What I Learned About Time When It Stood Still

Everything was fine right up until the moment that it wasn't. In late September, just as I was preparing to leave on a flight to Brazil for a week of client meetings, my stepmother called. My father had been asleep for 24 hours and could not be roused. Something was wrong. An ambulance was on its way.

At first, they thought Dad was merely dehydrated. A day of IV fluids dripping into his system and he should wake up. By the second day, that hope dissolved into despair. My father, my rock, my mentor, was not going to wake up. Suddenly, at age 76, my father, Bernie Leff, was dying. 

Looking back, I could not have been more ill-prepared. My grandfather died at 92; we lost my grandmother when she was 94. My mother-in-law is alive and well at 93. We lost an uncle last year at 94 while his wife survives him. She is now 94, too. Somehow, I've been lulled into the expectation of longevity. I was supposed to have more time with my father. I was supposed to have a lot more time.

The next step was a family meeting with the hospital and social worker to discuss my father's care. The decisions that we needed to make were painful and terrifying. They are literally life and death. The outcome of choices that you are making on behalf of someone you love means that you could be causing pain or not doing enough to ease their pain. The responsibility is enormous; the decisions are gut-wrenching. Answering questions that fill in specific details related to a loved one's death comes with a weight on your chest that makes it hard to breathe. There is fear, and tears, and tremendous anxiety.

The only one of us in the room with any experience on these matters was my sister. Her first husband tragically died from cancer almost two decades ago after a 2-year battle when they were both in their early thirties. While we were in this meeting, I could see her reliving the similar conversations she's had about her husband. I looked to her for guidance but her life experience was a detriment; my inexperience was an asset. She was reliving her pain; I was blissfully unaware of how painful this entire process is and will be well into the future. Her biggest concern: he cannot die alone. He mustn't die alone.

For the next 22 excruciating days, every thought in my head was hijacked. My father was dying. All the essential things that I had to do didn't matter. My father was dying. All the meetings I needed to attend didn't matter. My father was dying. Every moment became incredibly precious and important. Nothing could keep me from spending as much time with him as I could because, at any moment, that opportunity would be gone forever.

I have been close to my father for my entire life. I am the middle child, sandwiched between an older sister and a younger brother. When we were growing up, my sister was the trailblazer, pushing the limits and testing her independence probably well before either of my parents were really prepared for her to do so. My brother was the baby and got away with murder, at least most of the time. There would be an occasional day of reckoning when his luck would run out. At that point, there was usually a mild eruption from our Dad. Mom is an artist. She was always off doing her artist-y things and left most of the active parenting to Dad. 

One day, when I was still in middle school, something set Dad off, and he was mad, really mad. He started yelling at my sister for something, I couldn't possibly remember what. When he was done with her tongue lashing, he moved on to my younger brother who got his ears pinned back for something he had done. At this point, it dawned on my father that he should be an equal opportunity scolder, so he turned to me and began to yell, "and you…", "and you…". I waited for what he would say next. I couldn't think of anything that I had done that would warrant him yelling at me. Apparently, neither could he because, after a long, scary pause, he continued, "you didn't bring me a glass of ice water last week when I asked you to." There was a bit of awkward silence as we both absorbed the fact that that was all he could come up with. Then, we burst out laughing together. This sums up my relationship with my father so poignantly. We always got along so incredibly well. We never crossed words, and I never wanted to let him down. I always tried to make him proud. 

In high school, when other girls my age were at summer camp, I worked with him in his office every day. We rode into New York City together from our home in New Jersey, and I loved the nearly hour drive back and forth. I loved our conversations in the car. I loved the way we joked around and enjoyed his favorite music together. I loved spending my days with him, stationed at the conference table in his large corner office. I loved observing his meetings and calls and learning from him. It allowed him to pass along skills for logical thinking, complex problem solving, and business acumen. He was the ultimate deal maker, looking for the win-win that made every transaction a benefit to all parties. The word I'd use for that is honorable. But Dad didn't do it to be honorable. He did it because he thought it was important to always do the right thing and finding solutions in business that don't take advantage of one party is a vital part of what it means to do the right thing.

