1. Harry Harrington,Jr. hadno way of knowingwhichfriendwouldbe the lasttositwithhimon the day
that he died. I wasthat friend. Thatwas inApril 2014.
SamShapirohad no wayof knowingwhichfriendwouldbe the lasttositwithhimon the day that he
died. Actually…he mayhave triedtoplanthatscenario. I’mjustnot sure how it workedout. He wasmy
Dad, and he tookhisown life inJuly1965. Atthe time Iwas 18 yearsold. My dad was60. I neverhad
the chance to have a memorable lastconversationwithmyfather. Forty-nine yearslater,Harryhelped
me say “Goodbye”to mydad. The daywe releasedHarry’sashesat sea,he shareda great giftwithme.
Harry letme say“goodbye”to him,and,he letme say “goodbye”tomy dad.
For three weeksIhadspenta part of each day travellingfrommyhome inVenturaCountytothe
Veteran’sHospice inthe SanFernandoValley,tospendtime withmydearfriendHarry. The doctors
had “given”Harry abouttwo weekstolive backinFebruary. He was verycommunicative aswe moved
passedthe twoweeksandclosedinontwo months. Hisfriendsandhishospice caretakersmarveledat
the crispnessof his88 yearold mind. Theymarveledatthe factthat he managedtostay withus as long
as he did. I rememberhearingthata spiritlike Harrywouldletgo of thislife onlywhenhisworkhere
was done. My age on the day he passedaway was67. He was,to say the least,a fatherfigure tome.
His legacywasto have givenme a dailyopportunitytobe withhimtothe end. And,as it workedout,he
letme go throughthe missedopportunityof doingthe same withmyownfather.
Overthe past thirtyyearsI have become botha fatheranda grandfather. The dayI set myeyesonmy
granddaughterforthe firsttime,Iwas aware that I was livingamomentthatneithermyfathernorhis
fatherhad everexperienced. Neitherhadlivedlongenoughtosee theirowngrandchildren. Doing that
verythinghad beenalife -longgoal of mine. Kindof like breakinga “familycurse”. Anothergoal of
mine hadbeentobe alive andwell,andgrow oldwithmychildren. Toletthemhave a full knowledge of
lovingandbeinglovedbyafatherwhoenjoyedthe fruitsof aging.
It wasironicthat Harry had no offspringof his own,althoughhe hadraisedtwoboyswhohad related
to himas a fatherall of theirlives. Ihadmet Harry whenIwas 32 yearsold. He was six feetfourinches,
240 pounds,hadebonybrownskin,andthe handsand fingersof aconcert pianist. Hisvoice wasa deep
baritone. He lovedjazz,women,andfine tequilas. He spoke freelyandoftenof hislife’sexperiences,
not of thingsthat he wishedhe haddone.
My dad wasthe youngestof eightchildren. He hadbeenanall-starathlete atNew BedfordHigh
School,inNewBedford,Massachusetts. Hisfatherhaddiedof a heartproblemwhenmydadwas inhis
twenties. He had one otherbrother,our Uncle Herman,whohad a similarheartcondition. He diedof a
massive heartattackwhile discussingfriedeggscookedinbutteroverbreakfastwithmytenyearold
brother. Uncle Herman’smantra,whichwe heard oftenduringourfamilyvisitin1954, was “I wished
they’dtake me….Iwishthey’dtake me!” “They”were the “heartattack gods”we all figured. Iguess
theywere listening.
Because mydad wasstrong andhealthy,hisjobwasto take care of hismotherand sistersthroughout
hisyoungerlife. He wasa quietman,not knownfordrawingattentiontohimself. He hada temper,
but wasnot abusive. He wasfrustratedinhishome life andhisworklife. He marriedahighly

2. narcissisticyoungestdaughterof a majorJewishiconinthe Los AngelesJewish community. He wentto
workeverymorningat2 a.m.,at the wholesaleproduce companyownedbymygrandfather,hisfather-
in-law. Mydad was stuckin the role of secondfiddle tomyUncle Howard,who hadmarriedmy
mother’ssisterbefore mydadmarriedmymother. Thisjobledto a nice house inthe Hancock Park area
of LosAngeles,ahousekeeper,nice cars,nice vacations,and a swimmingpool. Otherwise,the jobled
to nothingof any pleasure tomydad. Notto any feelingof successorsense of satisfactionforhim.
