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| R.I.P.Murray Fein 1919-2008 (298396) | |||
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R.I.P.Murray Fein 1919-2008 |
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Posted by Howard Fein on Mon Mar 17 09:26:37 2008 Worthy of noting in the 'Chat' community, I was on the subway when I got the phone call with the news.It was expected, my Dad having contracted bladder cancer five years ago. But he hadn't let it slow him down. He went for monthly treatments and otherwise continued his travel and other activities until additional ailments- shingles; a eurothropic (sp?) nerve causing him to have to wear a huge boot on his right foot; a broken hip incurred by a fall at home- began to occur over the past year. The broken hip confined him to a nursing home for rehab and physical therapy from November to February. Three days after he got out, he fell again and was put in a different nursing home. Shortly thereafer, he went for a much-delayed scraping. It was then found that the cancer had spread to his spine and verterbrea. He was put in Sloan-Kettering for radiation treatments and given no more than six months. My Mom began to make arrangements for a hospice. I'd gone to Sloan twice to see him. The previous Saturday he was his usual self, i.e. busting Mom's and my chops. This past Saturday, he was very weak and feeble, quite unlike him. His appearance was quite shocking, but we figured he'd defy the prognosis and hang on for much more than six months. Yesterday afternoon, I was rail and busfanning as I do any free day I have. I'd parked on Cypress & Putnam Avenues in Ridgewood, rode the B38 to Wilson, a Hybrid on the B60 to Williamsburg Plaza and the J to Canal. I'd hoped to get one more last chance to ride an R40 on the N to Coney with the added incentive of the 59-Kings express GO. I fought my way down a very crowded staircase to see a 160 with its doors about to close. After a minor struggle with the closing doors, I made it on and sat down. Soon after the train emerged onto the bridge my cell phone rang. The Caller ID read HOME. "Dad!" "Let me guess: you want me to bring home McDonalds for dinner." "No- you have to come home right away." "Why? What happened? Where's Mom?" "She's getting the laundry out. She told me to call you." "What's up?" "Grandpa died." "Oh. Listen, I'm on a 160 on the N going over the Bridge. It'll take about an hour for me to get home. At the next stop I'll get out and call Mom and Grandma." I felt remarkably calm until the train started its usual crawl through Gold interlocking, DeKalb bypass and the interminable approach to Pacific. Naturally I was towards the front of the train so had to run for the stairs and up to the street. It was raining, so I took to the nearest awning in front of a bodega at Atlantic & 4th. After enduring a long wait for a signal, I made my calls. Then I walked to Scherm & Bond (calling my supervisor at work along the way), got an A to Broadway Junction, an L to Myrtle and drove home. My Mom, local brother and I proceeded to the chapel to make arrangements for a Tuesday service and burial. The extra day is needed to allow travel for my other, L.A.-based brother, niece from Upstate and distant Rabbi cousin from Arkansas. Dad was like most other Depression-era Bronx natives: blunt, outspoken, hardworking, honest to a fault, goodhearted in spite of himself. After serving as a Sergeant in WWII, he attended phramaceutical school and became a detail man- i.e. sales rep. From 1957 to his 1984 retirement, he worked for Schering-Plough and called on most hospitals in NYC- including the one in which he passed. In high school, I used to joke that my Dad sold drugs for a living. Of course, being a licensed pharmacist is essentially being a doctor- but without the income. In any event, when any of us was sick, Dad knew exactly what we had to take. His big passion- along with plants, minerals and arguing politics- was travel. We used to travel all over the northeast and West, visiting virtually every major national park in a space of four or five summers. After retirement, he traveled to England, Spain, Portugal, China, Thailand and Singapore. (Suffering a detached hernia in Thailand did not force him to cut his trip short.) But if I were to drive him down 33rd Avenue instead of 32nd Avenue as usual, he would be utterly disoriented. His sales job required him to use the company-issued car most of the time, so he seldom rode the subway. All through the seventies, he'd come home ranting about how 2nd Avenue was all torn up for that *&($#*! construction for that *$(#@! subway that'll never be finished. When I was told of the six month prognosis, I remembered friends and co-workers who had to watch stricken relatives deteriorate for months and years, resulting in horrible agony- not to mention expense- for all involved. So Dad's passing comes as much a relief as a tragedy. The suddenness of it is quite a shock, one that still hasn't fully registered. My Mom, brother and I exhibited no sorrow in front of the funeral director; rather, we were cracking jokes in abundance. This lighthearted attitude continued through the many phone calls I had to make last night. Black humor is a distinct trait of the Fein family. Being by far the youngest of three, I never knew my grandparents and have a very small family in general: one faraway aunt and uncle who have long since passed. So this is really a new experience; I never realized funeral chapels have coffin showrooms! Of course, there's no 'good' time for someone to die. In a perverse way, I felt additional relief that we can go to a scheduled June wedding in Maryland without worrying about receiving THE phone call. Sorry to go on so long, but I feel comfortable enough on this board to ramble on like this. Thank you all for your friendship and support. So long, Dad. You made me what I am, FWIW. |
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