by Ruth Rosen
The phone rang at 4:00 p.m., interrupting the clatter of my computer keyboard. Reaching for the phone, I inwardly grumbled, I hope it’s not going to be a long call. I was rushing to finish the day’s work, anxious to get over to the hospital where my father had been admitted the previous night.
I could hear my mother on the other end, talking to someone else; I greeted her without waiting for a hello.
“Ruth? You might want to leave work early and come over to the hospital now.”
“What’s wrong?” Cold fear washed over me, leaving me numb.
“We have the result of the CAT scan and it’s not good.” Mom paused briefly. “The scan showed lesions on some of Dad’s bones.”
“Tell her the doctors said it’s cancer,” I heard Dad coaching from the background. Instead of repeating the news, Mom handed him the phone.
“It’s cancer that’s spread to my bones,” he announced. It felt like a dream, the kind where you’re underwater, struggling in slow motion to surface. I managed to say, “I just need to talk to David for a moment, and then I’ll be right over.”
Seconds later, I repeated the news to David Brickner, his administrative assistant, Steve Wertheim, and Susan Perlman, all of whom were not only colleagues but longtime friends.
David asked, “Can we pray before you go?”
I nodded.
At the hospital, Dad repeated the news, sounding matter of fact about his impending death. He needed more tests before the doctors would give a prognosis—but when you hear the words carcinoma and metastasized in the same sentence, followed by sentences with the phrase “palliative care,” it’s natural to surmise that the end is near.
This was particularly true for my father, who from his earliest adult years believed that his end was near. Despite his fantastically fertile imagination, he never seemed able to picture himself living a long life. When I was in my twenties and Dad was in his forties, he made a point of saying, “Ruth, when I die, I want you to tell people that I lived a good, full life. Tell them not to mourn for me because I will be with the Lord.” He was not ill at the time.
“Stop talking like that,” my mother scolded. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?” She knew that I had a more than normal fear of death—not my own, but theirs.
I’ll never forget the look of surprised hurt on my father’s face. “But I need her to understand,” he said. “It’s no tragedy.”
I thought I saw something beyond hurt in his eyes. It looked like fear—not of death, but that I would not understand when it was his time to go. It was startling.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” I reassured him. “I will pass on your message when the time comes. But I don’t want to think about your not being around just now, okay? You know, just because you’ll be with God doesn’t mean we won’t miss you.”
He looked relieved. It was one of the few times I remember feeling that my father needed something from me. He needed me to face his death well.
Which brings us to February 12, 2007. As I sat beside him on the bed, he was quite calm, and my mother seemed surprisingly peaceful as well, though I know that on another level she was not. The news that a loved one has metastasized cancer is frightening, no matter what you believe about the afterlife.
It had been close to a year since Dad’s good friend Zola Levitt had died of cancer. Dad missed Zola and thought of him often. Though they had their differences, in many ways they were kindred spirits. On the day of his own diagnosis, Dad pointed to Zola as a man of God who accepted death matter of factly and was determined to finish putting things in order before being called home. He wanted to follow Zola’s example.
“The worst thing that could happen would be for my family to turn my death into a tragedy,” Dad said, giving voice to that same concern he’d expressed some three decades earlier.
I hugged him. “We need to take one day at a time. Let’s wait and see. No one has to say good-bye to anyone today.” He nodded his agreement.
Dad called Lyn, and I could hear her ask if she could pray with him and he gladly assented.
Then I took the cell phone, went out in the hall, and talked with Lyn. When I came back into the room, my father was on the telephone with Bethany, telling her what I had been telling myself and my sister: “Now is when we find out if we really mean the things we say we believe.”
There was a tremendous sense of love in the hospital room. I stared and stared at my father, shifting my gaze only occasionally to see my mother looking at him with similar intensity. I was trying to memorize every detail, every expression of his face, wondering how much longer he would be with us, wondering when there would only be photographs to look at when I wanted to see him. Mom was probably doing the same.
