My Dad...A Remembrance

It’s 10:55 PM on Tuesday. And here I am sitting in the dining room of my parents’ house wondering what I am going to say on Thursday morning at 11:00 at Dr. Don’s Celebration of Life, particularly since I am the host and first speaker on the program. Of course, I’ve known for almost two months that I need to write this, but the words won’t come because part of me somehow can’t believe that he’s really gone.

About a week after Dr. Don’s death I was on Instagram just scrolling through trying to distract myself from myself. I see the familiar handle “Dad Jokes”- this is a guy who posts tons of stupidly clever jokes and puns  - and I eagerly read the silly joke…Here it is…

“I’m reading a horror story in Braille. Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it.”

I chuckle and immediately start to text the joke to Dr. Don like I’ve done a hundred times before because I know he’ll probably groan and then call me with a much better joke of his own, but I stop myself…no Dr. Don to text.

When I was in college back in the stone age before cell phones, my dad would call at odd hours to tell me jokes. Someone would pound on my dorm room door and shout, “You have a call!” I would run to the stuffy little phone room to plop myself on the uncomfortable orange plastic chair and say, ‘Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Dad. I have a good joke for you…” and then he would launch into whatever joke he was telling everyone that week. Complete with crazy voices, sound effects and his own laughter. He’d finish with a flourish. He’d say triumphantly, “That’s a great joke. Isn’t that a great joke?” but before I would have a chance to answer he’d say, “Alright, Pup, I’ve got to be getting back to work. I love you.” And then he’d hang up leaving me sometimes laughing and sometime staring at the phone in wonder that he took the time to share that dumb joke. Now, of course, I appreciate every one of those jokes that made me laugh. Or shake my head. Or groan.

Tonight there is no laughter. My parents’ house – also my childhood home - is silent except for the tapping of my fingers on the laptop and the low hum of the air conditioner. My daughter Esme is finally asleep after much stalling. Mom took herself off to bed half an hour ago. Diane and Matt’s flight doesn’t arrive until well after midnight.

Here I sit. Stumped. How on earth do I sum up my dad’s life in a few pages? It seems impossible.

Earlier today I lament my lack of progress to my mom.

“Are you going to be able to get it done?” she asks.

My brain shrieks, “Nope! Not going to happen!”, but I hear myself assuring her that I will get it done. Then we start swapping stories about Dr. Don. Eventually, she asks almost as an accusation, “Are you going to tell THE story? You’re going to tell it, aren’t you?”

“About how you stalked Dad?” I reply. “It’s a good story…My Mom, The Stalker.”

She laughs, “I was such a wallflower. I can’t even believe I did that!”

She tells me the story for the umpteenth time and I listen as eagerly as if it’s the first time I’ve heard it. She says, “I was working in the Registrar’s Office at Brooklyn College and in September this really cute guy walked in. He was wearing a light blue suit and he was tan. I saw him and that was it. He had no idea that his life was about to get a lot more complicated.”

“Did you tell anyone?” I ask.

“Sure,” she replies, “I told my mother I met the man I was going to marry. Then I found out who he was. He would take his coffee breaks in the cafeteria in the Liberal Arts building, so I made sure that I was there during those breaks. I would wave to him and smile. It took a few months, but he finally asked me to sit down. I did and then I asked him, ‘So, are you married, engaged, have a girlfriend…?’ He didn’t. And he was really polite so he felt he had to ask me out. He asked me if I would like to go to the Museum of Modern Art with him one Saturday afternoon. Our first date was on December 12th, 1959.”

As my mom retells her part of the story, I remember my Dad’s side of the story. He’d say, “There was this cute girl. I didn’t know who she was, but she was always hanging around, smiling and waving at me. Finally I asked her to sit down. You know the rest. Our first date was at the MOMA,” here he pauses then begins again in a voice still full of awe at the magnitude of his good luck, “All I knew was that this wasn’t like any other first date I had ever been on. Your mother was smart and funny. She knew all about art. I think we both knew right away this was something different. I was overwhelmed.”

