1945
Robert
2024
Robert Berg
October 12, 1945 — March 9, 2024
Wimauma
Robert Berg (1945 - 2024)
ALS is like that Shel Silverstein poem about being swallowed alive by a boa constrictor, from the toes to the nose before the lights go out.
In the early hours of March 9th, my father finally escaped the pain and humiliation of ALS. He hated his disease that robbed him first of his ability to stand, then walk, then speak. Further indignities would follow to a long slow painful passing. ALS was never fair to him. No one, even the worst among us, deserves to die gasping for breath in a body that does not work anymore with a mind fiercely active and engaged.
In life, my father was a shopkeeper's son, a pesky younger brother to his sister Phyllis. He ran around rural New Jersey with his cousins getting into mischief and working for pocket money to spend at the amusement park across the street from his house. His life was wonderful, and idyllic in many ways. One day all that changed when he met my mother, a girl of charm and beauty who he would say, later in his life, that he knew he was going to marry from their first date.
When they graduated high school and got married at 18 and 20, my father joined the Navy to serve during Vietnam. He wanted out of his small town and a chance at the American Dream, which in his lifetime he achieved.
I came along a year after they were married and they moved from New Jersey to California, the land of opportunity, where the streets were paved with gold. I am not sure if they ever found gold but they bought a house and opened several businesses. Some did well and some failed but the American Dream is never given on a whole platter, like my father said, you only get a small piece of it at a time and only then for as long as you can hold it.
My brother Michael came along later when we moved to the San Fernando Valley in the 80’s. We settled in a beautiful Jewish community like we left in the Fairfax District. We weaved in and out of religious life, at times extremely religious and others sneaking shrimp at Woo Luck’s Chinese Garden on Sunday nights.
My father’s life would race to retirement filled with public service and fundraising for many worthy causes. Always the first to volunteer and a whiz at accounting and finance, Dad would help right many a wonky non-profit to fiscal responsibility and health. His retirement to Florida was a relief to him. After a lifetime of working 6 days a week, I would have thought that he would sink into depression, like many men do at the end of their working lives, but not my father. He took to his retirement with gusto. He ran a card club, a men's group, rode a bike, and traveled. It was ideal in every way until his illness struck with curious symptoms that would take years to be diagnosed.
Through it all, my mother remained at his side, caring for his every need and orchestrating the symphony of care required to sustain him. In the last few weeks, she was at his bedside, speaking to him and reassuring him that the family was alright. She would tell him about the plumber's visit or how much the electrician wanted to pay for a repair. I think she was hoping that my father would bolt up from his hospice bed and remind her to call around for the best price.
My father was a man who did not enjoy sentimentality. He would want us to remember him as a person who rose to every challenge he faced with stoic silence and grace.
May his memory be for a blessing.
Robert is survived by his wife Merle Berg,
His daughter AJ Campbell and his grandchild Marika C-b,
His son Michael Berg his wife Bronwyn Pollock and his two grandchildren,
His cousins Meral Ginsberg and Ronnie Lee,
His niece Deborah Boos and her daughter Corrina,
His nephew Brian Sherman and his wife Linda Sherman and their son Tyler Linda Sherman
His nephew's widow Kecia Sherman
ALS is like that Shel Silverstein poem about being swallowed alive by a boa constrictor, from the toes to the nose before the lights go out.
In the early hours of March 9th, my father finally escaped the pain and humiliation of ALS. He hated his disease that robbed him first of his ability to stand, then walk, then speak. Further indignities would follow to a long slow painful passing. ALS was never fair to him. No one, even the worst among us, deserves to die gasping for breath in a body that does not work anymore with a mind fiercely active and engaged.
In life, my father was a shopkeeper's son, a pesky younger brother to his sister Phyllis. He ran around rural New Jersey with his cousins getting into mischief and working for pocket money to spend at the amusement park across the street from his house. His life was wonderful, and idyllic in many ways. One day all that changed when he met my mother, a girl of charm and beauty who he would say, later in his life, that he knew he was going to marry from their first date.
When they graduated high school and got married at 18 and 20, my father joined the Navy to serve during Vietnam. He wanted out of his small town and a chance at the American Dream, which in his lifetime he achieved.
I came along a year after they were married and they moved from New Jersey to California, the land of opportunity, where the streets were paved with gold. I am not sure if they ever found gold but they bought a house and opened several businesses. Some did well and some failed but the American Dream is never given on a whole platter, like my father said, you only get a small piece of it at a time and only then for as long as you can hold it.
My brother Michael came along later when we moved to the San Fernando Valley in the 80’s. We settled in a beautiful Jewish community like we left in the Fairfax District. We weaved in and out of religious life, at times extremely religious and others sneaking shrimp at Woo Luck’s Chinese Garden on Sunday nights.
My father’s life would race to retirement filled with public service and fundraising for many worthy causes. Always the first to volunteer and a whiz at accounting and finance, Dad would help right many a wonky non-profit to fiscal responsibility and health. His retirement to Florida was a relief to him. After a lifetime of working 6 days a week, I would have thought that he would sink into depression, like many men do at the end of their working lives, but not my father. He took to his retirement with gusto. He ran a card club, a men's group, rode a bike, and traveled. It was ideal in every way until his illness struck with curious symptoms that would take years to be diagnosed.
Through it all, my mother remained at his side, caring for his every need and orchestrating the symphony of care required to sustain him. In the last few weeks, she was at his bedside, speaking to him and reassuring him that the family was alright. She would tell him about the plumber's visit or how much the electrician wanted to pay for a repair. I think she was hoping that my father would bolt up from his hospice bed and remind her to call around for the best price.
My father was a man who did not enjoy sentimentality. He would want us to remember him as a person who rose to every challenge he faced with stoic silence and grace.
May his memory be for a blessing.
Robert is survived by his wife Merle Berg,
His daughter AJ Campbell and his grandchild Marika C-b,
His son Michael Berg his wife Bronwyn Pollock and his two grandchildren,
His cousins Meral Ginsberg and Ronnie Lee,
His niece Deborah Boos and her daughter Corrina,
His nephew Brian Sherman and his wife Linda Sherman and their son Tyler Linda Sherman
His nephew's widow Kecia Sherman
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