A Couple’s Last Words to Each Other

[clicking] [chiming]

[Robert] I don't know if knowing

that you're going to die is a luxury.

Maybe knowing that you're gonna die

such that you have the ability

to tie up loose ends, set things straight,

is probably a good thing.

Honey. - Yeah?

[Robert] In almost all cases you don't know

it's gonna be a last conversation.

[Dad] You recognize who this is?

[Mom] I'm trying to.

[Dad] You're trying to?

[Robert] But if you're lucky, hopefully you have

the ability to say what you need to say

to the people that you need to say it to.

[Dad] This is somebody who loves you very much.

[Mom] Yeah.

[Robert] And what are the odds that the last conversation

that two people would ever have together

after a life of 60 years together...

[Mom] God, I wish you were home already.

[Dad] Oh, so do I.

[Robert] Would be captured?

[peppy music]

My parents, Isidore Kornberg and my mom, Sarah Kornberg.

They met, they fell in love,

and the got married in 1944.

I came around in 1952.

My father was quite a jokester.

Always kidding around.

He was incredibly well-spoken.

[Dad] You make a big doody for grandma.

That's right.

[laughing]

My mom was a lot quieter.

She enjoyed cooking.

I didn't always enjoy eating her food.

But she enjoyed cooking.

She was a clean freak.

She was one of these women that ironed underwear.

I had the best ironed briefs you could imagine.

But she could sit down at a keyboard

and she could just pick up songs.

[singing]

There was a certain playfulness to their relationship.

I don't remember verbal expressions of love quite that much.

You know, the oh I love you,

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Although I'm 100% certain that they just

didn't feel the need to tell each other all the time.

Time goes on.

My father started having some circulation issues.

My mom started repeating herself a bit.

Grandma Kornberg.

When they were about 77 years old,

they ran some tests on my mom,

and she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease.

For Alzheimer's patients memories fade.

So my mom would talk about things when I was young.

She would talk about things when she was young.

They tend to remember things from years ago

much better than something that happened 10 minutes ago.

Are you still hungry?

Are you still hungry, Jeffrey?

This was a shock to my father's system.

It stressed him significantly.

You're talking to a person that is not really understanding.

But he loved my mom.

From that point on, he really devoted

his life to her well-being.

[coughing]

Take care of that cold, Pa.

[Dad] I guess I've been smoking too much.

I guess.

In 2003, after being sick for quite a few years,

my father finally went into the hospital

to have vascular surgery.

And sadly had a heart attack during the surgery.

Miraculously, he pulls through.

But he was in the hospital,

and then a nursing home for three months.

And during that period of time,

my mom was home with health care aides.

The day that he came home from the nursing home,

I remember wheeling him into the apartment,

and he sees my mom, and he starts crying.

And he just reaches up

and he gives her this amazing wet kiss.

To the point that I'm like, hey,

will you guys get a room?

Within a week my father had another heart attack.

My father is in the nursing home again.

All he could talk about was my mom.

How's your mother doing?

Is she being looked after well?

Is she happy?

Does she ask about me?

Fast-forward two more days.

I get home from work, I get a call from my father,

and I say, dad, I'm sorry, I can't talk right now.

Let me call you back in about an hour, hour and a half.

He's like, sure, no problem.

[clicking]

I never called him back.

About 10:30 that evening, I get the call.

[phone ringing]

Mr. Kornberg, I'm sorry to tell you

that your father passed away this evening.

And my heart just sunk.

[clicking]

It's the last conversation I had with my father.

I don't think he necessarily knew he was gonna be dying.

That's actually a great question.

And it's one that will haunt me 'til the end of my life.

I don't know.

[dinging]

I wish I didn't say, I'll call you later.

The next morning, I know I'm gonna go

and I'm gonna talk to my mom.

I sit her down, I said, Mom, Dad died last night.

And she says to me, my dad died?

I said, yes, but that was 30 years ago.

My dad died.

And she says, we have the same dad?

And I said, no.

My dad, your husband, Isidore Kornberg,

passed away last night.

And she looks at me, and she says,

he was a very nice man wasn't he?

I said, Mom, he was a very nice man.

Two days later we're in a funeral home.

There's a service, I eulogize my father,

crying through the whole thing.

My mom is sitting there.

She really doesn't know what's going on.

We go back to my parent's apartment.

There's some food and drink, and my mom says,

this is such a nice party.

[clinking]

I didn't know what to say to her.

Does it make sense for me to try to keep

telling her that he's passed away?

I just didn't know.

At about six p.m. that evening,

all of a sudden my mom says,

if your father's not gonna come home

why doesn't he call?

I said, Mom, you know I've told you a few times.

I'm sorry, Dad died.

[piano music]

All of a sudden she got it.

She understood it, and she was like, how could this be?

Why didn't anybody tell me this?

I didn't know he was sick.

I didn't know.

How could this be?

And she breaks down, she's crying,

and she can't understand.

How could this have happened without anybody telling her?

And about an hour later she says,

you know if your dad's not gonna come home

why doesn't he call me?

I finally realized that, you know what,

why do I have to tell her he's no longer there?

Let her remember what she remembers.

And I never mentioned that again.

I just happened to notice

my parent's answering machine that evening.

The message light was flashing.

So I pushed the button, you know,

I'm assuming it's somebody calling

to just wish my mom well.

[Machine] You have one message.

Message one.

What I heard caused my jaw to drop.

[Dad] Honey.

[Mom] Yeah?

[Dad] You recognize who this is?

[Mom] I'm trying to.

[Dad] This is somebody who loves you very much.

[Mom] Yeah.

I all of a sudden realized that several days earlier,

the very last conversation my parents had

on this earth was captured on the answering machine.

[Dad] Have you been behaving?

[Mom] Yes.

[Dad] I just wanted to tell you that

when I'll be coming home has not been determined.

[Mom] Oh, I see.

I call my family, I call my relatives

to come listen to this.

And everybody is absolutely stunned.

[calm music]

I think while he was in the nursing home

he knew he wasn't long for this world.

He knew.

[Dad] So you'll just have to be patient.

When I get home, we'll make up for lost time.

[laughing]

Right? - Yes.

You promise? - I promise.

[Dad] All right, I miss you, anyhow.

[Mom] Of course, I know that.

[Dad] You know that.

[Mom] I miss you too.

Do you know what, honey? - Yeah.

[Dad] We have to decide to have patience.

[Mom] Yeah, well that you have to have.

[Dad] Because if the one thing you lose is patience

you forget, everything else goes down the drain.

[Mom] Oh god, I know.

It's true.

[Dad] Honey, I just wanted to say hello

and to tell you I love you.

[Mom] Same here.

[Dad] Right, and I know you do.

And before you know it, time will have passed,

and we'll be together again.

[Mom] I hope.

I hope it's soon.

[Dad] I hope it's soon too.

The only thing is, I cannot tell you--

[Machine] Saturday, 1:34 p.m.

[beeping]

End of messages.