Yesterday was the thirteenth anniversary of Steven’s death. Our youngest child, he was only forty-three when a neglected melanoma did him in. A passionate musician, he had ended his Blue Cross coverage to save money a few months before his diagnosis.
I never can remember the year he died, so when each March 27th arrives, I call my daughter, “Nancy, is it thirteen or fourteen years? Or maybe neither?”
Even now while writing this I need to stop and think about it. I open the file cabinet in the closet and thumb through the dog-eared folders until I find one that says “Steven”. Short and succinct. Nothing like he really was.
I think about him daily and remember how he was always late, unmindful, and perpetually in need of money. Funny and playful, I remember how his young niece and nephew sought his attention which he typically rewarded by acting just like them. Or how he endeared himself to his mother by always remembering her birthday with a last-minute sometimes funky gift and a poem that he had crafted that morning.
I never gave up trying to convince him to get a “regular” job. I’d offer him bribes that he’d accept, and then fail to deliver on his promises. He believed his fortune lay in becoming a successful musician and composer, but he didn’t expend the necessary energy to leapfrog thousands of other Stevens who sought the same thing.
And I loved him because we were too much alike. It’s taken me thirteen years to figure that one out.
The day started with a trip to the Park Point athletic club where I worked out with Earl to save my body from the ravages of age, diet and the self-imposed stress caused by things that fill my early morning thoughts and dreams.
Earl is my third athletic trainer and like his predecessors Robert and Sarah, has his own method of wreaking havoc on my bones and ligaments. Robert had little use for keeping track of what I had done in the prior week, so everything was a big surprise that kept things interesting. Sarah took a different approach and studiously recorded my vital statistics, and adjusted hand-weights and reps in the same way that Jackie keeps a firm grasp keeping things orderly and on schedule.
Other than our first visit when he scribbled indecipherable notes that were immediately consigned to a deep dark place, Earl operates on the “How’s it feel…any pain?” principal. Answering OK and No, gives him license to increase the weight and double the reps.
I’ve been trying to teach Earl some Yiddish because I think he’d be cute wandering around the gym and practicing a second language. A big burly guy, with shoulders that make him turn sideways to get through doorways, he’s heavily into burgers and beer, and he already has a rudimentary grasp of “shalom aleichem” and “shabbat shalom”. Sadly, words with a rolling sound like “challah” are, given his Lutheran upbringing, well beyond his capabilities.
This being a special day, I decided to give it my all. “Earl, today is my son Steven’s yahrzeit.”
Looking a bit bewildered, I explained that yahrzeit means the yearly anniversary of someone’s death. I also explained that it is both a Yiddish and Hebrew word, so he will get extra credit learning it.
We finished our exercise routine and as I left his second-floor domain, I could hear him practicing. Sadly the “tz” sound is, I’m afraid, going to take some time mastering. Probably genetic.
It was also Chair Yoga Day at Enso. A stretching and twisting exercise done while seated, it is designed to let old people claim that, “Hell yes, sure I work out every day.” I decided to do the chair thing even though Earl had just finished overstretching my biceps (I think he may have been especially unhappy about the “tz” sound).
Regulars at the chair spree arrive in waves and fill the thirty or so seats that ring the room. Friendly chatter precedes the stretching and groaning, and I often test my memory by scanning the room to see if I can name the participants. My success at this effort is woefully scanty and simply reinforces my belief that it will only get worse as I age.
Erin leads the group and starts the session by going around the seated circle asking each of us to state our name and answer the question of the day…like what’s your favorite color or what kind of animal would you like to be. Today she said, “What person would you most like to meet.” Barack Obama was the most popular, although Genghis Kahn and Eleanor Roosevelt were also in the running.
Steven’s yahrzeit hung heavily on my mind, and I had little difficulty nominating him as the one who I’d most like to meet. There was a brief pause and a collective sigh in the room, and I felt like some of those present were sharing a similar feeling. Perhaps they too had wasted opportunities that could have strengthened the bonds with their child.
The evening program featured a guest speaker, and the large room was filled with chatter while we waited for her appearance. I sat next to Martha who had been struggling with hearing loss.
“How’s you hunt for new hearing aids coming along?”
“Still looking”.
Looking to fill some time I said, “Today was my son Steven’s yahrzeit.”
“And how did that turn out? Big crowd I hope” she asked.
I frowned and said, “What crowd”?
“The one at your yard sale”.