Brad Barrish

It’s safe here. No one knows this is where I’m keeping my thoughts. The first go at this resulted in people getting angry at me for publishing such intimate details of my dad’s death. It’s ok though. People have their own ways of dealing with grief and getting through difficult situations. I wrote a lot while I was taking care of my dad and I’m so upset that I can’t share many of those details. Mom and Sister were probably right. Dad would not have liked me to be posting all of the details I did as he was dying. I’ve had some time to think things over and I know I made the right decision in taking it all down.

Apparently someone at an office started printing my posts out and passing them around for people to read, which is so beyond in appropriate, I don’t even know what to say. I think I know who it was, which makes it worse. I posted an open letter to the person who did this and took it down a minute later. I just didn’t want to introduce the negativity.

I’m not the first person to get into trouble with their family because of a blog. I didn’t originally intend for my family to even know about it, but I wasn’t as tight-lipped as I should have been. Every time someone would ask me about how things were going, I would direct them to the site. Word spread like wild fire and too many people ended up finding out. Many people found inspiration in it and I wanted to leave it up as a document of what I went through. Hell, maybe I should just go back and edit the posts so they are more anonymous and contain less of the intimate details. It just feels wrong to edit them. They were so pure and stream-of-consciousness that I just don’t want to hassle with them. Not right now.

I tried to make myself cry again tonight and it just didn’t work. It must be the same defense mechanism I used when I was taking care of dad. I still don’t know how I did all of that.

It’s safe here. No one knows this is where I’m keeping my thoughts. The first go at this resulted in people getting angry at me for publishing such intimate details of my dad’s death. It’s ok though. People have their own ways of dealing with grief and getting through difficult situations. I wrote a lot while I was taking care of my dad and I’m so upset that I can’t share many of those details. Mom and Sister were probably right. Dad would not have liked me to be posting all of the details I did as he was dying. I’ve had some time to think things over and I know I made the right decision in taking it all down.

Apparently someone at an office started printing my posts out and passing them around for people to read, which is so beyond in appropriate, I don’t even know what to say. I think I know who it was, which makes it worse. I posted an open letter to the person who did this and took it down a minute later. I just didn’t want to introduce the negativity.

I’m not the first person to get into trouble with their family because of a blog. I didn’t originally intend for my family to even know about it, but I wasn’t as tight-lipped as I should have been. Every time someone would ask me about how things were going, I would direct them to the site. Word spread like wild fire and too many people ended up finding out. Many people found inspiration in it and I wanted to leave it up as a document of what I went through. Hell, maybe I should just go back and edit the posts so they are more anonymous and contain less of the intimate details. It just feels wrong to edit them. They were so pure and stream-of-consciousness that I just don’t want to hassle with them. Not right now.

I tried to make myself cry again tonight and it just didn’t work. It must be the same defense mechanism I used when I was taking care of dad. I still don’t know how I did all of that.

I spoke to someone else this evening. Her mom passed away from the same disease and she was having a more difficult time than I was.

“Hey, how are you?” I said. I was excited to finally be speaking to her.

“Do you really need to ask that?”

“It’s ok to say you’re hurting or you’re not ok, but I really wanted to know how you were.”

“Ok, well, I’m not good. My mom is dead and when I called my dad to ask him what he got us for Valentine’s day, he realized that he blew it. I told him it was alright and he didn’t have to try and be mom.”

“My mom won’t even pick up the phone.”

We talked for a while, comparing stories and finding some comfort in one another, even though it was just a phone call. When it was time to hang up, I thanked her for being there. It meant a lot, especially since it had been so many years.

I’ve only teared up a couple of times since I’ve been home and I feel bad about it. I feel bad because I’m not struggling every single day with the overwhelming sadness that I felt when I was taking care of my dying father. I don’t know what’s going on with me. I expected to cry all the time and I just don’t have it in me. I’ve been trying not to think about him being gone. I haven’t written a single word in the last several days. Not until now. And now, it has to be a secret because I don’t want my family to read about any of this. The writing helps me. It helps me work out the feelings that are inside me.

I noticed that my brow furrows a lot lately. It feels like I’m frowning, which isn’t something I do much, or at least I haven’t until recently. And sometimes I get these hot/cold sensations just above my eyes. I wonder if it’s more tears being manufactured. Maybe I cried them all out when I was home. I’m kind of kidding about all of this. It’s so juvenile to think that I ran out of tears, but what is it that has me all blocked up? I listen to mom cry and I get sad, but nothing comes out. I listen to my sister get angry with me about something that wouldn’t normally make her angry, but because she’s hurting, it does. And I don’t well up. My hands sweat and I feel like I drank some strong coffee. My heart races, but no tears.

