On the Grief Road

As  some of you already know, my husband of 34 years died on March 10 after a massive brain bleed. He was in the hospital for ten days--getting better--and then he had a second, even more massive bleed. The doctor said there was no hope for recovery. He lived five more days. The kids and I kept a bedside vigil, but Andy was no longer there.  I write this blog as a tribute to him--the best man I've ever known. 

And as I sat by his hospital bed, my mind wandered down the many roads Andy traveled. Up until the time Andy was four years old, he lived in Baden-Baden, Germany. His parents, German physicians, worked at a Sanatorium, nestled in the Black Forest. Andy was an only child.  But Hitler changed that idyllic life when he no longer allowed Jewish physicians to practice medicine in Germany. Andy and his parents fled to Switzerland on Crystal Night, then America. By the time they reached Ellis Island, most of his family in Germany had been rounded up, taken to concentration camps and murdered.   
 
I believe the realization that his life had been spared when so many others were not, impacted his life in many ways. Knowing he was living on borrowed time made him believe all humans should be treated alike, regardless of their religion, race, sexual orientation, or ethnicity. Realizing that his own life could have been snuffed out in a gas chamber for no reason other than Hitler’s belief that Jews were inferior to Arians, made him a very tolerant and aware individual.
 
He was active in the Civil Rights Movement and went to jail with other demonstrators in Alabama for driving Black residents and helping them register to vote. Andy told me it broke his heart and was a physical ache for him when he witnessed Black teenagers on TV who wanted to have a soda at the Woolworth’s counter or a drink of water from a public fountain being swept away with firehoses and beaten—sometimes to death. He needed for his life to matter. He needed to make a difference. Andy wanted to help the way others had helped him and his family escape Nazi Germany and build a new life in America. Andy's love language was service.
 
During his time as the Associate Dean for Student Affairs at the University of Arizona College of Medicine, one of his responsibilities was to develop a strong minority presence. He started a high school program called MedStart where kids from the reservation and other minority students were supported and nurtured from high school through college to help them make good choices that would later enable them to meet medical school entrance requirements.

I think he was quite proud that by the time he retired from that position, the U of A Med School had graduated more than a few Navajo, Hopi, Apache and Papago Indians as well as a number of Hispanic and Black students, and the number of women in each class was 50%. That had never happened in the history of the medical school.
 
Even in his retirement, he fought for others. Soon after we arrived in Oregon and bought a horse ranch (his life-long dream) the Arian Nation had plans to set up its headquarters in Grants Pass. Overnight, the Human Rights Alliance (of which he was president) gathered 1500 people to protest in front of the Josephine County Courthouse with signs saying, “Not In Our Town.” The Arian leaders changed their plans and left Grants Pass.
 
On the 50th anniversary of Crystal Night, the Human Rights Alliance put together a program which included the Anne Frank exhibit and weekly lectures at the local college by Holocaust survivors. Many of them stayed with us at our ranch.

One man, in particular, Sam, who was a Schindler’s list survivor—probably in his early eighties—delivered one lecture. At the end of his talk, when he asked if there were any questions, a young female student raised her hand. “Have you been changed by your experiences in a concentration camp?” Sam thought about it for a moment and then he said, ‘Yes. It made me more kind." Andy and I were so touched by those words. And I will never forget them.
 
In his retirement, Andy gave presentations at many schools throughout the country on the Holocaust, including the purchase of an exhibit of photographs depicting the terrible history of this event. While giving his presentations, Andy wore the star of David pinned to his shirt—which identified him as a Jew. He did these presentations because he wanted young people to know what happened in places like Auschwitz and Buchenwald. He wanted no one to experience this kind of horror again.
 
I hope you all don’t mind traveling with me as I sit alone now, trying to imagine life without him. I’ve lost my husband, my friend, my lover and the first person to read my novels. But the world has also lost a dazzling light.
 
Thanks to all of you who took this painful journey with me. Thank you for all the comments that make me feel loved and supported. At the end, I held his face in my hands and told him it was okay for him to go, that his work here was complete. 

As I write this, it has been 68 days since he passed. I wonder how long I'll mark the passage of time this way. Nothing in life is permanent (except for love) We all die.  I am still sad, devastated at times, but I also feel fortunate to have walked alongside this extraordinary man for 34 years.