made it known that he wanted me to be with him, and so I was unrelenting in my pursuit to change the trajectory of my path. There was one particular morning where on my way out the door, Edele slapped me across the face. I can’t remember why, and honestly it doesn’t matter. It was such a common occurrence that to search for the reason would almost be comical. What is notable though… what made that moment so monumental was that I struck back. I slapped her right back and from that tiny little moment on, things changed. It wasn’t long before she came in the kitchen one day and calmly and quietly stated “fine, leave”

I called my father and excitedly told him the news. I was out within a matter of months.

I’ll reiterate that boy did we have fun! I think I will paste the bell story in here just to provide a little snapshot of what it was like to live with him… what our time together looked like. Sans the abuse and rough moments. These are the ones that I choose to recall and recant: (if you have already read this story, feel free to jump ahead) 

“I moved in with my father when I was 16 years old. He was a child at heart and so Needless to say living with him was a touch chaotic. We were essentially, two big kids running around not knowing what to do with ourselves let alone what to eat for dinner. My father was a very quirky man. He had a certain charm to him that has yet to be found in another person Since his passing. I digress. You see, there was this bell. Kind of bell that is found at hotels when you need to Ring for assistance. You know, the one that you tap and it dings. My father had one of these and found great joy in Dinging it anytime he was near me. And once he realized that it irritated me even in the slightest, he made it his mission to make that noise a regular staple in my life. He would follow me around, dinging the bell, stand behind me while I was doing my homework ringing the bell, he would follow me while I walk the dog and pick up the landline when I was on the phone and ding the bell and hang up. I would be getting ready for school in the morning at 6:30 AM and he would be ringing the bell stomping around the house like a fool. This was my father. Well, one day I had had enough. It was night time and we were watching TV on the couch. He rang the bell and sat down on the couch. I decided to take matters into my own hands and take the bell and a hammer and beat the ever loving garbage out of the bell. I came back in the house and put the bell and the hammer in the sink. The bell was no more lol. My father said rock, this is war. (he used to call me rock. Ever since I was born, it’s been my nickname. To this day, I have no idea why.) in any event, I responded and kind with “bring it old man.” and thus started a three month practical joke war. I won’t list all of the jokes that we played on one another because frankly, there are too many to count. Let’s just say that it got pretty heated. Once I took his car keys to school with me. He took the toilet seat off of my toilet. I put cayenne pepper in his coffee. He got an airhorn and woke me up right in my ear. Surprisingly, I have no hearing damage. It was a close call, though. When I say that this wore lasted for three months, I am not exaggerating. well, it was a Friday night, and my father had a date. When he was gone, I put white rice everywhere. I have absolutely no idea how I got the idea or where it came from, but I decided to put white rice in his bed, in all of his pants pockets, in the bristles of his toothbrush, in all of his drawers, in his shampoo and conditioner bottles, I even taped rice too, his television screen. I got into bed and waited. Around midnight, my father walked through the door and not 10 minutes later I hear him scream, goddamnit Rachel! I haven’t laughed that hard since. The next day, my father surrendered. I made him wave a white paper towel as a white flag of surrender. He said to me, “ rock, one day you will buy me a new bell. I don’t know when, but you will. You have won the battle, but I will win the war.”

I brushed it off and let it go. We both did. The following year for my birthday, I wanted a nose ring. I was still in high school and so I needed his permission to get one. Well, as I’m sure you can glean, he Had one condition for allowing me to get one. I had to buy him a new bell. And I did. Since then, I made it a point to buy him a bell wherever I went. On vacations, volunteer trips, if I randomly saw one at the mall or TJ Maxx… It was his. I miss him more than I can express and of course, have his bell collection and Ring one for him every once in a while. I still have my nose ring to this day.”

That was the kind of relationship and energy that permeated through our home for the majority of my “stay” with him. He soon met a woman, Gayle and they got married. That is a saga within itself, but to make a long and harrowing story short, they were married for 10 years and were for the most part very happy. She was in recovery… 20 years clean. She relapsed and I caught it. I told the entire family who ended up turning on me and being very angry up until they realized that I was, in fact telling the truth. From then on, everything went downhill. She made a false allegation and he ended up in jail which was his greatest fear ever. She knew that. They divorced shortly after. This broke my heart on many levels as her and I became very close. To the point where I called her “mom”, saw her as my mother and was exceptionally close with her. All of that dissipated quite quickly which adds just another “mom” forgotten to the roster. I have gone through mothers like water and honestly, it's just as comical as it is pathetic. Again, I digress.