They were engaged in March of 1960, but didn’t marry until August 1961 so Ellen could finish her senior year. Ellen moved to Kansas City with Don so he could complete med school. Then it was off to Grand Rapids for Don’s internship followed by residency in Columbus Ohio. That’s where I entered the picture. Diane arrived 3 years later in Fort Lee, New Jersey. Eventually our family settled in Hillsdale, New Jersey. However, that only lasted a few years. Grand Rapids came calling again. We moved here in 1975. Dr. Don purchased a totally unique mid-century modern house without my mom ever having seen it. He knew she would love it. And she did.

I take a break from writing this speech to get a drink of water, stretch and wander around said mid-century modern house.

It occurs to me as I look around my childhood home that it is a far cry from Dr. Don’s modest beginnings in a 2-bedroom apartment in Staten Island, New York. My grandparents owned a dry goods store. They worked long hours and did their best to provide for their two kids. Don and his sister Phyllis didn’t lack for the basics and even had a piano and piano lessons (quite a luxury in their neighborhood), but there weren’t many other extras.

Earlier this week I chat with my Aunt Phyllis. I ask her about when they were kids.

“Your father was such a good big brother to me,” she tells me. “Our parents worked a lot and he needed to take charge of me when they were at the store. He never made me feel like I was a burden to him. I always looked up to him. We knew all each other’s friends. We double dated when we were in high school. He even gave me little pointers on what to wear and how to behave. There was real mutual respect between us. He took good care of me.”

I ask her about my dad deciding to become a doctor.

She laughs, “He had no choice. We were indoctrinated by our parents from the time we were little. Donny would be a doctor and I would be a teacher.”

Is it surprising that my dad was a good and responsible big brother? That he took care of Phyllis with kindness?  Or that he became a doctor? No. That’s who he was. He took care of people. His parents might have pressed him to become a doctor, but I believe caring for people was as natural to him as breathing.

My dad’s skill and dedication to taking care of people meant that he worked long hours. We understood that there were sick people who needed him. However, this meant that Dr. Don focused on quality time with his family rather than quantity. He took Diane and I to see Marcel Marceau when we were kids. I was an aspiring cellist so Dr. Don arranged a Father – Daughter date to see Yo-Yo Ma. There were annual fall treks to Robinette’s Apple Orchard for fresh cider and cinnamon donuts.

And weekends when he wasn’t on call wouldn’t be complete without a trip to the American Bakery to purchase freshly baked rye bread and, of course, each of us girls got a raspberry Linzer Torte Cookie. Diane and my dad were enthusiastic runners and often ran together around our neighborhood and later in California where Diane lives. I am a dedicated couch potato who loves to read and watch movies so my dad happily sat with me to chat about books and old movies.

“What’s your favorite movie?” I ask him.

Dr. Don replies, “’Roman Holiday.’ I was 15 when I saw first saw it and when Audrey Hepburn came on the screen. Ohhhhh…I didn’t know what hit me.”

In the summer we lounged happily by the pool. My parents would get on the phone to their friends to announce “The flag is flying!”, which meant, “Come on over, the water is fine.”

And, of course, there were vacations. My parents were avid travelers and Diane and I were lucky that they instilled in us a love of travel as they planned amazing family trips to places like Washington DC to visit the Smithsonian and the White House, Colorado to ride horses, Boston to visit the USS Constitution and the Museum of Fine Arts, and New York to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art and to attend the theater.

I should note here that I’m fairly certain Diane and I were the only children ages 8 and 11 attending the Broadway Production of “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.” Us kids had no idea what the show was about, but I remember loving all of the energetic singing and dancing. Needless to say, Dr. Don and Ellen got a lot of side eye that evening from all of the folks sitting near us.

My Dad also treated himself and my mom to annual child-free vacations usually someplace overseas. During the course of their almost 58 years together they visited most of Europe, Russia, China, Japan, Morocco, Egypt, Kenya, Ecuador and The Galapagos, just to name a few.

When I am about 9 years-old I get up the nerve to ask my dad about he and my mom’s upcoming trip abroad. He is sitting in his chair in the family room listening to classical music and reading the newspaper. I ask him, “Daddy, how come Diane and I don’t get to go on this trip with you?”

Without missing a beat he looks over the top of his paper, replies with a straight face, “Because they don’t allow children in Europe,” and returns to reading his paper.

I pause again to stretch, take a sip of water and then re-read what I’ve written.

There’s so much that’s missing. What have I forgotten?

