One More Candle
It’s been twenty-one years since my Bar Mitzvah and for much of my adult life I’ve carried a deep regret from that day. That regret only compounded last summer when Eddie passed away.
Most Bar or Bat Mitzvahs have a candle lightning ceremony, which is an opportunity to honor people that have had an impact on your life. You highlight to the community the impact they’ve had on you by asking them to come up and light one of thirteen candles. Aside from my mom and her immediate family, I can’t remember exactly who I called up to each candle at my Bar Mitzvah, but I know I didn’t call Eddie.
Grief can yield different emotions, often by the day. At times it feels uncontrollable. You can find yourself trapped down memory lane, reflecting on your relationship, the things you did, the things you could have done, things you could have said, things you would say now. And while I know in my heart Eddie knows how much I loved him; I would give anything in this world to give him one of those candles.
A few weeks ago, my mom and I talked about the upcoming Father’s Day holiday and what we were supposed to do. I didn’t have an answer for her. In fact, we’ve had that same conversation at every first holiday and birthday since Eddie left us. In the last few days, I’ve continued to go back to that candle ceremony and what I would tell everyone about Eddie. So, for Father’s Day this year, I’m lighting that candle.
For those that knew Eddie, you know that Eddie was the most selfless, generous, kind soul, who would literally do anything for anyone. Eddie lived his life in service of others, whether it was his patients at Parkland Hospital, his family, and especially my mom and me.
In the weeks that followed Eddie’s passing, I remember getting a call from a close friend’s mom two weeks after Eddie had passed. My friend’s mom called to offer condolences, but I couldn’t help but notice the sense of curiosity or uncertainty in her voice. She could tell from the posts on Facebook that Eddie was married to my mom, but it was clear she didn’t have full context on who he was, especially who he was to me.
The best way I can describe Eddie’s impact is to use an analogy to that of a foundation of a home. The sole purpose of a foundation is to hold a house together. To keep it level and still, and to weather any tough conditions. The foundation doesn’t care about the aesthetic of the home and doesn’t necessarily get credit from people looking on the outside. But at the core, without the foundation, the house falls apart. Eddie was our foundation and more.
Eddie set an example of hard work, integrity, and love for family. He would take extra hours at work and even work double shifts just to help a family member with bills, or to help pay for a Celine Dion concert my mom was dying to go to. He put others before himself, always.
When my mom and I got home from the hospital on the evening Eddie passed, I found a stack of t-shirts Eddie had just printed and delivered to our home. For context, Eddie loved getting shirts made with unique sayings. As quiet of a person as Eddie was, perhaps this was his way of creative expression. That evening the first shirt I picked up had the following print on the front: Fatherhood requires love, not DNA. As a parent it’s my priority to help you get into heaven, not Harvard.
As fortuitous as it was for me to pick up that exact shirt on the evening of Eddie’s passing, today, on Father’s Day, those words are more palpable than ever. I can’t go back to that candle lighting ceremony at my Bar Mitzvah and I can’t bring Eddie back, but I can keep Eddie’s memory alive — by aspiring to live the values-driven life he lived, for others.