Perhapsthatis whyhe chose hisoffice at Grower’sMarketingCompanyasthe place where he would
endhislife. Whichhe didon July1, 1965.
Fromwhat I knowof that day,my fatherhad left workat the usual time thatafternoon. He drove from
it’slocationindowntownL.A.,backto ourneighborhood,pastourhouse,(ourgardenerhadsee nhim
passingby),perhapsasa last goodbye….andhe headedbacktohis office. Bythattime of day, all the
employeeshadleftforhome. He wentupstairstohisoffice,puta beltaroundhisneck,laiddownon
the couch and diedof asphyxiation. In otherwords,he hangedhimself. He hadmade a pointtodo this
at the office where myuncle andmotherwouldprobablycome lookingforhim. He wasright. I later
came to findoutthat he had contemplatedsuicideforawhile. Monthsearlier,mymotherlatertoldmy
brothersandme, she had founda note inhiscloset. He acceptedthe fact that he neededhelp. That
“help”wasnot as forthcominginthe way we hoped,asI will explainlater. Unfortunately,mymother,
my uncles,andmyaunts keptthisfactto themselves. Iwas 18 yearsold,and my brotherswere 21 and
25. We were notexactly“children”. Whenmymotherandmyuncle returnedhome fromhisoffice that
afternoon,Iwastoldthat my fatherwasgone. “Where didhe go?”,I asked..“He took himself”,wasmy
mother’sresponse. “Tookhimself where? Washe in an accident?” Gettingto the pointwasnot her
strongsuit. Straightanswerswere noteasytopry loose. She eventoldhissistersbackeastthathe had
diedof a heart attack. We had to keepupthe front whentheycame outfor hisfuneral. Something
aboutsuicide beingagainstsome Hebraiclaws. The factwas,he was dead. He wasgone. And I would
neverbe able tolookhimin the eyesandsay,“I love you….Goodbye Dad.”
Suchwas not the case in the lastfewmonthsof Harry’s life. He knew whatwascoming,how it was
coming,andhe faceditwithcomfort. He was prepared,andhe plannedtoface hisfinal dayson Earth
on hisownterms. He was 87 yearsoldwhenthe doctorstoldhim thathis mostrecentboutwithcancer
wouldbe the lastof many. He toldme that he waseithergoingtodie of starvation(he hadterminal
intestinal cancer) orof the cancer itself.
Unfortunatelyformyfather,andthe manyotherpersonssufferingfromthe depressive symptomshe
was,the psychiatricprofessionwasafar cry awayfrom prescribing asbeneficial care in1965 as itcan
today. As it workedout,Iwentto see myfather’sformerpsychiatristathisoffice inBeverlyHills afew
timesaftermydad’sdeath. VeryFreudianandverysubdued,Dr.Feldmanshedlittle lightonmy
father’smental reality. Afteranothersix monthsorsowentby,I calledthe doctor’soffice againtosee
aboutsettinganotherappointmentwithhimtodiscusssome issuesIwashavingina relationshipIwas
involvedin. Hisansweringservicepickedup,andIaskedaboutseeing the doctor. I was informedthat
Dr. Feldmanhaddied. WhenIaskedwhat hadhappened,Iwastoldthat he had takenhisownlife. I
was stunned. Talkaboutprescribingbeneficialcare toothers……the gooddoctorhad, as we say,“taken
hisownmedicine.”

3. Aftersome time hadpassed,Irememberthatinsome earlymornings,whenmostof mydreamshad
ventedthemselves,thatafewtimesthe thoughtpassedthroughmymindthatmy fatherhad
committedamurder. He had,withpremeditation,killedahumanbeing. He had hada plan,andhe was
actuallyable topull itoff. He had killedmyfather. Now theywere bothgone. The killerandthe killee.