Today is Valentine’s Day and a week ago my dad died. My mom’s mate for almost 40 years is gone and she’s stuck at home with her thoughts, unable to speak to me over the phone. The pain that she must be feeling is too much to even fathom. I really can’t imagine it. I can’t step into her shoes for a moment. She must be crying her eyes out. Leaving her at home, alone, for the first time was torture. I remember crying as I stepped down the stairs off the front porch onto the cold lawn. I clenched my fist and cried so hard. ‘How could this be happening?’ I asked myself. I just shook my head in utter disbelief that I was going to live the rest of my life without my dad.

I still don’t believe it. I think that’s it. I just can’t get my head around the fact that my dad is dead. He’s not ever coming back. I can’t ask him for advice. I can’t impress him any more. His voice will only be in my head. I even tried to check my voicemail on the old phone to see if I still had his birthday message. It was gone. I’d been saving it since my birthday last year. I knew he would be gone at some point in the not-too-distant future and I wanted to keep the message to listen to. He left really sweet messages and I didn’t save any of them. I just can’t believe he’s gone. Literally.

I spoke to someone else this evening. Her mom passed away from the same disease and she was having a more difficult time than I was.

“Hey, how are you?” I said. I was excited to finally be speaking to her.

“Do you really need to ask that?”

“It’s ok to say you’re hurting or you’re not ok, but I really wanted to know how you were.”

“Ok, well, I’m not good. My mom is dead and when I called my dad to ask him what he got us for Valentine’s day, he realized that he blew it. I told him it was alright and he didn’t have to try and be mom.”

“My mom won’t even pick up the phone.”

We talked for a while, comparing stories and finding some comfort in one another, even though it was just a phone call. When it was time to hang up, I thanked her for being there. It meant a lot, especially since it had been so many years.

I’ve only teared up a couple of times since I’ve been home and I feel bad about it. I feel bad because I’m not struggling every single day with the overwhelming sadness that I felt when I was taking care of my dying father. I don’t know what’s going on with me. I expected to cry all the time and I just don’t have it in me. I’ve been trying not to think about him being gone. I haven’t written a single word in the last several days. Not until now. And now, it has to be a secret because I don’t want my family to read about any of this. The writing helps me. It helps me work out the feelings that are inside me.

I noticed that my brow furrows a lot lately. It feels like I’m frowning, which isn’t something I do much, or at least I haven’t until recently. And sometimes I get these hot/cold sensations just above my eyes. I wonder if it’s more tears being manufactured. Maybe I cried them all out when I was home. I’m kind of kidding about all of this. It’s so juvenile to think that I ran out of tears, but what is it that has me all blocked up? I listen to mom cry and I get sad, but nothing comes out. I listen to my sister get angry with me about something that wouldn’t normally make her angry, but because she’s hurting, it does. And I don’t well up. My hands sweat and I feel like I drank some strong coffee. My heart races, but no tears.

Today is Valentine’s Day and a week ago my dad died. My mom’s mate for almost 40 years is gone and she’s stuck at home with her thoughts, unable to speak to me over the phone. The pain that she must be feeling is too much to even fathom. I really can’t imagine it. I can’t step into her shoes for a moment. She must be crying her eyes out. Leaving her at home, alone, for the first time was torture. I remember crying as I stepped down the stairs off the front porch onto the cold lawn. I clenched my fist and cried so hard. ‘How could this be happening?’ I asked myself. I just shook my head in utter disbelief that I was going to live the rest of my life without my dad.

I still don’t believe it. I think that’s it. I just can’t get my head around the fact that my dad is dead. He’s not ever coming back. I can’t ask him for advice. I can’t impress him any more. His voice will only be in my head. I even tried to check my voicemail on the old phone to see if I still had his birthday message. It was gone. I’d been saving it since my birthday last year. I knew he would be gone at some point in the not-too-distant future and I wanted to keep the message to listen to. He left really sweet messages and I didn’t save any of them. I just can’t believe he’s gone. Literally.

This is what I read at my dad’s funeral this morning. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do. We filmed the entire service, which I will post once we go through the tapes.