Before long it was past 6 o clock. Though my father’s appetite was a fraction of what it had been prior to the pain, he wanted something to eat and was determined that Ceil, her friend Gwen and I should have dinner. He wanted sushi. And not just any sushi, but from a particular place he liked—in a part of town some 20 minutes away where parking was typically difficult.
Before I left the office, David had said to let him know if there was anything he could do, and I knew he meant it. I stepped into the hall and phoned him—and before long he arrived, bearing a huge platter of sushi.
David stayed for quite some time. Somehow the subject of honor came into the conversation and Dad said, “Do you know how you honor a person?” We waited for the answer. “You listen. That’s how you honor a person.”
His words were not lost on us. We sat and listened to him for quite a while, occasionally, but not often, interjecting questions or comments. While the talk was serious, the mood in the hospital room was not overly somber or grim. Many smiles were exchanged and bits of laughter broke out now and again.
When David left, Moishe looked content. “I enjoyed that,” he said. And to further express his satisfaction he said, “I felt listened to.”
I left around 11:00 p.m. The hospital provided a small cot for my mother so that she could spend the night in Dad’s room. After receiving the day’s news, the two of them were not about to be separated.
A couple of days later the picture of my dad’s health was pulled into better focus, though it remained somewhat fuzzy. We learned that Moishe’s prostate cancer was still treatable, though it had metastasized. Most patients were known to live for years with proper treatment.
Uncertainty lingered because we knew that Moishe was not “most people” and might not be numbered among “most patients” who respond well to treatment. He’d already had three completely unrelated near-death experiences. First he’d contracted septisemia from an infection in the prosthesis after his first knee replacement. I was out of town* when Ceil saw the angry red streaks on his leg called an ambulance, and then called Steve and Janie-sue Wertheim to wait with her. His mind clouded with fever, Dad was refusing to go to the hospital and became quite agitated when the paramedics attempted to move him. His size prevented even a team of men from taking him anywhere he did not want to go. Janie-sue stepped in, spoke calmly, quietly, and firmly to him and to the amazement of all, he responded with immediate compliance. Moishe later credited the Wertheims with saving his life that day.
Moishe also had nearly fatal congestive heart failure brought on, we discovered, by sleep apnea. Finally, he almost died from internal bleeding and severe anemia. The symptoms of this were hard to detect until, as Moishe later described it, “I was so weak that I felt like I could go [die] if I wanted to . . . and it wasn’t a frightening feeling, but a choice. I decided I didn’t want to go yet.” His doctor later confirmed. “You were about as close to being dead as a person can be.” The crisis had resulted from an aspirin-based over-the-counter pain medication taken with a prescribed blood thinner.
With each recovery Moishe continued to work, play, and live a fuller life than many who enjoyed better health could boast. When he opted to have his other knee replaced, it was a show of optimism for a better qua
lity of life. However, this time no one was surprised when a post-operative infection set in and a second surgery was necessary to clean it out. When granddaughter Bethany visited Moishe in the hospital, he said, “Come here where I can see you better. Your smile is like medicine to me.” She stood there and smiled at him for a while, and he smiled back. After a couple of minutes he joked, “Okay, that’s enough. I don’t want to overdose.”
He could usually maintain a sense of humor for the first day or two of a hospital stay. Once when David came to visit him after a surgery, Moishe wondered aloud when someone would finally bring him a meal. “Well,” David pointed out, “Jesus is the bread of life.” “Yes,” Moishe smiled. “And the Holy Spirit is the butter.”**
Then in November 2006, Dad began suffering from abdominal pain and was scheduled for gall bladder surgery. Out came the gall bladder and several stones. The surgeon said it was no wonder Moishe been in so much agony. But on top of a stressful post-op infection that took weeks of intravenous antibiotics, the pain was not resolved; it became more acute and landed him in the ER. Hence the CAT scan that revealed the metastasized cancer.
