Part 1
By Charles Lidz

My father was always my idol. He was an important professor at one of the leading American universities, President of several professional societies, and author of many books. In our family, thoughts and ideas were everything. He was a brilliant man and, as one of his three sons, I always sought to be like him.

Even as he was retiring at 70, however, his profession was changing and his ideas were going out of fashion. By the time my mother died when they were 85, they both knew that they had lost the battle. Many young professionals had never even heard of his work. In this sense, the last years of both of their lives were bitter disappointments.

My father outlived my mother by five years. Although he was a very social person and continued to make friends, he missed her greatly. Moreover,he became increasingly physically disabled, and eventually had helpers 24 hours a day to assist him with the most routine aspects of daily life.

My father moved into an assisted living center for intermediate care. Some people live for long periods of time in them, but by and large survival times are fairly short. These are for people who, for one reason or another, need lots of physical care and can't get it at home. They provide a place for people who have nowhere else to go. There are many cases in which family members visit every day and provide lots of care for their relatives—even when the patient does not recognize the relative anymore. However, this kind of place may care for the body but ignore the person. Sometimes there is minimal interaction among patients, and the staff can be patronizing to the patients.

In my father's case, he had his own apartment and basically did what he wanted. They had a very nice communal dining hall, with carefully-set small tables, wait staff, and menus. His apartment had three rooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen, which he rarely used, except for breakfast. My father could not use the toilet without assistance and someone had to help him get dressed and undressed. Through it all, however, he maintained a cheerful manner, even though he was certainly not happy about his growing disability.

As he got more disabled, he had helpers all the time, especially when he was in a wheelchair the last year. In a less personal nursing home, you might share a room with another person, and both of you will be in beds or wheelchairs. You have few, if any, personal possessions. But here he had his best art, most of his books, and all of his clothing. But then, he was privileged. I suspect that he had more in the way of financial resources than 98 per cent of people in their 80s do. He did not need to worry about expenses.

In the last couple of years of his life, my father became increasingly demented. He wanted to write a last academic paper laying out his views, but he would write the first few paragraphs over and over again. He could not figure out how to use his word processor even though we worked for hours with him on it. He began to confuse me with my younger brother. I found that I could tell him the same stories about his grandchildren over and over again, and he would still be interested. Although it was still enjoyable to visit with him, I was glad that he had the money for the assistants, and that I did not continually have to watch his deterioration.

On his 90th birthday, we had a large party for him with friends and relatives from all over the country. He got great pleasure from it. I got to enjoy watching my granddaughter sit on his lap and help him blow out the candles on his cake. Less than a year later, he died. I was very sad and I missed him, but I thought that it was for the best, because he could not do anything that meant anything to him anymore.

Three days after he died, I drove the 90 minutes to the assisted living center where he had lived his last five years to start cleaning out his apartment. As I was walking through the hall, a rather young African-American woman (all my father's assistants were African American women, reflecting the generally poor opportunities they had in the job market) stopped me in the hall:

"You are Jerry, aren't you?" she said.

"No, he is my brother, I am Chuck."

"Well, I am Lisa, I helped take care of your father."

"Yes, I think we met before." I remembered her only vaguely because her shift did not match the time that I usually visited my father.

"Well, I just wanted you to know that your father was the nicest man I ever knew."

"Thank you, that is very kind."

"NO!" she said very emphatically. "You didn't hear me! I said: He was the nicest man I ever knew."

I don't remember what I said in reply. It could not have been very appropriate. What do you say to someone who says something like that about your parent? I certainly had no clear idea what to say.

Ever since she said that I have been haunted by the incident. I wish I had the presence of mind to ask Lisa what my father had done, and why she felt so strongly, and to thank her for going out of her way to tell me. Another thought I have had is the irony that this man, who dedicated his life to intellectual pursuits, made so little lasting impression intellectually, but made such a strong emotional impression on this person.

My most enduring reaction concerns the timing of his impact on her. Like many other people, I have so often thought that I would not want to live any longer if I could not take care of myself, and if I could no longer think clearly. Yet here was this man who, at the end of a lifetime, had left such a strong positive legacy on someone when he was disabled and demented.

Over time, as my father went down hill, his mind became less clear and he eventually got so he could not walk. He confused who people were. Yet fortunately, it never felt like he was anything except himself. Indeed, at least with me, he became very appreciative and kind. I don't mean that he was not always that way, but he really appreciated my visits, because his life was less active and interesting.