There’s a great quote by the Buddhist Philosopher, Daisaku Ikeda that states, “To die well, one must have lived well. For those who have lived true to their convictions, who have worked to bring happiness to others, death can come as a comforting rest, like the well-earned sleep that follows a day of enjoyable exertion.”

My dad was a fighter, and I’m not just talking about his battle with Pancreatic Cancer, though that was his ultimate battle. He helped people fight for a living. He helped equip people for their own battles in life, sharpening their minds and coping skills. He fought against injustice of every kind you could imagine. Racism, bigotry, sexual discrimination, religious intolerance, hate and ignorance were all battles he took on. Being raised by such a man I couldn’t help but join him in many of those battles along the way and as I got older I appreciated what a privilege and an honor it was to be in the presence of such a man.

Truth be told, I think he might be a little embarrassed by such an amazing service today, but don’t let that stop you from celebrating today and forever. I say celebrate because that’s what he would want. When we were talking about what his funeral service would be like, it actually crossed our minds to play some hip-hop over the PA. I even asked Mark about the possibility of a disco ball. I was kidding… Kind of. It wasn’t uncommon to see him driving around town in his Range Rover, windows down and music up. And I mean up. His love of music, openness and youthful spirit made him a favorite among my and my siblings’ friends. He was the cool dad. People trusted him because he felt safe. And he was. Because of that, he made friends with everyone. It might have been a friend I brought to the house or a guy sitting next to him on an airplane. He loved conversation and dialog.

Diasaku Ikeda wrote, “A Buddhist scripture states that “the voice does the Buddha’s work.” The voice has the power to convey one’s compassion for another. No matter how much you care, the sentiment alone will not communicate itself. When your feelings are conveyed in words, your voice will have the immense power to move another person’s heart.

His life embodied that very quote. He used words on a daily basis to help people, and did so with true compassion for his fellow human being. It was that compassion that made him a respected psychologist, an incredible parent and my personal hero. The way I choose to live my life, the kind of man that I strive to be, with all of my heart, is the kind of man he was. That’s how I honor my father. I made that decision long before he ever got sick.

Over the last couple of weeks especially, people have been asking ‘What can I do to help?’ I now have an answer for you. Live your life a little different from this point forward. Be a little more tolerant. Listen a little closer. Practice random acts of kindness. Rescue an animal from a shelter. Respect other people’s differences. And when in doubt, ask yourself, “What would Jay do?”

This is what I read at my dad’s funeral this morning. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do. We filmed the entire service, which I will post once we go through the tapes.

There’s a great quote by the Buddhist Philosopher, Daisaku Ikeda that states, “To die well, one must have lived well. For those who have lived true to their convictions, who have worked to bring happiness to others, death can come as a comforting rest, like the well-earned sleep that follows a day of enjoyable exertion.”

My dad was a fighter, and I’m not just talking about his battle with Pancreatic Cancer, though that was his ultimate battle. He helped people fight for a living. He helped equip people for their own battles in life, sharpening their minds and coping skills. He fought against injustice of every kind you could imagine. Racism, bigotry, sexual discrimination, religious intolerance, hate and ignorance were all battles he took on. Being raised by such a man I couldn’t help but join him in many of those battles along the way and as I got older I appreciated what a privilege and an honor it was to be in the presence of such a man.

Truth be told, I think he might be a little embarrassed by such an amazing service today, but don’t let that stop you from celebrating today and forever. I say celebrate because that’s what he would want. When we were talking about what his funeral service would be like, it actually crossed our minds to play some hip-hop over the PA. I even asked Mark about the possibility of a disco ball. I was kidding… Kind of. It wasn’t uncommon to see him driving around town in his Range Rover, windows down and music up. And I mean up. His love of music, openness and youthful spirit made him a favorite among my and my siblings’ friends. He was the cool dad. People trusted him because he felt safe. And he was. Because of that, he made friends with everyone. It might have been a friend I brought to the house or a guy sitting next to him on an airplane. He loved conversation and dialog.

Diasaku Ikeda wrote, “A Buddhist scripture states that “the voice does the Buddha’s work.” The voice has the power to convey one’s compassion for another. No matter how much you care, the sentiment alone will not communicate itself. When your feelings are conveyed in words, your voice will have the immense power to move another person’s heart.