I went away to college and from there, directly into the peace corps. I lived/volunteered in Botswana, Africa for 2 years and when I came back, lived with both Gayle and my father for a short time. From there, I moved on to my adult life which included jobs, living on my own.. the whole 9. One day I was in NY on business and I got a call from my dad. At that point, our relationship had dwindled to almost nothing. I had set boundaries for everyone that had abused me and was pretty much on my own ‘family wise’ which was/is in no way a foreign concept to me. Anyways, I was walking the streets of Manhattan and I get a call from him. He simply states “Rock, I abused you really badly as a child” to which I replied “yes, you did” and then there was an apology. He apologized. “Rock, I am so sorry for doing that to you. I have honestly given it a lot of thought and I feel terrible” I said “Water under the bridge, homie” and from that moment on, our relationship was stronger than ever. We became friends… best friends. This lasted for the rest of his life and as I type this, I realize that he is still, even in death, my very best friend.

I will jump forward a bit to my time in his latter years as that is really what I want to write about and put on paper. There are so many stories, so many pieces, elements, beautiful shards of stained glass to our story, my father and I, that I could fill up endless pages of words, tears, thoughts, etc. I won’t though. Not this time.

My father was sick. He was sick for years. His decline started around 2012 when he started to lose weight. He got the gastric bypass surgery (which he didn’t need) and at the time, was in its infancy stages. The surgery was not a commonly performed one and as a result, he had complications. Those complications became more and more ‘complicated’ and extreme as time went on. The problem, though, is that nobody really cared. Nobody caught it. He declined over the years, lost a terrifying amount of weight and ended up with a great deal of pain in his stomach, particularly the left side. I knew something was wrong and even among the endless amount of doctor’s appointments, consultations and procedures, nobody could really diagnose him aptly. Let me rephrase, nobody took the time or energy to diagnose him aptly.

During covid, he came over my house. He would come over often and I would cook for us. Sidebar: I am quite the chef and truly enjoy cooking for those that I love. Well on this particular day, I was making Italian food. Yes, that’s general and I am using that specific terminology because when I say “Italian food” I mean all of the Italian dishes that I could come up with. I was just so happy. In any event, he came over. He looked worse than ever. Was rail thin like normal but had almost translucent skin and was sweating, clammy and seemed confused. It was about 20 minutes before he had a seizure on our couch and was taken by ambulance to the hospital. From there things were a blur. I will provide a short timeline as everything happened so fast that it almost feels fictional. I was living on my own and quietly observed as he got sicker and sicker. We would speak on the phone daily, hang out weekly and, for the most part, enjoyed our time together. I am reminded of the “soup story”… I HAVE to put that one down at some point. It’s just too good. In any event, as he declined, I insisted he go to the doctor for the repeated pain in his side that persisted over the course of two years or so. He went and they immediately admitted him to the hospital. I remember going to visit him. I went to Walmart first and bought all of the comfort items that I could think of. New bedding, soft pillows, toiletries, candy, soft clothing, socks, wipes etc. Everything that would comfort him during his time there. Again, I will state that this all happened in the height of covid. I went to the hospital and walked up to the desk to say “I am here to see my father, Larry Alexander who was just admitted”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, the hospital is not allowing visitors at this time due to covid.”

“No, I don’t think you’re hearing me. My father is here and I am here to see him. I will be seeing him today.”

“Again, ma’am, there are no visitors allowed.”

“ok, let me state this plainly, I will be sitting with all of my things (the plethora of bags I had full of comfort items) in the waiting area just over there and every 15 minutes, and I mean 15 minutes on the dot, I will come back up to this desk and ask to see my father. I will do so until I am forcibly removed from this venue.”

And that is exactly what I did… for an hour and a half, until someone with a lot of keys and a very contemptuous stare came barreling in my direction, leaned down and whispered, “you have 15 minutes”

I went up to see him and all I can say, all I can remember is that he smelled differently. I can’t quite explain it, but I knew that something was terribly wrong. I knew in the back of my mind/my soul that we were at the beginning of the end. I comforted him and gave him a kiss and told him I was here with him always.

It was the next day that I was at work and received a call from him. “Rock, they think I have cancer” Well, I am not sure if you have gleaned OR if I have stated that my father was quite the drama queen. “Dad, they THINK you have cancer or do they KNOW you have cancer?” he said, “I don’t know Rock.” I told him to put me on the phone with the doctor the next time he made an appearance. A couple hours later, my phone rang and it was my father simply stating that he was putting me on the phone with the doctor. Let me sidebar once again to state that I was more of a parent to him than he was to me. Which makes the next part a bit more understandable. I spoke with the doctor who informed me that my father was in stage 4 metastatic pancreatic cancer. This was something that could have been caught years prior but simply wasn’t. I stayed on the phone with the doctor for a few more minutes to in fact confirm that this was a death sentence. That pancreatic cancer wasn’t survivable and that my father had 3-6 months left at best. I was handed back to my father and told him that I loved him and would be there as soon as they let me to pick him up and bring him home.