When we learned more about his condition, Moishe seemed slightly disappointed to discover that his death was not impending. And when he came home, there were some very apparent as well as subtle changes. Morphine was prescribed to manage the pain that was, presumably, referred from the spine where tumors had taken hold. This drastically diminished his ability to taste food. Pound after pound melted away, ironically improving some of his other health issues.
Other changes were emotional and probably connected with the first tier of treatment—hormone therapy. Moishe seemed more in touch with his feelings. If he became irritable, he wondered aloud why something small should cause him to overreact. He often commented on my mother’s dedication and hard work in caring for him, and often expressed appreciation, saying how much the love of his family meant to him. He worried about less fortunate people who had to endure terminal illness alone.
One evening he surprised me by apologizing for not having paid more attention to me when I was a child. When I assured him that I had never felt a lack in that area, he insisted on being allowed to tell me that he should have done more, as he’d done with my sister.
In late March of 2007, we got reports that Moishe’s PSA count had dropped significantly, and he no longer needed the serious pain medication. The cancer was backing off and my parents celebrated their seventy-fifth birthdays with real gratitude that year.
Moishe was relatively free of pain for nearly a year. I’d even forget from time to time that he had cancer. I don’t think that my mother ever forgot. She spent a lot more time with him in his office, just being there, even though his furniture was not geared for her small size.
Herb Links, mentioned in chapter 26, flew out for a visit and when he returned to Philadelphia, he maintained his friendship with Dad on a new level. Every night, with very few exceptions, he called Dad. He’d read a Bible verse, chat for a while, then pray for him. Sometimes they’d talk about mundane things . . . Herb bought expensive tickets to hear a musician and the man only performed one song. Sometimes Herb would ask for Dad’s advice or opinion about a sermon he was preparing. But he always called, a true friend with a real minister’s heart. I was often there when Dad’s phone rang, usually around the same time each night, and whenever he’d answer, Mom and I (and anyone else who happed to be there) would all call out “Hello, Herb!”
Another relationship that seemed to grow stronger during Dad’s illness was his friendship with Paul Liberman, editor of The Messianic Times in Southern California. Following are portions of a letter that Paul wrote to him in 2007:
We have not many fathers among us. At present, who is more of a father to our Movement than you? It isn’t merely age or length of time in the Body. There is a sense of integrity that comes through. Perceiving and expressing truth seems to be of great importance to you. Sometimes, people don’t have ears to hear real reasons, as distinguished from the fig leaves we all wear.
When I ponder, who can understand me, you keep coming to mind. . . . Your analysis has always been good, both in mundane and spiritual matters. If you ever want to speak into my life, I will be all ears.
Sometimes, people are caught off guard by your piercing through human rationalizations. Being confronted with truth can make some angry, as they feel personally impugned, rather than helped. To me you simply quest after truth. I also admire the integrity upon which Jews for Jesus was founded and has continued.
Dad’s answer was swift, appreciative, and lengthy. The following part responding to Paul’s overtures of friendship gives insight into what friendship meant to him:
I appreciate your affirmation a lot. But friendship is like marriage: it’s a commitment which requires work and patience. You are among the few that I decided I would like to have as a friend. I’m talking about over a lifetime—maybe twenty people . . .
To me, there is a healthy relationship that I would call less than a friend. . . . I don’t know what to call the other category, but it’s a category of persons that I feel I want to be good for them; I want to be able to affirm them; I want to be able to uphold them and to give them something. I have had hundreds and hundreds of these over a lifetime. . . .
Let me say that when it comes to friends, you can probably find some that are a lot more enjoyable than me. But I try to be committed.
Dad sent many letters during his last few years, and also wrote some documents that he hoped would be published after his death. One document was as follows:
I always thought of myself as being a rather ordinary person who was called by an extraordinary God. That was proved true by my successes in life. It seemed that by following His direction I was the right man at the right place at the right time to say “yes.” . . .
