One Year

I need to shut off my dad’s cell phone.

Of all the accounts I’ve closed and the memberships I’ve terminated in the last year since he died (and since my mother sold their house and moved to New York), the one that’s still active is the one for his cell phone. In fact, the phone is still in my apartment, on my dresser, fully charged.

In the early months after my dad died, I needed his phone number to be active because some of his accounts sent him a text message to verify his identity when I tried to log in as him. But these days, with everything either closed or transferred to my mother’s name (or to my cell phone number), there’s no longer a need for that. And it’s not like he gets any calls anymore; the last “legit” one was on September 23, from a friend of his who apparently dialed my dad’s number by mistake.

Nor does he get any emails of any importance. I know this because I still check his account multiple times each week, deleting all the spam so his inbox stays neat and tidy. (I know. It’s a hard habit to break.)

I’ve even gone to the Verizon store to start the process of discontinuing his phone number and transferring the account to my mother, but I have yet to follow through. (Apparently, the rest of the process involves calling customer service.)

For the record, it’s not like I’ve called my dad’s number at any time in the last year. I know he won’t answer. And when my landline at home rings, I know it’s not him calling — though I do pause for a second, since that’s the number he always called me on. He was pretty much the only one who used it. Alas, these days, when that line rings, it’s usually either a spammer or a nonprofit organization looking for money.

Today is the one-year anniversary of my dad’s passing, and it doesn’t take an expensive psychiatrist to diagnose that my hesitation to shut off his phone is simply because keeping the number alive is like a way of keeping him alive, too. 

But I do miss talking to my dad, and hearing his positive spirit encouraging me to do something I was hesitant about, or asking me to check a stock quote, or wanting to discuss the Red Sox or Patriots (or the Mets or Jets), or asking me how my “social life” is going, or just needing to hear from me that things are going well, in general, especially when he was having a bad day or when my mother was annoying him. When he was still with us, I never knew which was worse: being there and seeing first-hand what a hard time he was having, or hearing it in his voice on the phone and not being able to do anything about it.

I did spend a lot of time in Florida during the last three years of my dad’s life, experiencing first-hand the toll Parkinson’s took on his mind and body, and sensing the frustration he had with how his life had changed and how he was powerless to stop it, but not wanting to admit it. He knew the end was coming, and he wasn’t ready to go. Much as he knew he’d had a good life, he did not want this to be the way it ended. There was still so much he wanted to do.

The last year was particularly challenging, as multiple surgeries and doses of anesthesia (plus dementia) did a number on his mental capacity, and then a fall in late May began his final decline. The last time he was in the house was in June; after yet another hospital stay, during which my mother went into cardiac arrest and didn’t go home herself for more than 12 weeks, we moved him to an assisted living facility, and that’s where he spent the last five or so months of his life.

Difficult as it often was in those final months, I do feel lucky that I was able to spend all that time with him.

In 2006, my grandmother (my Bubby) passed away on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, so the holiday became associated with that milestone. And then, last year, my dad passed away overnight on the Monday after Thanksgiving, making the holiday and the weekend after it bittersweet, and an annual reminder that he’s no longer with us. I’ll always remember what happened that Saturday and that Sunday last year, not realizing they would be the last times I’d see him.

When a parent dies, in the Jewish faith, there are multiple customs associated with the mourning process. (It’s one of the things I was most thankful for this year.) There’s the initial shiva week and the first 30 days, which is called sheloshim, during which you’re supposed to refrain from festive and fun activities — difficult to do during December, but we did it. And then, if you’ve lost a parent, you’re still considered a mourner for the 11 months after that, during which time you’re required to say the Mourner’s Kaddish every day, among other observances. I didn’t adhere to all the customs, but I know my dad would be proud that I said Kaddish as often as I did, and that I did it with the community at his synagogue in New York (via Zoom).

And yet, I don’t know that I’ve had a good cry since my dad died. I had many before then, particularly when I thought I was leaving him for the last time — such as when he was in rehab again in early February 2024 and I had to go home for my nephews’ bar mitzvah without him and my mom. But when it actually happened — when the phone rang at 1:15 a.m. and I ran across the house to answer it and I heard the news — I think part of me felt a sense of relief for him, and a sense of responsibility to make sure my mother was alright, and to be strong for her. Some tears came that day, but not many. And they still haven’t. I got teary at the funeral, and I’ve come close on multiple other occasions since then, but I’ve stopped myself. Whether I’m repressing my grief may be for someone else to determine, but I know I still have some unfinished business to deal with.

I did think about it — and, as noted, pre-grieve — a lot before it happened. Maybe that helped? Regardless, I credit Anderson Cooper’s All There Is, which I still listen to every week, just as I’ve done since it began a few years back. It’s a podcast about grief, and it began because Anderson, too, had not properly dealt with the loss of his parents and his brother. In every episode, Anderson speaks to someone — a celebrity, a psychologist, a notable person, someone who’s called the show’s voice mail line — who has experienced loss or who has thoughts about it, and they share what they’ve learned.

Episode after episode, while each individual story is unique, there are common threads and themes: How certain songs or people served as a comfort. How important it is to process what happened. How lucky those who’ve lost someone feel to have known them. How everyone goes through it and those who do are not alone. And how, even though a person may be gone, their memory stays very much alive.

“To die is to be reincarnated in those we love while they’re still alive” is something Anderson shared in a recent episode. It’s a quote from the poet Andrea Gibson, who died this summer after a years-long battle with cancer. And it’s a beautiful sentiment that rang true with me.

Indeed, it’s not like my dad is gone completely. There are reminders of him all around me. There are the items of clothing of his (shirts, socks, sweatshirts) that I’ve integrated into my own wardrobe. There are photos, including the one I keep right next to my bed. There’s his watch, which I have to keep spinning, otherwise the battery will deplete and the hands will stop turning. There are the emails I get often from the Michael J. Fox Foundation and the research reports I get in the mail.

But those are just things. Every day reminds me of a memory of my dad, something he said, a lesson he taught me, something we did together, something I can keep to myself or share with someone else. 

And there are multiple nights when my dad will make a cameo appearance in one of my dreams. Usually, he’s sitting or walking(!!) in the background or talking with someone else. I know it’s him, even if he never interacts with me, and it’s nice to see him and know he’s alright.

Of course, there’s also my mom, whose move to New York allows me and my sister, and my brother-in-law, and my niece and nephews to keep her close and to cherish whatever time we have left. Spending time with mom these days keeps dad close, too. 

And yes, there are the times when my phone rings and I have to remind myself it’s not him calling — but I get to momentarily look forward to another one of our conversations.

One day soon, I’ll finally cancel my dad’s phone number. I’ll stop checking his email, the phone battery will expire, and I’ll stop charging it. And in some ways, with that symbolic gesture, he’ll be gone again. Today, though, all I want to do is call his number and have my dad answer it so I can tell him how much I miss him.

(Top photo by Clint Patterson on Unsplash)