I was struck that there can be more meaning in those last years than I would have thought. I don't know what the world will bring me. Perhaps I need to be less certain about my convictions and more open to the way that is chosen for me.

Part 2
By Lynn Lidz

During the past three years, I had to deal with a major health scare: a breast cancer diagnosis, surgery and chemotherapy. Once I learned that the pathology report indicated I was "lymph nodes negative," I was able to relax a bit knowing my prognosis was much improved, and that I needed to focus on living life fully (because you never know when your life will end).

Sometimes I can actually forget the recent scare for a while, but it is rarely far from my consciousness. It truly was a wake-up call that has made me reconsider how I think about work, and my life, in general. I spend more time doing what I find meaningful, helpful and exciting. I have been able to volunteer my time and energy in ways that I have never done before, and have enjoyed every moment. That is a direct result of responding to a scary diagnosis.

Life is mysterious, from beginning to end, and we need to value the time we have here on this wondrous planet Earth. I guess I can say that dealing with my health crisis has left me with a healthier attitude about how to live a better life.

Recently I learned about the sudden deaths, the previous day, of a former colleague and his wife while they were vacationing in Alaska. With the "miracle" of modern technology, I was sent via e-mail a description of the accident along with a photograph. It told of the wife having just talked on the phone cheerfully with her mother and 13-year-old son 15 minutes before a 20-year-old, driving a truck on a clear, sunny Sunday morning, veered across the highway and ran head-on into their Ford Focus.

I could then talk with a number of my familiar old group of colleagues about our mutual shock and sadness about this tragic loss. Later that night, I could link to a local TV news clip with interviews of the deceased couple's 19-year-old twin sons, and the 13-year-old, about the devastating losses of both their parents. Hearing one twin talk about his dad's wonderful sense of humor, and the other twin talk about how his mom was his hero, brought back lots of memories of Larry's stories about raising two rambunctious boys in their early years.

I keep thinking about the transitory nature of life. If only they had stopped for a moment longer at breakfast, or started driving a moment sooner, they could have avoided this terrible collision. It makes me wonder again, as with so many sudden tragedies, that we never know when our "number is going to be up"— a strange concept, but the only way to conceive of the seemingly arbitrariness of events like natural disasters, 9/11 and other horrible events.

Larry had started working in our hospital information systems department shortly after he and Sue had their first child, Kristin, who was born looking normal, but was not destined to live for more than a day or two. He still carried a picture of his daughter in his wallet and never stopped thinking of her as their first child.

Shortly afterwards, he and Sue were pregnant again with the twins, who were welcomed with great enthusiasm and joy. Six years later, they had their third son. For ten years, we lived through many crises and accomplishments at work and, with several other colleagues, shared many stories of our lives outside of work.

I especially remember the agony, and eventual calm, as Larry decided to leave the religion of his youth and find one that better suited him and his family. His decision to baptize his children as Protestants was difficult for him to convey to his Catholic parents, and we at work lived through those kinds of moments with him. Larry was one terrific guy, who had a solid set of core values that made him a great manager of people at work, and a good husband, father and son.

After I left that employer and moved to a new job in another state, we mostly corresponded by holiday letters, with an occasional phone call. Three years ago, we were able to have a quick brunch with Larry and Sue as we traveled through the area. We were able to catch up on the news of kids, jobs and how our lives were going.

I now treasure that brief visit. There have been no letters these last couple of years and I just learned that Sue had also been dealing with breast cancer.  Learning of their sudden deaths has left me feeling great sadness, especially for their sons, and the grandparents who are left to help in whatever ways they can.

Fortunately, Sue's parents, who have now lost their only child, live nearby and have always been very involved with the boys' lives.

I learn of real-life (or even fictional) events involving parents who lose young children, or younger children who lose their parents, and feel a huge sense of loss and sadness, a strong feeling that this is not the way life is supposed to be. Knowing how much a profound sense of loss can affect a child or parent, as they attempt to move on after a tragedy, it is painful for me to know that they have to suffer.

At the same time, I know that such losses, as with any crisis, can help to make people stronger, with a deeper sense of understanding and ability to reach out to others. We humans can find ways to make something positive from loss.

It can be very hard, but out of the dark depths of our despair, we can bring light into the world and help others to prevent or deal with loss. It is a choice we can all make. The sadness is a fact that has to be explored, understood and accepted. It is a part of what we are given here in this life.