His life embodied that very quote. He used words on a daily basis to help people, and did so with true compassion for his fellow human being. It was that compassion that made him a respected psychologist, an incredible parent and my personal hero. The way I choose to live my life, the kind of man that I strive to be, with all of my heart, is the kind of man he was. That’s how I honor my father. I made that decision long before he ever got sick.

Over the last couple of weeks especially, people have been asking ‘What can I do to help?’ I now have an answer for you. Live your life a little different from this point forward. Be a little more tolerant. Listen a little closer. Practice random acts of kindness. Rescue an animal from a shelter. Respect other people’s differences. And when in doubt, ask yourself, “What would Jay do?”

My dad and I shared a love of public speaking. Last Father’s Day dad gave a talk on adversity at one of the local synagogues. It’s a classic example of dad and the values he always tried to emphasize when he was raising Jonas, Brandy and I. Dad was always inspiring people, whether he knew them personally or not, so I feel like it’s appropriate that I make it available for all of you to hear. Brandy and I are working on a shorter edit that will open the funeral tomorrow.

Irving Jay Barrish, Ph.D. Overland Park, Kansas passed away peacefully, surrounded by family on Wednesday, February 7, 2007 after a courageous and inspiring battle with Pancreatic Cancer. Services will be held Friday, February 9, 2007 at 11:30am at Beth Torah Temple, 6100 W. 127th St. in Overland Park, Kansas followed by burial at Mt. Moriah Cemetary, 10507 Holmes Road in Kansas City, Missouri.

He was preceded in death by his father, Joseph Barrish; mother, Betty Barrish Nadlman; and stepfather Charles Nadlman. He is survived by his wife of almost 40 years, Harriet H. Barrish, Ph.D.; son Brad Barrish of Venice, California; son, Jonas Barrish of Kansas City, Missouri; and daughter Brandy Barrish of Overland Park. He also leaves behind a wonderful extended family of cousins and many friends as well as his long-time colleague, Gerald H. Vandenberg, Ph.D., and his very special secretary of over twenty-six years, Jeanne Harmon.

Jay was born on September 11, 1945 in Kansas City, Missouri and attended Southwest High School. He received his B.S., M.A., and Ph.D. degrees from the University of Kansas. He was a well-known and respected psychologist in private practice in Leawood, Kansas. In addition to his practice, he taught over the years at a number of area universities, colleges, and hospitals including the University of Kansas, UMKC, Rockhurst, Ottawa University, Johnson County Community College and Shawnee Mission Medical Center. He also wrote numerous professional articles, consulted, presented papers, and co-authored two books with his wife. He was a Supervisor and Associate Fellow of the Albert Ellis Institute in New York. He was a pioneer in cognitive-behavioral psychology and one of the area’s early therapists to introduce behavioral and cognitive-behavioral psychology to the clinical setting. He belonged to numerous professional organizations and devoted his private time to his family and organizations that supported civil liberties, diversity, and social justice.

His passions included his family, his sons and daughter, his wife, his pets Brutus, Teddy and Kitty, grand-dogs, animals, sports, and gardening. He often fed, rescued and tended to a multitude of creatures. He loved working out, seeing friends, and was a proud vegetarian. He was an encyclopedia of sports facts, figures, and trivia. He loved to read for both pleasure and learning. He loved laughing at “Seinfeld” episodes and rockin’ to music in his car.

Jay was always available to family, friends, and clients for advice, support, and encouragement. He had a gift for socializing and getting to know people. Those who knew him were often amazed at how people gravitated to him and told them their life stories. He will be remembered and cherished for love, laughter, strength, support, counsel, intelligence, wisdom, commitment, and random acts of kindness. He was dearly loved and will be terribly missed by many, but will live on in their hearts and memories.

The family wishes to thank family and friends for all of their support, caring, and love; Dr. Robert Belt, Laura, Cathy, and the rest of the wonderful staff at The Kansas City Cancer Center; Dr. John Helzberg; Johns Hopkins University; The University of Chicago; Kansas City Hospice and Palliative Care; and Rabbi Mark Levin.

In Lieu of flowers, contributions are suggested to PanCAN, Congregation Beth Torah Social Justice Committee, Operation WildLife, Harvesters, The Humane Society of Greater Kansas City – Gabriel’s Fund, or an organization or charity of your choice.

I have no idea what makes this edition so special, but it’s a really nice cover for one of the best rock biographies I’ve ever read.

I saw Koga for the first time in ages today and then read an amazing article on Han. Weird and cool.