It has been eighteen years since my wed-
ding. Some kind of Pavlovian link has been
formed for me between preparing dinner
and dialing that familiar number. Since his
partial retirement, my father has begun
answering the telephone. He wants to
know "what's cooking?" both literally and
figuratively, inquires after my husband and
our children. Yet, because he has never
liked small talk, it's still my mother who
keeps me informed of the events in their
lives.
We know each other's schedules well. On-
ly occasionally does my mother leave a
message on my answering machine. Late-
ly when I hear her recorded voice saying
she has "news," weddings — babies — di-
vorces fly from my thoughts. All I can
think is that someone has died.
And often someone has. "I'm sorry to
hear about Dr. Stern," I now say, "I always
liked him." Then I add my newly minted,
soon to be traditional, response: "Was he
sick?"
"Yes, he had cancer," she answers.
This is exactly what I want to hear, I
realize. If the person who died was sick and
my parents aren't, then, I reason falsely,
they are in no danger. But do I imagine
that my parents are immune to cancer? No,
I merely hope to give an excuse for the
death; I'm unwilling to admit that it is
often simply the natural ending of a long
and healthy life.
I should know better. When I was four-
teen my grandfather died. My family swore
he'd never been sick a day in his life. One

Sunday morning after several unanswered
phone calls, my father went to Grandpa's
apartment and found him dead in his bed.
Although the suddenness in itself was
shocking, his was a peaceful way to die at
close to eighty.
Perhaps my question — "Was he sick?" —
means that I imagine death is easier to
bear if we are prepared for it by long illness.
But death, inevitably, will come and given
the choice between suffering and a gentle
demise, I'd choose the latter every time.
Nevertheless, despite all such attempts
at logic, the death of my parent's contem-
poraries frightens me. And if I feel
threatened by these once-remove deaths,
how must my mother feel reporting them?
"Give Mrs. Stern my regards," I say
lamely at the end of today's conversation.
Oddly enough, I realize, setting down the
receiver, her description of Dr. Stern's
funeral was not unlike her years ago re-
ports of weddings. She spoke of the rabbi's
talk, the members of the congregation,
food eaten afterwards. Did sticking to the
simple facts make it less painful, protect
her from noticing the increasing frequen-
cy of these events?
Halting my dinner preparations, I stand
motionless at the sink picturing my
mother's kitchen in perfect detail, herself
aproned and busy with a steaming pot of
soup. How, I ask myself, does she manage
to cope with her losses? And how, when
these afternoon phone calls end, will I?

First, my mother called
with the news of her
friends' children's
marriages. Then it was
babies, then divorces. Now,
because they are old, my
parents are losing their
friends.

Janice Rosenberg is a writer who lives in
Chicago.

THE DETROIT JEWISH NEWS

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