If I had a dollar for every time that Dad said, "a Leff does the right thing," I'd have a lot of dollars. If Dad were here, he'd tell us that he was raised this way – of course, he would, he was humble as well. Dad lost his own father when he was just 20 years old, and his mother died a few years later. It's a different journey to navigate this life without the compass of a caring, capable parent or two. I cannot imagine how he not only faced life challenges on his own, without calling his Dad for guidance when he needed it most like I have been fortunate enough to do for all of these years, but he managed to be an incredible role model as well. He not only had a solid enough foundation to navigate his own life, but he was able to instill certain key values in his children, too.

In so many of life's situations, we know what the right thing to do is, at least instinctively, anyway. Dad taught us to follow that instinct even if it's not what we actually wanted to do. Do the right thing, he'd say. That's been seared into my brain and imprinted onto my soul. I've been trying to do the right thing since I was old enough to understand what that truly means and I have tried very hard to instill it in my children and follow his example.

But, and here is a great question, what if there is conflict and the other person doesn't want to do the right thing? Anyone who knows me knows that I hate conflict and I avoid drama at all costs however, sometimes conflict finds me. When that happens, oh how I wish the person on the other end were raised by my Dad so that they would do the right thing. When you are taught that, it's a big responsibility. Which leads me to the next thing I've learned from my Dad: be the bigger person. This is what happens when there is conflict and the other person is wrong, you have to be the bigger person.

Mom is whom I turned to for cheerleading and support; Dad was whom I went to for guidance and advice or if I needed help. He was there for me in the most challenging times that, frankly, I don't know how I would have emerged from healthy on the other side if it weren't for him. But, if conflict had found me and I went to Dad for advice or to just unload about some injustice, he consistently had one of two answers: If I was wrong, he told me to do the right thing. If I was right, he told me to be the bigger person. 

There is incredible restraint in letting someone be wrong and being okay with it. Dad lived this way himself and was an example and a role model. He always did what he thought was right. When he was dealing with someone who did not, he would let it go and be the bigger person. This is one of the many things that I am eternally grateful to Dad for teaching me. It may not have always felt like it, but it was a wonderful gift to receive.

My Dad taught me about friendship through his relationships with his friends, whom he cherished. Dad was a collector of really good people. He considered his friends to be gifts, and I know that Dad was a gift to his friends, too. Dad was compassionate, thoughtful, and empathetic. There was nothing he wouldn't do for a friend. We have seen him move mountains when that's what was needed, and we know that he never had to be asked. He had the emotional intelligence just to know what was required, and he just did it. 

Dad was a man of action, not just for his own business and his friends but for his community as well. Before my grandfather's sudden death at 58 years old, he carried a poem with him in his wallet that read:

I shall pass through this world but once. 

Any good that I can do. 

Let me do it now, 

for I shall not pass through this world again.

Given how young my grandfather was when he died, there was so much good that he never had the chance to do. My Dad took it upon himself to carry the torch when his father was deprived of the opportunity to continue on this path himself. Despite his activism and all that he accomplished, you will not see my father's name across any buildings because it was never about the glory for him. It was about doing any good that he could do. The way he sought out and seized opportunities to contribute so positively to his family, his friends, and the community he loved so much, was truly inspirational.

For 22 days, my father was dying. He could have died any day during that time. I woke up each morning not knowing if he'd be alive at the end of the day. For 22 nights, my father died in my dreams and I'd wake up in the middle of the night with a start. I'd text my sister or brother then and, most nights, there was a quick reply. Sleeping at night is elusive and fleeting when someone you love is dying.

My heart shattered countless times during those 22 days. About eight days before he died, I had come in to see him. He opened his eyes, looked at me, and started crying, really crying. This tore me into pieces. Was he crying because he knew he was dying and didn't want to leave us? Was he afraid? Or, was he in pain and imploring me to save him? He couldn't communicate so it was impossible to know. But seeing this giant of a man reduced to tears simply destroyed me.

Then, on the afternoon of October 17th, my father passed away peacefully surrounded by his wife and children. We didn't just surround him; we enveloped him. We knew what we were losing and we didn't want to lose it. We clung to each moment and each other knowing full well the void that this man, this great man whom we loved so dearly, would leave in our lives forever. I am so grateful that we were there with him right up until and including his last breath. He held me as I entered this world, I held him as he departed it. 