There is so much else that I can fill this space with. There were occurrences that happened in between that phone call and me picking him up from the hospital but I will spare both you and myself. In the interest of staying on course with the story.

He got in my car and I said “homie, let’s do this. We’ve got 3 months left. Let’s figure out what the fuck we are going to do with it.” He was so tired and honestly there was a silent hum of relief between the both of us for a multitude of reasons. While the conversation was somewhat light and fun, we were both just so peaceful in knowing that there was an answer. The answer was absolutely the worst-case scenario, but, it was an answer nonetheless.

My father and I are both very morbid people. My father especially was obsessed with death. He had spoken about it since my childhood. There were so many requests that he had for his funeral. One being that he wanted a ‘viking funeral’ (fucking lunatic) he wanted to be put on a plank and set on fire out to sea. I have absolutely no idea how this comes across to you, the reader, but on my end and the end of everyone who truly knew him, it was hilarious. He also insisted that at his funeral there be pigs in a blanket with guldens mustard. This was a non-negotiable and god damnit, I was sure to make that happen.

We got back to his apartment, which was filled with balloons and get well soon cards from all of his friends that he was surrounded by in the condo he lived at. He had a group of about 14 people that consistently got together, had events, card nights, dinners etc. I called them “the brigade”. They played a large role in the last chapter of my fathers’ life.

I had only one rule when it came to him during that time. That he ‘die with dignity’. Dignity was the name of the game and I would have it no other way. I got hospice in there, immediately moved in with him and slept in bed with him every single night. I had a schedule where I allowed visitors two at a time sporadically to be with him and say their goodbyes. He slipped into a coma shortly after he got home. Again, it was his time to rest. Prior to being diagnosed, prior to all of it really, my father was deeply depressed. This depression permeated throughout my childhood and moreover, the 10 years that we were particularly close. In a way, he gave me a gift. The gift of remembering that a depressed life is a wasted one. He wasted so much fucking time being worried and sad. His whole life was essentially filled with worry and depression and in turn, and observation, I try to apply that sentiment to my own life. Remembering that not ‘everything’ is worth eating my kishkas over (a Yiddish term that translates to freaking out about). Some things we can just let go of and be ok with. Particularly, the things that we have no control over.

During his time at home, I made sure that my father had round the clock care. I moved in with him and saw to it that there was a medical professional with him at all times 24/7 until he passed. I also made sure that his bedding was changed daily, his clothes were always fresh, hair and teeth brushed, cologne.. the whole 9. Dignity and nothing less. I also talked to him. I talked to him constantly while he was in a coma. I know he was still there and while I was absolutely ruined, I refused to cry in front of him. I would not allow him to believe that this was about anything other than him. Making jokes, playing music that we both loved, having his favorite types of shows on in the background and sometimes, just allowed for there to be restful silence.

I was vicious when it came to him. To protecting him. To ensuring that his care was the best it could possibly be. I was mean and calculated with other people. Everyone was a threat, even those that loved him and wanted him to die in peace. It didn’t matter. They were all the enemy and I was going to keep him safe. It should be noted that during this time (I think it was 6 weeks or so) I did not eat at all, I broke out in hives and had ‘thrush’. None of that mattered to me. In fact, if someone, anyone, tried to talk to me about anything other than my father and his well-being, my reply remained consistent “If it’s not about my father, I don’t want to hear it. It’s not my turn yet”… my turn… no idea where that came from but I used it frequently.

There were some funny stories in there. Yes, even in the moments that he was in a coma, we had fun. Sick, I know. I won’t even venture to go into details. It simply won’t ‘work’

The worst of it all, my biggest regret in life. The decision that I apologize to him for out loud as frequently as I can is one that I have never told anyone before. I have never written it down, I have never recounted it and I have yet to work through it in any way. I almost don’t want to. I feel like I am not deserving of peace for the decision that I made on this one night. Here it goes…

As previously stated, I made sure that my father had round the clock care with absolutely no exceptions. Hospice nurses are absolute heroes and to this day, I fail to understand just how they do it. How they manage to go from home to home… room to room with dying people and loved ones and make the space feel so safe and warm. Comfort in a way that is almost shrouded in silence. It’s uncanny. There was this one nurse who got him out of bed while he was in a coma. I will never forget this as long as I live. The vivid image of music playing and this tiny woman getting my father out of bed and dancing with him. I know it felt so good to him to finally be out of bed… he undoubtedly had bed sores from being in the same 3-5 positions for weeks on end. I remember him groaning but it was clearly a communication that could only be translated as relief. She held him up and moved him and laughed, talked to him and behaved as though he was an active participant in their lovely encounter. They danced and he loved it.