AsHarry’s days wentby,our time wasfilledwithdiscussionsaboutourlives,ourmemories,our
favorite foods,sports,music,andpeople. And,atthe endof each visit ,our parting wordswere always
“love youman…” and “Love youtoo!”
These are wordsI heardoftenfromHarry, that, due to hisinnertorments,Ineverheardfrommydad.
The worse thingabout suicide isit’ssudden, stunning finality. Once thatdoorcloses,there will be no
one to answeryourknockingandletyou back in. “If only”isnot a keythat will openthatdoor. No
questionsasked….noquestionstrulyanswered. It’sfinal. The restwill have tolive onina survivor’s
imagination.
Asan eighteenyearold,Ihadbeenaware of my father’slackof joyfulness. Here I was,a new student
at UCLA, in the 60’s. It was a time to experimentwithall thatlife hadtooffer. Mymother,brothersand
I seemedtobe enjoyingourlives,yetIcouldsense mydadgoingon,day by day withno sense of
optimismorreal pleasure. He neversharedhispessimism. Histhoughtsseemedtobelongonlytohim.
Once he haddiedI realizedhowusedtothatI had become. We hadn’tbeentaughtto askabout
feelingsoremotions,sowe acceptedthe statusquo. That wasthe 1950’s and the 1960’s. Our models
were TV showslike “Ozzie andHarriet”,“Leave ItTo Beaver”,and “FatherKnowsBest”. Familylife was
portrayedina black andwhite environment,where kidswouldtrytofollow theirparents’wisdom,
withoutrockingthe boat….PLEASE! Did I thinkthatmy fatherlovedme? My intuitionalwaysknewthat
he did. This isthe area where actionsMUST speaklouderthanwords.
HowclearlyI rememberthe daywhen,atthe age of 11, I wasdeemedtobe oldenoughto awakenat1
a.m.and go downtowntothe office tospendthe day withmy dad, my uncle,andall the “men”. Until
I’ddone this,the conceptof wakingupinthe middle of the nighttogo to workwas justa processI knew
my fatherhadgone throughall his life. Now Icouldfeel the realityof it. Itseemedlike alonelystartto
the day. Sunrise atthe downtownL.A.produce marketwasmuch differentthanthe morningsIhad
grownusedto where the soothingvoice of ourhousekeeper,Freddie Mae,wouldsingout “Larry,Larry,
it’s time to getup and getreadyfor school”. She was callingupfromthe kitchen,onwhatwe calledthe
“Intercom”speakersystemwe eachhadinour bedrooms.
Asthe morningpassed,Isaw howthe businesswasrun. Lots of men hauling bagsof potatoesand
onions.. Lotsof men pushinghanddollieswithstacksof woodencratesfilled withvariousfruitsand
vegetables. Around11 a.m.I was informedthatDadand I were goingtowalkoverto Sam’sDeli for
some lunch. It soundedgoodto me,since Dad’sname was Sam, the place hada certainlure of
familiaritytoit. We sat at the counterand placedour orders,andthenmy dad got upto go to the
restroomto washup. There wasa man sittingalone atthe countera few stoolstothe right of me.
Withoutlookinguphe askedme “Is SamShapiroyour dad?” “Yeshe is”,I replied. “You’re a luckykid”
he continued, “That’sthe mosthonestman I evermet,yourdad…you’re aluckykid.” He tookanother

4. bite of hissandwich,neverlookingme inthe eyes,andnoddedtohimself. Itwasa memoryina
momentthatI neverrealizedwouldstickinmymindforever. A valuable memorytoholdontoafter
my dadwas gone. Like beingayoung squirrel fillinguphispoucheswithacornstoenjoylaterthat
winter.
There issuch a vast difference betweenknowingthatyouare dying,andsharingitwiththe people you
love,andknowingthatyouare aboutto die and keepingitall toyourself.
