Dad was fond of planning things down to the most minute detail, although,
to me, he was at his best when forced to improvise. Such as in 1982, when
we were driving through Galway, Ireland and the car overheated. He
improvised alright, sending me and Amy... sorry, Dad... sending Amy and
I... or rather... sending us back and forth into a peat bog with a Coke
can to get water for the radiator, which Mom then filled with a makeshift
funnel carved from a milk jug.
Because of his knack for detail, I know he would appreciate a carefully
prepared and rehearsed eulogy, and I have put considerable thought into
what I would say. But thoughts change, and so have I, and for that matter,
so has he, therefore some degree of freedom is needed to aptly convey
that. And besides, meaningful interactions are best nurtured in their
spontaneity. So I'll compromise and follow my notes, while at the same
time attempting to speak from the same heart from which these words arise.
Dad was not without his faults; none of us are. And when Mom died nearly
10 years ago, much of his strength died with her. Their relationship was
as symbiotic and complementary as any that history is ever likely to have
witnessed, with him being the forge and her the anvil. I had previously
perceived his lack of abundant force of will as weakness in him, however,
his misplaced trust in people not deserving of that trust and uncanny
ability to forgive rascals for acting the part was actually indicative of
their frailty, not his. Moreover, he was a gentleman decades if not
centuries removed from a time in which honorable associations with one's
peers were the rule as opposed to the exception, and it is the
deterioration of the civil society which is entirely to blame for that.
Later in life as he became more dependent on others, he was seduced by the
false notion that the ends justify the means, and that became the
underlying source of much disagreement between us. The rest of humanity
should be so lucky to count something so relatively benign as a matter of
philosophical opinion among our greatest failings.
There is no doubt that Dad was a great man in that he accomplished much in
life, yet found time all along to give of himself to many people from many
backgrounds. Some of this came at the expense of his own family, and he
had some regrets in that regard, but his cause was noble and the legions
of his patients, their parents and now their offspring are a little bit
better for the experience. He would frequently stay up late at night
giving guidance to the parents of an ill child, and be up at the crack of
dawn the following day to make the rounds at area hospitals. By the time
Amy and I were 10 years old, we were completely qualified to teach
pediatric residency classes on sponge bathing a toddler to reduce a fever.
And he would always spend additional time cheering up those kids - his
Donald Duck imitation was legendary, and he invariably went the extra mile
in reassuring the parents and keeping them informed. He scheduled fewer
appointments in a given day than he otherwise might have in order to
ensure that each patient received the full "Dr. Jacoby treatment".
Dad put forth the same effort in cultivating all relationships, be it with
family, friends, neighbors, colleagues or strangers. The stories he would
tell, even after several airings, never lost their luster... ok, some may
have lost just a little bit to those around him enough to hear them so
many times we could recite them verbatim, but these were all threads in
the tapestry of his being that he so capably wove. Mom used to say that he
could carry on a conversation with a fence post and learn something from
it. Never mind that the fence post stood to learn far more from him. This
quality endeared him to just about everyone he came in contact with, and
probably a few fence posts as well.
Unfortunately, I caused more consternation for my parents than any joy I
might have brought them. To be frank, I had to take the circuitous route
to reach an objective, because the direct route was just too simple. I
believe that's why I gravitated toward an understanding of nature, because
such an endeavor requires an appreciation of nature's intricacies as well
as common sense: two attributes that were always in short supply with me.
Growing up, the closest my father and I ever became was on June 6, 1978 in
Dartmoor, Devonshire, England, when through some gross oversight on his
part, he had left the schedule open in the afternoon. So we took a stroll
down a trail following the river Teign below Prestonbury Castle, and we
were father and son for one of the few times in my childhood, enjoying the
simple things, such as water running across the rocks and wild grasses
swaying in the breeze. But more than that, we enjoyed each other's
company. Thankfully, Dad had me keep a diary of that vacation, and this is
not the first time I've referred to it for details, although the feeling I
had that day is still fresh in my mind.
That walk alongside the Teign was the happiest time of my life up to that
point and it had to have been gratifying to him as well, because later we
would reminisce extensively about it. Some 24 hours later, however, we
crossed a "clapper" bridge in Postbridge, and he became infuriated at me
for being improper by referring to it by a term analogous to a common
water closet. When Amy and then Mom joined in the fun, he was cornered and
was none too happy about it either. A lot of good will was undone because
of that "crapper" bridge.
It wasn't until the end of Dad's time on this Earth that he and I saw
eye-to-eye on a number of things, such as that what matters to me far more
than "what" I am is "who" I am, that I will always be indebted to him for
the upbringing he made possible and that my loyalty to him is unwavering.
In keeping with the Fifth Commandment, I strive to honor him and Mom, not
with great works like those in abundance throughout his resume, but in the
embodiment of attributes such as decency, sincerity, generosity and
reliability that they taught me. To that end, I felt I had no choice but
to attempt to place him into an environment where his dignity might be
restored, if only temporarily. I was concerned that if he ever got his
wits back about him that he would take umbrage at my intervening in his
affairs, but reality was quite the opposite. He did recover enough to
become fully aware of his situation and was comforted in knowing that I
would go to such lengths to ensure that he received the best care
possible. He confided that he had been wrong about me, and had misjudged
me, and, in turn, I confessed that I had been wrong about him in many,
many ways. It was precisely that newfound connection between us that
allowed us to become father and son once again, and I am so very grateful
for that opportunity.
Many years ago, at a Sabbath service I attended, the Rabbi sermonized
about the legacy of Judaism, advising that being among the "chosen people"
was not a privilege but rather a responsibility, and therefore our part in
the Convenant requires our constant vigilance. As Jews, we are tasked with
living our lives in an exemplary manner, that others might observe, and
should they see fit to judge our best qualities as imitable, that they may
seek the same well from which these qualities spring. Commonly, this
endeavor is understood to occur through the three vehicles of repentance,
prayer and charity, but these terms do not adequately describe the
concepts of teshuvah, tefilla and tzedakah. In particular, the Hebrew term
tzedakah implies righteousness, and therefore charity is to be understood
as a means to an end, not as some act of kindness undertaken for its own
sake. Dad was in many ways the personification of this principle because
not only was it his obligation as a doctor, parent, friend or neighbor to
be kind, generous and always respectful, but because it was ingrained in
him at the most profound level of his being. He gave. It was his greatest
virtue and I pray that G-d would find room in His heart to sanctify the
soul of a man whose worldly deeds would earn him such esteem in our eyes
and whose graciousness enriched the lives of all who knew him.
