Mike Keren - Four Funerals, No Marriage

Woodhall Press, 81 Old Saugatuck Road, Norwalk, CT 06855

WoodhallPress.com

Copyright 2021 Michael Keren

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages for review.

Cover design: Andrea Orlic

Layout artist: Amie McCracken

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

ISBN 978-1-949116-67-0 (paper: alk paper)

ISBN 978-1-949116-68-7 (electronic)

First Edition

Distributed by Independent Publishers Group

(800) 888-4741

Printed in the United States of America

This is a work of creative nonfiction. All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of the authors memory. Some names and identifying features have been changed to protect the identity of certain parties. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author in no way represents any company, corporation, or brand, mentioned herein. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

Memoir, according to etymonline.com, an etymology website, from the Latin memoria (to remember), meaning a persons written account of his or her life. This book is my memoir, an account of the almost three years that my life was consumed with care giving responsibilities as my parents and in-laws faced their end of life. As a psychologist, I know that memory can be a tricky thing. It is impacted by our emotional reactions, time, and many other factors. This book is an account of that time as I remember it. Others, including those written about herein, are welcome to write and publish their own accounts of their memories of the process. Those years were a very salient time in my life and thus I was inspired to put them to paper, to share the moments of humor, love, and frustration along the way. It was a journey of discovery, where a sense of duty often evolved into love, and my feelings of love supported my sense of duty.

As a psychologist, I also realize that the doctor-patient relationship is a vital part of healthcare and of healing. My experiences of my relationships with the varied doctors, nurses, and other providers we worked with may be different than the experiences of others who worked with the same doctors, etc. Doctors I may have idolized and viewed as heroes, others may have disliked and vice versa. For that reason, I have chosen to change the names of all the doctors and nurses referenced in this account, and I have not given the names of the hospitals I wrote about.

To Joan Marie and Jim Johnson
And
Gloria and Arthur Keren
who gave me the honor to care for them and help them to finish their lives with dignity.

Preparing to place the leads for an EKG, the nurse looked at me across Moms hospital bed, suggesting that I leave the room. I returned a warm and reassuring smile, stating, Oh, Mom was a stripper back in the day. She raised me in the dressing rooms at the clubs. Ive seen it all. Moms monitor went berserk, as she couldnt restrain her laughing fit at this. Of course, Mom was never a stripper (at least not that I knew) but that was the warped sense of humor Mom and I shared.

Since we had arrived at the ER a few hours before, the nurses and techs had been poking and prodding her. Most asked me to leave the room if they had to expose flesh. My mother would protest, He came out of me, Im not worried about him seeing me.

Thered be a shrug, maybe a giggle, and the test or procedure would proceed. I would make an effort to turn my head, not just because I hated watching needles, blood draws, and procedures, but because despite Moms comfort with my seeing her, I did not feel the need to have that experience. Tom, my partner, would always leave the room, although Mom encouraged him to stay as well. I had never realized she was a frustrated exhibitionist. Throughout the tests and pokes, she would grip my hand with ever-increasing pressure, betraying her fear and showing confidence in my ability to protect her.

Whether or not the nurse believed Mom had been a stripper, the story certainly put her at ease. Where previous nurses and techs would fold back Moms gown, only exposing the smallest necessary areas to my avoidant eyes, this nurse unsnapped the gown from Moms shoulder and threw it back. It all happened so fast I couldnt turn my head; I couldnt even avert my eyes. There they were, like three-dimensional arches in front of McDonalds, my mothers breasts. I put on my best clinical self and looked elsewhere. I told myself at least it wasnt her other parts.

Moms leads got adjusted and the nurse left the room. Tom, my partner, came in and asked, Whats so funny? You two are laughing in the middle of the Emergency Room like youre in a comedy club.

We filled him in. Through his own laughter he looked at my mom and said, Gloria, thats why I love you and why I love him. At the darkest hour you two can be as inappropriate as a pair of adolescent boys in biology class.

Tom ran home to attend to some things. Mom and I turned on the Today show to see what was happening in the rest of the world. When the second repetition of the news came on, I glanced at my watch and recognized it was time to call my boss and let him know I wouldnt be in to work today.

I stepped outside, flipped open my Nokia and dialed my boss, Sam. Hi, its Mike, youre not going to believe this. I am at the hospital; they think my mother had a heart attack.

Well, good thing he was in the hospital at the time, they could get to him fast, he replied.

No, no, not my father, my mother! I am in the ER with my mother, who has most likely had a heart attack, I explained as calmly as I could. His confusion was understandable. Just twenty-four hours before I had collapsed into a chair in his office and recounted the events of my fathers hospitalization that weekend for a possible stroke.

Youve got to be kidding. How are you coping?

Oh, if only I was. Since humor was my typical response to stress, tragedy, tension, even death, I would love to be making a joke like this; that I was such an unlucky schmo I had two parents get sick on me in less than four days. My voice faltered.

He must have heard it because he came back, Seriously, are you okay?

I didnt know how to answer. Somehow, seeing my moms breasts had disarmed me. I wasnt sure why and I needed Sams usual humor to ground me. I was thankful to have Sam, my new boss, with whom I could release some anxiety through laughter. Why would he get serious on me now?

This medical drama had begun as soon as I had arrived home from work the previous Friday. My parents were in Jersey on a house-hunting trip. Their dream of a retirement in North Carolina near my oldest brother, Phil, and their grandchildren had succeeded only in giving my mother fodder for her kvetching. She had managed to find an anti-Semite on every corner in North Carolina, although she was always searching for it, like the hidden toys in a