LEAVE AWE UNEXPLAINED (6/10/04)

Someplace between sainthood and damnation lies the legacy of Ronald Reagan. I have my own opinions. I am already tired of hearing and talking about them, and I bet you are, too.

Honestly, the only emotional connection that I have had with the President’s death has been in its lone metaphysical moment, one that is likely to get swept aside by all the political blather.

Reagan’s daughter Patti reported that in her final visit, her dad looked up at her for the first time in months with perfectly clear eyes, eyes of recognition, resolve and love. The metaphysics of the moment lay in his eyes having been unresponsive, closed, dimmed for so long, before that moment of absolute clarity that formed the bridge between life and death.

Perhaps you, too, know the metaphysics of that moment. I do. My dad also had descended deeply into Alzheimer’s. He, too, had been bedridden, barely conscious, uncommunicative for months, eyes closed or dimmed, no recognition. His breathing became labored and we knew that death was imminent. Yet he struggled. I tried to communicate:

“Daddy, it’s time for you to let go. Do you understand?”

As expected, no response.

“Daddy, it’s time for you to join Zayde in Gan Eden. Please let go.”

Still no response.

“Daddy, I promise to use all of my energy to make sure that Mommy is safe and healthy and taken care of. Do you understand?”

On the assurance of my mother’s safety, his eyes opened wide. He looked at me for the first time in months, years, with complete clarity. He feebly announced, “Uh-huh.” A moment later, I watched him slip into the next world.

And, indeed, I did take care of my mom. I certainly ask no accolades. Whatever I could give her never could return to her the care and unconditional love she bestowed upon me, even through the hardest of times.

But, then it was her time to go. She knew it, and we knew it. Linda and I were her constant companions in ICU for three days and nights. With each day, as expected, she drew drowsier, less conscious, more detached. So, while she could, we sang all the old Yiddish folk songs and show tunes that we knew. When she couldn’t, I would sing them to her. We retold well-worn savory family meiselach one more time. She asked to recite the Final Confession and Shema Yisrael while she was still conscious enough to do so.

At 10:00 on the third night, the heart monitor’s waves turned loopy, then flat. Again, as with Daddy, her eyes turned metaphysically crystal-clear. And something else: She took her last breath, then “something” not of this world rose from her deathbed. No one can convince me but that I was watching my mother’s pure soul rise from her body and ascend heavenward.

After making rudimentary funeral arrangements, I went home and actually slept quite restfully. My only dream that night gave me even more reason to believe that trying to stuff all of life’s experiences into a little rational box is a bunch of hooey:
In my dream, my mother was asleep, tucked in beautifully, in a room bathed in the most radiant sunshine. I shook her lightly, and she awoke with a delightfully loving smile.

“Mommy,” I said softly, “they told me that you had died.”

“Oh no,” she comforted me, “they can’t do that to me.”

Let Dr. Freud, et al, be damned. And along with them anyone else who maintains that awe is to be analyzed, not simply savored. I do not want anyone to explain to me what I saw and felt, and certainly no one to tell me that only the feebleminded take refuge in granting power to the inexplicable.

This obsession with trying to “understand” everything isn’t always such a great idea. Sometimes you just have to savor things that are beyond comprehension and give faith and credit to the All-Knowing One, who, as we know, don’t make no junk.