And despite knowing that he was dying and living it in my mind every day, and subconsciously in my dreams every night, I was still wholly unprepared for him to actually die. Despite trying to mentally get myself ready for the moment when he died, it became crystal clear that that was a fool's errand. There is no way to comprehend the depth of loss you will feel from losing a parent until you lose one yourself.  Of course, this could be a Mad Libs game – you can't prepare for [fill in the blank] -- losing a husband, a father-in-law, a stepfather, a grandfather, a friend until you lose one yourself. I know a lot of people really loved my Dad, and his departure leaves a gaping hole in so many lives.

In keeping with Jewish tradition, Dad's funeral was scheduled for the following day, and after that, we sat shiva for seven days. Shiva is a time of mourning for immediate family. We sit on a low chair as a sign of our mourning, and friends and relatives visit to provide comfort when the pain of grief is most acute. We talk about the one we lost until we can do so without our voice cracking from pain. I cherished spending time with my father's friends and hearing their stories about my Dad. I knew the general outline of his life but they colored in the rich details. Details I didn't have and didn’t know.

But hearing these stories brought on a new level of pain and a new wave of regret. Why didn't I spend more time with my father while I had a chance? Was I so busy living my life, building my career, and focusing on my own family that I failed to spend enough time with him? Sitting on that low chair, day in and day out, you cannot help but come face-to-face with this one crucial truth: time is all we have.

I loved my Dad immensely. I know he loved me. But this feeling of loss, the loss of this incredible force in my life, leaves me feeling bereft. If I could rewind the clock, there'd be a monthly dinner with just the two of us – a time with no agenda, when we could simply "be" with one another and see where the conversation went. Of course, we spent time together during my adulthood. He was a frequent guest, a devoted grandfather, and we'd spent countless holidays together. I have beautiful memories, but it isn't enough. At work, we talk about being purpose-driven, but I keep reverting to this question: did I live with purpose within my own family?

Dad and I spoke often, but so many of our calls were about checking in – "how are you, Deborah?", "I'm great, Dad, how are you." How many of those calls were missed opportunities to connect and talk genuinely? How many times did I dial Dad out of obligation, checking in because it was the right thing to do? Why didn't I ask him to tell me more about his own life, his parents and learn their stories? I suddenly realize that I don't know my father's favorite childhood memories, nor do I know his favorite memories from when we were children. My brain swirls with questions along these lines, and there seems to be nothing that I can do to silence them. They intensify my sense of loss as they up the ante of my grief with a massive dose of regret on top.

I know that people I care about will not live forever, and still, there is the expectation that we all live another day. We naturally take each other for granted. Now, I keep thinking about this lesson of time; time is all we have. My Dad could have died in late September, but he held on. He held on long enough for each of his children and grandchildren to have enough time to be with him, to have a chance to say good-bye. I set my life aside to be with him every single day. To sit by his side, to hold his hand, and to comfort him. I talked to him and I tried to do whatever I could to ease his transition from this world to the next as our time together was running out. The world kept on turning while, for me, it stood still.

At my father's burial, as his coffin was being lowered into his final resting place at the cemetery, my 15-year-old became inconsolable. She buried her head in my chest as I heard her say, "I don't want to bury my father." In the most literal definition of empathy, she was imagining what I must be feeling, watching my father be buried. The weight of my loss struck her the hardest when she put herself in my shoes and imagined she was watching her own father be buried. This is a conversation we have never had. Her childhood has been quite idyllic so far. We have never discussed the reality that people she loves will be lost at some point. Now is the time to begin that dialogue because loss now has a seat at our table. It is my constant companion and it hangs on me like a weighted vest as I move throughout my day. I have to make the awful adjustment to a life without my wonderful father in it. Perhaps talking about it will one day save her from the regret I feel.

My only hope is that I can hold on to the lesson that time is all we have and make the most of the time I have with the people I care about most. My life is filled with wonderful people, and one day, the opportunity to spend time with them will cease to exist as well. 

Time is all we have. 

We have to make the most of our time.

A lesson I could only learn when time stood still.