That by example my dad taught Diane and I the value of dedication, hard work and a strong work ethic.

That my dad was incredibly generous with everyone. You’d go out to dinner with him and at the end of the meal as you’d try to split the check he’d wave his hand at you and say, “I’ve got this. It’s my pleasure.”

That his generosity extended to bigger things and included a commitment to giving back to the community. He and my mom are long-time philanthropists. My dad believed that those who have the means are responsible for supporting the arts and other worthy non-profit organizations. And not for any kind of recognition, but because it’s the right thing to do.

That he wanted his kids to have the things that he didn’t have when he was growing up and he worked hard to provide them for us.

That when my mom was in serious condition in the hospital a number of years ago, my dad said to me, “I think your mom could probably live without me, but I don’t think I can live without her.”

That he was intellectually curious and loved to learn.

That he was gregarious and had a seemingly endless capacity for talking with everyone and anyone. A number of years ago I send Chris with my Dad to Costco to keep him company. Upon their arrival home Chris pulls me aside and says, “Omigod, EVERYONE at Costco knows your dad. And he knows all of them. By name. It took forever to get through there because he talked with EVERYONE.”

That when he really got laughing he would laugh so hard that no sound came out.

That his favorite exclamation was “Holy crow!”

That he always wore a tie to work and his tie collection took up an entire wall in his walk-in closet.

That when they were young and poor, my dad would donate blood so he could take my mom out.

That he was a teeny bit Type A and demanded a certain level of excellence from the other doctors and the nurses with whom he worked.

That nurses were kind of terrified of him.

That he got a great charge out of goosing my mom’s bottom then turning to us with a leering grin to say, “That’s good stuff!”

That he was always a night owl and did the late feedings and diaper changes when Diane and I were babies.

That he LOVED great food.

That he was an awesome grandfather who’d give Esme horsey rides on his knees, have long conversations with her, and make her shriek with laughter by pretending to steal her belly button.  

That one of his greatest passions in life was classical music.

That his greatest passion was teaching.

Earlier this week I took some time to read the many sympathy cards and letters addressed to my mom and our family. All of you had so many wonderful things to say about Dr. Don that it seemed appropriate to end with your words.

 “Dr. Arlinsky was such a gem! We will miss our chats and stories in the front yard. He was so very proud of his family and the life he built here.”

 “Don was always ready with a smile and a joke. He was a generous soul who seemed to welcome everyone he met.”

 “I never saw anything but a smile or an infectious grin on his face, usually before symphony or a concert at Saint Cecilia.”

 “Don was one of a kind and had a tremendous impact on everybody he encountered.”

 “A rush of memories come to me – all filled with Don’s laughter and generous spirit. You were a wonderful team, a dynamic couple and obviously in love. Dr. Don’s spirit will endure through the many people he touched through a lifetime.”

 “We have thought of you and Don often in the last few weeks and especially at the Lincoln Center concert. It was wonderful. It was also a testament to you both as so many enjoy the results of your commitment to these programs. We will never hear another concert that meets that standard without thinking of you both – avid, knowledgeable listeners and spirited critics. We are fortunate that our circles have overlapped with yours.”

 “Don helped so many people over the years. His legacy, however, will live on in how he shaped and molded future generations of physicians. I feel honored and privileged to have been his colleague.”

 “Don was such a fixture of training for so many docs that his medical legacy will last for many many years. I first met Don in 1978. He was kind, sincere and thorough. His sharp wit and ability to penetrate to the heart of an issue always made for insightful conversation and medical learning. His hieroglyphics for handwriting were hilarious and even he couldn’t read them back at times. He was a generous person and in spending a lot of time with him during training, I benefitted from his professional and personal experiences. He repeated what he did for me with literally hundreds of docs in training. Unbelievable devotion! His medical ethics and dedication were legendary. I did not want Don to sit alone during your surgery at Metro. In sitting with him, I asked him to fill me in on the details of his upbringing, deciding to become a doc, meeting you, early practice years, and moving to GR. Such a rich life! His last teaching moment: how to work hard, incredibly hard, dedicate his life and work with medical excellence and balance as much as possible a loving life with you and your family. He was so clearly proud of and devoted to you and your children. He will be missed, but remembered.”