A Child’s History of Death

He only understood when he didn’t see his uncle anymore.

A hero died earlier this year. Days later, I noticed a kid at a local supermarket with the other guy’s hair — the villain’s hair — and I spoke to him.

Our impromptu meeting inspired the piece above, and this one …

He loved them all. Every last nutty, kind, angry, humorous member of his eccentric and very large extended New York family, which at times included his most cherished friends.

• Uncle Joe, a former numbers runner who hung with gangsters and epitomized the tough New Yorker stereotype.
• Grandpa (“Gramps”) Bob, who was a friend to everyone. People often confused him with Art Carney, Norton from “The Honeymooners.” They could have been twins. He enjoyed eating raw chop meat straight from the package.
• Uncle Milton, who like Grandpa Bob talked to strangers on a dime … but usually about kielbasa. A sheriff in Paramus, New Jersey, he literally was obsessed with kielbasa.
• “Bubbie” and “Grandma.” He had a “Bubbie” and he had a “Grandma.” That’s how he distinguished the two. Bubbie was from Chicago who doted on her grandkids, regularly sending them comic books … and frying saltine crackers with cottage cheese in the middle as gifts when we visited. Grandma was from Brooklyn. She fried burgers, and her dentures often fell out while eating.

He was as close to his mom, dad and two brothers as a nuclear family could possibly be. His myriad aunts, uncles, and cousins were a blast to hang with.

But he didn’t appreciate what he had when he was young. He didn’t appreciate the monthly family circles, a dues-paying family organization dedicated to keeping the dozens and dozens of family members together through subsequent generations.

The family circles ended shortly after he became a teen. Relatives moved far away; some simply didn’t want to attend anymore.

His Grandpa Bob had 10 brothers and a sister, and they all had kids and grandkids. The boy’s dad once said, “Your great-grandparents didn’t have TV back then,” but he didn’t understand the hidden meaning until his Bar-Mitzvah.

The boy lost one grandparent early, when he was two years old. Isadore Palatnek was a Russian Jew, born in Odessa, who loved his first grandchild unconditionally, or so the boy was told. The boy insists he remembers, to this date decades later, a day in the family living room where he received an armload of presents from his Grandpa Izzy.

The boy’s parents could not believe it when he told them years later, as they said they remembered that day well.

Days after the gift-giving, Grandpa Izzy, a chainsmoker, died of heart failure at 52.

He was younger than the boy — who has long since become a man — is now.

All the kid thought back then was Izzy must have been mad at him to never spend any time with him anymore.

A few years later, when the boy was five, he was sitting outside on a bench with his Bubbie. She lived in the next building over, in the projects, and her neighbor died earlier that morning. The boy remembered the whole affair being very strange, as just the night before he could have sworn he saw the neighbor heading up to the clouds, sort of like “Mary Poppins.”

When his grandmother pointed up and said, “She’s in the clouds now,” the boy responded, “I saw her!”

He didn’t. It was a dream, but so vivid a dream he explained what had happened in the most minute detail.

But he thought she’d be coming down, soon, and they’d toss the frisbee for awhile like they used to.

She stayed in the clouds.

It went like that. The boy grew up and eventually moved 3000 miles away to begin a writing career. His mom called.

“Uncle Davy had a stroke,” she said. “You may want to come out.” My uncle David Palatnek, Izzy’s brother, was a decorated World War II hero.

I saw him. And he passed barely 48 hours later.

Shortly thereafter, “Grandma” died. She had Alzheimer’s.

The boy had just seen them both. He sobbed uncontrollably because he certainly now understood.

Why? Because he saw Davey in the hospital the day before he stopped breathing for good. He saw exactly the shape he was in. Certainly, the boy had learned about death well prior, though this was the first family member whose death he had experienced so closely.

One of Grandpa Bob’s brothers lost his life when hit by a car. The boy hugged his dad at the funeral while sobbing, “Please don’t die! Please don’t die …”

One night before he was 20, the boy who had since become a man perused his Bar-Mitzvah album. He couldn’t believe it. His Aunt Mary and Uncle Dave (not the same as his Uncle Davey) were now also dead.

He had lost his beloved Grandpa Bob too, shortly after he was mugged in the Bronx, hit outside the head with a pipe at 82 years old. He lasted only a few months after …

Another relative pictured in the album hung himself.

And so it was.

Decades later, four days before his 45th birthday, he lost his hero. His dad.

Over the ensuing days he thought of friends he lost, one of whom was found also hung, others who died of illness, one of a drug overdose.

He thought back to when he was young. When comedian Freddie Prinze died, he was devastated. When John Belushi died, he was angered.

Life, he believed, was not fair. Not at all.

Why, he asked himself over and over, did these people he loved all have to leave?

And then, somewhere along the lines … things changed.

The boy as referenced above was me. But you knew that already.

I realized, as I do at this minute, the very impermanence of life is what makes it something to be cherished. We live, and we pass away. Hopefully, we will have made a difference while we’re here and succeeding generations will remember us.

I miss everyone. I miss my childhood. Thankfully, I still have my brothers and my mom. Thankfully, my brothers have families of their own and my wife and I have a four-legged hairy daughter who we love.

I think of them all, including the pets I used to have, including the human beings who made such an impact on me.

Life is sometimes tough. But life is good.

During this particularly difficult holiday season, considering our pandemic, I simply wanted to share this piece with you to help punctuate that we only go around once. At least that’s what I believe. Cherish life while you can, and make up with those of whom you are no longer speaking before it’s too late.

It’s the right thing to do for your personal peace of mind.

I’m thrilled I’ve been so fortunate to have been in the presence of so many good, decent people.

Still, what I wouldn’t give to see them all, especially my dad, one last time …

Thank you for reading.

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