Bernard Axelrad Scholarship Fund

If you're looking for an upbeat ending, I have one in this saga of mine.

I was both an amazed observer and a participant in the metamorphosis that took place in my father during the later years of his life. It was gradual, didn't come all that easily, and I missed no opportunity to apply my own brand of pressure.

Let me illustrate.

My son Steve in Israel is not long winded nor is he given to saying anything he doesn't mean. In his letters to me he always closed with greetings or love to his Grandma but nary a word for his Grandpa. I frequently read Steve's letters out loud to my parents, and after listening to many such closings my father asked, "Does Steve think I'm dead?" "No," I said, "but he feels Grandma was really special, never critical and always offering herself totally when he needed her.

"You were like a lot  of other Grandpas, nothing bad but nothing special, either."

My father looked at me silently.

Several months later, my father was sitting in his wheelchair in front of his apartment building when my son Adam (then about 12) came by for Friday night dinner at his grandparents'. Adam wanted to wheel his Grandpa up the slope and into the apartment elevator, and his Grandpa refused, afraid that the youngster might inadvertently overturn the chair. Adam was manifestly upset at this lack of trust. Later that evening, my father laughingly recounted the incident to me.

"How could I trust a child to be careful so I wouldn't fall out?" he asked.

As I listened, my blood began to boil and I pounced upon him like a bird of prey.

"You wanted to know why Steve didn't mention you in his letters? I told you that you weren't special, like Grandma was. A special Grandpa would have taken the risk and allowed Adam to wheel him."

I soon forgot all about it, but he did not

Two weeks later, when I came by for Friday dinner, my father was out in front of the apartment building and waved me off when I offered to help him into the elevator. I found out later that he was waiting for Adam to arrive so he could ask his young grandson to wheel him.

That episode epitomizes the interaction that continually took place between my father and me. The memory still brings tears to my eyes.

As the interchange between my father and me continued, I found him ever more responsive. Bound to the wheelchair, he was now always home whenever I, the grandchildren, relatives or friends visited. Unlike past custom he now took part in all conversations, and these social contacts seemed to thaw the chill within him. Instead of his former dour and foreboding demeanor he began to sport a genial look and frequent smiles.

Rather than bemoan the fate that sentenced him to a wheelchair at 85, he thanked the Providence that saw him through the terrible auto accident with the loss of only a leg. Whereas previously he was preoccupied with saving money and not spending it for anything but the most absolute of necessities, he became quite prodigal in money matters. When my mother would complain about rising produce prices every time she went to the market, he would answer, "So what?" Whenever it came time to make a donation or buy a gift, he would recommend a larger amount than had been customary with him.

The wonder of it is that, for the first time, nearing 90, my father finally began to enjoy life despite the infirmities of age and loss of limb. It was as though he had finally mastered the elusive secret of life. He treasured each passing day and looked forward to the next one. He never complained, and greeted life's little adversities with an unruffled acceptance so uncharacteristic of his former self.

Even a sense of humor appeared, which I had never been privy to before. I looked on in astonishment as he engaged in badinage with his grandson — at 96.

Only the day before he died, he was joking with grandson Kevin that he would like to be 5 again, like his great-granddaughter Dina, even if it meant putting in another 50 years in that detested sweatshop. Oh, yes, he wanted to live, on and on. He often wondered out loud why people had to die: yet, he had no morbid concerns or undue preoccupation about death.

His calm acceptance of what life now had in store served also to change his mind, The worry lines disappeared from his countenance and he seemed not to age during the last 10 years of his life. People who hadn't seen him for 25 years remarked how much younger, healthier and better he looked now than he had then.

He wasn't the only one to change.

My long-held smoldering grievances had been expressed to my heart's content, and I was rid of a good deal of the occluded anger. I finally had room within me to appreciate his better qualities. For the first time in my life I had a genuine (rather than dutiful) respect and even affection for my father as I observed the efforts he made to change in order to please me. It was a measure of devotion I had not previously received from him.

If my father had died when hit by that car, I would have been grateful for the inheritance of his good genes but little more. But during the last decade of his life I was truly blessed with some rare gifts from him: the years of benevolent acceptance of my outbursts continually directed at him, which enabled me to eliminate the garbage within mc and the demonstration by his own example that one is never too old to change.

While he could not actually say the words, I finally felt truly loved by him.

At the ripe old age of 96 my father died painlessly and without the agonizing knowledge of impending death. He died without-humiliation-and-with-his-dignity intact. He enjoyed his old age. I had no guilt feelings, having always been a dutiful son. While he was not revered by me, he did satisfy my needs at the end and my business with him was completed.

All this, and still his death has caused me so much pain. Why?