I never set myself forth to be admired, and I didn’t want to be an example. I thought that there were better examples. I liked myself; I enjoyed myself; I made myself comfortable. None of these seemed wrong to me, because it seemed what other people were striving for. Yet, deep down, I always knew that God would reward those who stood for Him [in a place of discomfort]. . . .
I enjoyed people more than they probably enjoyed me. . . . It was easy enough for me to like people, even to love them, but it was difficult for me to admire those who wanted to be admired. Those that I admired best were . . . hard workers, soft-spoken, and people who didn’t continually think on what they deserved.
If there’s anything to be said about myself—I knew the value of God’s grace: that I always got better than what I deserved, that I always achieved more than I expected.
Moishe kept writing for as long as he could. Eventually, bouts of pain made it difficult for him and Ceil to make plans, but Moishe continued to endure and didn’t lose his desire to minister to others. He often spoke of his death, and while he could sometimes be morose about his limitations, he did his best to remain positive about his expectations.
An oncologist friend (Jack Sternberg, one of the Jews for Jesus board members) suggested that low-level radiation to the spine might greatly alleviate Moishe’s pain. The cancer had doubtless damaged his vertebrae, which could wreak havoc with the nerves and refer pain to various parts of his body. A local radiation therapist corroborated the suggestion.
In one of Dad’s e-mails to Dr. Jack, he wrote,
I go in for my third radiation treatment today. Until last night I could say positively that I had less pain but then I had another episode. Nevertheless, I am optimistic; last night’s episode of pain was less severe. . . . I was able to preach twice yesterday. Peter Sandberg who helps me said that my energy was good. . . .
I think you have helped me have a better quality of life. I wish you lived close 25 years ago. We could have had a lot of fun together. I would have enjoyed helping you sharpen your witness and your public ministry of teaching. I would have liked going fishing with you as long as you left the boat to smo
ke your required cigar. You wouldn’t mind taking a walk on the water would you?
Moishe finished his radiation treatments, but signs indicated that the cancer was progressing again. Another hormone therapy was employed and worked, but not for long. It seemed like we were out of options. Moishe had a new oncologist who hesitated to recommend chemotherapy because of his other health concerns. From a previous conversation, the rest of the family believed that Dad did not want to subject himself to chemotherapy so we did not press him.
Thank God for our friend Dr. Jack, who explained, as Dad’s own oncologist apparently had not, that many advances had been made and that unlike the old days, the chemotherapy for prostate cancer had relatively mild side effects. “My oncologist told me not to expect to celebrate Thanksgiving this year,” Dad had told Jack.
“If you get started on taxetere,” Jack said, “You’ll be around for Thanksgiving. Trust me.”
Jack was right. The chemo, begun in June, was no picnic, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as Moishe feared, and was well worth it. It looked as though it would be a Happy Thanksgiving after all. Then in October 2009, a bowel obstruction sent Moishe back to the hospital for emergency surgery. The two-week hospital stay and subsequent recovery kept him off the chemo for about six weeks.
Nevertheless, Moishe did enjoy that Thanksgiving and even mugged for the camera, holding up a turkey drumstick with an expression that was meant to look voracious, though he only ate a few bites. In fact, from the time he came back from the hospital, Moishe never really regained his strength, and needed someone with nursing skills available to attend him 24/7.
Many old friends came by to see him over the following months, and Moishe made a tremendous effort to rally for these visits, no matter how poorly he was feeling. In February 1010 Darwin Dunham came to visit for several days. After so many years it was great to see him and to hear him say, once again, how profoundly Moishe had influenced him. We traded funny stories and a few minutes later, I looked at Dad, sitting in his chair, so frail, covered in his blanket. He was smiling. Well, that was no surprise. As sick as he was, when he wasn’t in pain he smiled a great deal. I’d like to think it wasn’t just the morphine. It was kind of an angelic, almost ethereal smile, and sometimes he’d do it in his sleep.
