Back from our fourth of July weekend, I leaned over to click the “play” button on our answering machine.

In Russian-accented English, the news everyone fears to hear rose from the machine. “My name is Oksana at Cedars-Sinai. I’m calling to talk about Joel. Please call me back.”

I’ve been here before and many of you have too. A loved one has been in an accident, is suddenly felled by a stroke or heart attack, or is in the final stages of a long decline. The last time the machinery of the American end-of-life bureaucracy ground into motion on my behalf was when my father began to die of Parkinson’s disease, a heart-breaking series of events I chronicled in “real time” here.

But no prior end-of-life experience prepares you for the next. Dad was in his 80s, remarried, living in a low-slung suburban Southern California ranch-style house attended by a 24-hour caregiver who had for years been his aid and companion. He had Blue Cross, retirement pay and a stream of income from rental property he’d amassed in the San Fernando Valley in the ’60s and ’70s.

Joel is my ex-husband. We were divorcing just as George H.W. Bush was beginning his Presidency in 1989. During those years, I met and married my new husband, changed jobs, pursued a new career, made new friends, and lived a busy privileged life.

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