They looked comforted and I felt relief for this neshamah’s elevation, yet distraught for my father, who was still hanging between life and death

That night, some of my family sat in a small simchah hall in Boro Park, celebrating the sheva brachos of a relative. And some of my family stood guard at my father’s bedside, in nearby Maimonides hospital, where he’d been a patient on and off for the past 18 months. The juxtaposition of emotions, a microcosm of life cycles.

Our family was no stranger to Maimonides. As one of the first frum families living near the hospital, our home was a headquarters of chesed for many people there. My father’s walk home from shul Friday night always includes a stop to the emergency room to corral some last minute visitors. It was common for us to have ten extra guests for meals, some even staying for weeks at a time.

But now, my father was frail and spent. That night, we knew the end was imminent. There was no longer any discernible brain activity, nor could he be fed, even by G-tube, because his digestive system was shutting down. Maxed out on medication to stabilize his blood pressure, my father’s deterioration was swift.

As the evening wore on, the room filled with family from the sheva brachos. We said Shema and Nishmas, and watched the number on the monitors reveal the impending flatlining of his heart rate.