Remembering our Richard Freedman
A good run for Bernie
Editor's note: To honor the late Richard Freedman, today we present his column from March 5, 2017, printed shortly after the death of his father.
“I'm going to get a court order. It's taking too long for me to die.”
I suppose one tries to imagine a parent's final — or near final — words. Maybe, “I'll see you in heaven,” or “I always loved you more than my other four kids” or “Don't tell anyone, but there's a sack of $100 bills under my mattress.”
Who would guess my witty, clever, sometimes incorrigible father would come up with “I'm going to get a court order.”
Come to think of it, I suppose it wasn't unexpected. This is the same man who proved he was mentally competent enough to sign a “do not resuscitate” document a week before death by answering the administrator's question, “Who is the president of the United States?” with “Donald J. Trump. And the `J' stands for `Jump in a lake.'”
But yeah, that was about it when the legendary lone survivor of the WWII horse cavalry had finally succumbed to the wear and tear of 99 years. For those keeping score at home, 11:10 p.m., Wednesday, March 1 is when Bernard “Bernie” Irving Freedman took his last breath.
No more stories about stickball in Brooklyn. Or his favorite TV shows — westerns and “Law & Order.” Or when someone in his Army unit was so excited to meet him thinking my dad was Bennie Friedman, an All-American football quarterback. Or some story I didn't know about my mom when they were dating. And even those stories that I really didn't want to know about my mom while they were dating.
At first I thought how disappointing it would be — coming oh-so-close to that magical 100, yet falling short. But who's to say whether a man is supposed to reach 100? It's actually just another number that we've somehow assigned more importance to than, say, 99 or even 101.
“I really want him to make it to 100 …” my sister has said, only to be enlightened by a nurse at Kaiser Vacaville.
“It's not whether you want him to make it to 100, it's whether he wants to make it.”
It's interesting that in all my visits to dad at his Vacaville apartment, every time I left I thought, “This could have been the last time I'll see him.” Of course, I've said that for the last 10 years. I said it when he got his pacemaker — good until he's 104 — and through his written driving test at 97 when he got one wrong, securing a legit license until 102.
“I don't want a party,” he declared on birthday No. 99. No surprise, since Bern said years ago that Americans only celebrate milestones ending in a “0” or “5.”
I honestly think he believed he would make it to Nov. 13, claiming “the speech is already written,” though refusing to tease us with even an opening statement.
But it was not to be. A lingering bacteria infection and reality made his expiration date apparent as ol' Bern saw his independence vanish quicker than teenagers at a beer party hearing police sirens.
He surrendered his car keys and his will to live.
“I never thought I'd be wearing a diaper,” dad said.
Until he couldn't be clever any longer, he was.
As a nursing assistant helped put his underwear on, dad blew her kisses. And what he said after that, I can't repeat.
As he once said at 95 watching a woman walk across the street without a bra, “I may be old, but I'm not dead.”
Thanks for memories, pops. And if she's still talking to you, say hi to mom for me.
Which reminds me of my dad's response six months after my mom died in 2001.
“How's Claire?” the friend asked. “Not so good,” dad replied.