Harry passedawaya little aftermidnightonApril 16th
. The daybefore was“Tax Day”, April 15th
. My
lastconversationwithHarry(I didthe talkingsince Harrycouldn’tdomuch more than nodhishead
“yes”or shake hishead“no”) wasas follows. Me: “Do you know whatday it isHarry?” Harry: a
headshake “No”. Me: “It’stax day andyou didn’thave topay them anything!” Harry: nods“Yes”. Me:
“Andif you’re lucky,youmayevenbe gettingbacka refund!” Harry: a smile andthenanothernod
“Yes” That last smile wasfollowedbyHarry takingmyhand andpullingitweaklyuptohisface. He then
gentlyplacedakisson the back of my hand. I feltasif I had beenblessedatthatmoment.
The eveningbeforemydaddied,Irememberhimpullingonthe slidingglassdoorof our den,and
complainingaboutpeople pullingitoff of it’stracks. I watchedashe resetitand wentoff tobed. On
manyoccasionsI wouldgo upto my parents’roomand give hima gentle shouldermassage. Itwas my
wayof givinghimsome comfort. IwishI had done thatthat night. I wishI had kissedhishandsothat
he may have feltblessedaswell. The oldadage of “Hindsightis20-20” may be true abouta lot of things
inlife,butsuicide isanexception.
WhenI wasin highschool I hadtriedto findsome thingsthatmy dadand I coulddo together. Ihad
joinedanafterschool bowlingleague,andIcame to the dinnertable oftentalkingaboutthe goodtimesI
had had at the lanesthatday. Since he had beena veryathletic youngerman,Ifigured thatussharing
a sport wouldbe goodfor himandfor me. It took some well directedprodding,butIwas successful at
gettingusto The HollywoodLegionLanesfrequentlyonSaturdayafternoons. We seemedtoenjoyeach
other’scompanyandthe friendlycompetition. In1964, I was able toconvince himto buy us twoseason
ticketstoUSC’s football games. Ittookevenmore convincing,buthe decidedtodoit. He lovedto
watch football,baseball,andThe FridayNightFightsonTV. I usedthe live gamesasleverage,andit
worked. Thinkingbacktothe bowlingalleyandthe football games,Ican’trecall there everhavingbeen
a conversationbetweenusaboutlife,aboutfeelings,oraboutthe people inourlives. The familieswho
were onTV didthat…….everysooften. Foroverthirtyodd years,whenHarryand I got together,those
were the maintopicsof our conversations.
It seemsamazingtome howI can reach back fiftyplusyears,andthe memoriesthatsurroundmylast
yearwithmy dad,rise out of my subconsciousmindwithanunbelievableclarity. Isuppose thatis
because these memoriesare attachedtosucha profoundevent. Theyhave definitelykeptalife of their
own.
One suchprofoundmemory came froman eveningmyfamilyspentvisitingmyfatheratthe facilityhis
doctor and mymother(underhisadvice) hadsuggestedhe enterforsome “treatment”of hislingering
depression. ItwascalledEdgemontHospital. Itwasa psychiatrichospital locatedin,of all places,

5. Hollywood. The place where dreamsare made. Itwasthere that myonce strongfatherlearnedof the
joysof valiumandshock treatment. The stuff where dreamsdon’texist.
The eventwasof all things,an evening“Dance Party”forthe patients. Families,suchasours,were
invitedintovisitandparticipate. There wasmyfatherwith,whatI sensedtobe,a well medicated,
peaceful,almostplacid,smile onhisface,dancingwithsome womanpatient. The “smiles”ontheir
faceswere eerilyidentical. Theywere doingaslow waltz. My dad had alwaysbeenasmoothie onthe
dance floor. The waltzwasslow,the smilesvapid,the memory…..indelible. Besidesdance parties,my
dad had alsobeenattendinghisprescribedshocktherapysessions. He hadbeenenjoyingthe peaceful
sterilityof regulardosesof valium. Here Iwaswatchingthisformerstrongathlete andrather snappy
dancer,glide slowlyaroundsome mental hospital’sdance floor like ahappyzombie,arminarm with
anotherhappyzombie.