The next nurse that came in was not as attentive. She fell asleep in her chair next to my father’s bed which, in hindsight, is totally understandable. He was as stable as he could be and had no immediate needs at the time. Regardless of these observances, as stated previously, I was absolutely fucking vicious when it came to him. I fired her. I told her to ‘get the fuck out’ as my father deserved nothing but the best of care and if this dumb bitch was going to disrespect him by not providing that care, and in fact choosing to disregard him entirely, she could simply get fucked. And so she did. She left.

THAT is my biggest regret. Firing her. Letting the one person who had the most knowledge of how to properly care for my dying father walk right out the door.

My intentions were to have another nurse come in. I called the ‘hotline’ and was told repeatedly that all nurses were on shift and none were available. 22 times. I called them 22 times before giving up. I even requested that the nurse I fired come back, but of course, that was a futile effort.

The worst night of my life ensued. The previous nurse, the one who danced with him, the one who got him out of bed and undoubtedly provided the most relief he had probably had in weeks had just left and now it was night time. The nurses worked in 12-hour shifts. I had fired the night nurse early in the evening and fought to get another one in for as long as I could. Nobody came. We were alone and it was entirely my doing.

I got into bed with him, as I did throughout his last days. I talked to him and stayed awake as I normally did. He started to move… he moved for the first time on his own in weeks. He was trying to get out of bed. He wanted to dance. He wanted to feel that relief again and I was simply too small and frail to hold him up. I had lost 40 pounds in this span of time and could barely walk without harrowing dizzy spells. There was absolutely no way that I could have held him up out of bed without us both falling. So I spent the night, what felt like years, holding him back in bed as he used all of the strength he had to attempt to get out of it. Sobbing and apologizing to him that I couldn’t dance with him, I spent hours pulling him back into discomfort.

You know, it just hit me…just now in this moment I am realizing and remembering that dancing was our thing. We always danced together. “My Girl” by the Temptations was our song and whenever it came on … or any “oldies” song was played, we got up and danced. Fuck, that breaks my heart even more because again, right now in this moment I am realizing that I kept us from having our very last dance together. My god. Dad, I am so fucking sorry. I’m sorry I failed you. I am sorry that I let that nurse go. I am sorry that I couldn’t hold you when you needed me most and what is killing me most as I sit here is that I can’t remember our last dance.

I am honestly not sure what else to say. My father passed and his funeral was exactly what he wanted it to be. I did my very best to provide him with the dignity that I promised he would have… especially when he couldn’t provide it for himself.

There is more to this story. There is the day that I cleaned out his apartment and the necklace I found which is a story that can only be justified by an intervention by God himself. There is the bell… the one that I keep on my coffee table and ‘ding’ almost every night before bed. The photo of us holding hands that I have in my room and say goodnight to. There’s the story of Laurie, the woman who I call “mom” (yep, I found another one) that my father, in his own way and without knowing, gave me the gift of the one person who watches over me. The story of the year that followed where I was actively suicidal and was kept alive, I believe, by him.

A Rabbi told me that when someone passes, you keep them here, alive on Earth by saying their name. While I am not religious by any stretch, that has always stuck with me.

I realize that my father’s legacy ends with me. I will not have children and after I am gone, it is likely that his stories will fade. There will be a day that his name is mentioned for the last time. Until then, I’ll keep saying it. I am reminded of it daily. There is the story of my cat, which is also one that simply can’t be correctly articulated. I named him Matzoh (like matzoh ball soup) because it’s hilarious. Soon after that, though…I gave him a middle name. Larry. I say it as often as I can.

There is so much more to all of this. So many words and sentiments that can fill these pages and maybe, one day, they will. For now though. I will end with this. I’m looking down at my hands typing and staring at his ring. I wear it every so often. I just so happen to have it on today. It’s gold and has a blue stone in the center. It’s an oval stone that glimmers in the sunlight. If it hits the light ‘just right’, it makes a star. It quite literally creates a white asterisk shape in the stone. I remember being a little girl, no older than 7 and being outside in the backyard. My father called me over to him and said “Rock look… I have a star in my ring!” I remember being in awe of it. Truly believing that my father had captured a star and held it with him on his finger. I think he’d be happy that I was wearing it. I think he would want me to somehow keep that wonder alive in a way. In any way I could, keeping the magic that he so easily cultivated. One that drew people in with a sense of wonder and joy. Even in the darkest of times.