I rememberwalkingoutside totake adeepbreathand gathermy thoughts. Iwas standinginthe area
where the patientswouldgooutdoorsduringthe daytoget some sunand freshair. It was a walledin
courtyardthat was maybe only 20 or 30 feetfromthe trafficand “glamor”of HollywoodBoulevard.
The wallshad some chainlinkedfencethatrose above it. It wasthenthat I noticedthatthere was alsoa
chainlinkedcoverabove me. Itwas literallyanoutdoorcage. It was obviouslytheretokeepanyone
fromclimbingout. I had an appreciationof whatthe term“Noescape”reallymeantat thatmoment.
The people insideEdgemontHospitalwere,asa whole,beingprotectedfromharmingthemselves. My
fatherwasone of them.
Some weekslater,whenmydadcame backhome,the subjectof EdgemontHospital nevercame upin
the course of familyconversation. Mydad wasno longera grinningzombie. Ihad noreal ideaor
indicationthathis“treatments”had“worked”ornot. It wasas if myvisitto see mydad at Edgemont
was like beinginanepisode of “The TwilightZone”.
A fewmonthslatermy dadwas gone. The eveningof the dayhe died,mymotherand mybrothers
came intomyroom, sat togetheronmybed,and theyall cried. My eyeswere dry. I wastryingto
comfortthem. Then,ina momentof whatwas enormousironytome,mymotherofferedeachof us a
valiumto“helpussleep.” Itook the little yellow pill fromher,and,aseachof themwentoff to their
ownbedsto be withtheirownthoughts,Itossedmy valiuminthe toilet. Andthen,there Iwas,finally
alone withmyownthoughtsas well.
Asfor my tears,theytooksome monthstocome. Andwhentheycame,theycame hard and strong.
Theycame ona nightwhenIwas at, whatcollege kidscalleda“pool party”…youknow,the kindof party
where the parents goaway, and the “mice will play!” Iwas ona longue chairbythe swimmingpool
withan incrediblyaffectionategirl namedLisaJones. She wastreatingme like aking….oraprince…or
whatever,whenall of asuddenIgot up off the lounge chair,excused myself,andwentoutfrontto my
car. I sat there fora fewminutes. The nextthingIknew,Iwas drivingmycar downthe freewayand
headingtowardsThe Mt. Sinai Mortuary andCemetery . It waswhere mydad was buried. Itmust
have beensomewhere between11p.m.and midnight. Asif drivenbysome unknownforce,Igotout of
my car, ran up to the lockedwroughtirongates,grabbedthe barswithmy handsand beganshaking

6. themwithall the powerI had inme. Thencame the floodof tears andthe floodof emotions. Icould
hearmyself shoutinguptothe hill where mydadwaslaidto rest,“Why? Why Dad why? I love you
Dad…whyare yougone???”
Andso itis,that releasingHarry’sashesalsoreleasedsomethinginme. Afteralmostfiftyyearsof no
real closure,Harry’spassingletme letgo of the gates I hadlongbeenshaking.
I am writingthisstorybecause Ihave learnedsomuchfrommy fatherand Harry’sexamples. A year
aftermy fatherdied,Icame to the realizationthatlifewasonlyworthlivingif youdidall youcouldto
enjoythatlife,andbe of comfortto others. I basicallypromisedmyselfthatIwouldindeedreachthe
age of sixty,andnevercome tothe same conclusionthatmyfatherdid. I promisedmyselfIwouldhave
a family, andthat I wouldbe anexample tomychildrenof whatitmeansto seekinnerpeace. Not
money,notrecognition. Findingyourownself-approval wouldbe the goal.
Hopefully,downthe road,mychildrenandgrandchildrenwillthankmydadand Harry for the lessons
theytaughtme.