By Lisa Goren
On behalf of the Social Security Administration’s Cleveland Office of Disability Adjudication and Review, please accept our condolences on the loss of your brother and our colleague, Dr. Hershel Goren.
I speak for everyone when I say that our thoughts are with you and your family.
I hope that you find solace at this time, as you learn of the difference which he made in lives far distant from your own.
U.S. Administrative Law Judge
Hearing Office Chief
That’s the letter my dad received in early 2013 two weeks after his older brother’s death.
The Unimportant Details
At 9:30 p.m. on a Friday night in late December, my dad called me.
“Uncle Hershel died.”
“Um, what? How? Where? Of what? Can you tell me more information?”
“Not really. They found him in his apartment. They don’t know when it happened.”
They didn’t know when it happened because he lived alone. He lived in the same one-bedroom apartment in the Shaker Heights neighborhood of Cleveland for 40 years. The only way they knew something was wrong was because of the deal he struck with the building super (I picture him like Schneider a la “One Day at a Time,” but only because Pat Harrington fills in a lot of blank face Every Men in my imagination). The deal was if there were two newspapers outside his door, Schneider should further explore. A neighbor alerted Schneider of the two papers and he promptly retrieved the apartment keys. I can only imagine the feeling he must have had when he put the key in the lock. I know I’m projecting when I imagine my own knotted stomach and shaky hand, while conjuring an image of what awaited on the other side of the door.
The details of what Schneider found are unimportant, as there was nothing horrifying, or tragic (despite the obvious) and only the most certain indication that my uncle died immediately of causes that will always remain unknown, but decidedly natural.
This happened during the weekend before the new year, so arranging a Jewish funeral in Michigan when the body was in Cleveland and ensuring the burial and Shiva could all happen in good time, was a bit challenging, but as is usually the case, things fall into place. At the funeral, I sat between my dad and my aunt, staring at the simple pine box hovering over a six foot deep hole, thinking about how little I knew about the occupant of said box.
Dr. Hershel Goren completed his residency at the Mayo Clinic, served in Vietnam, spent most of his career as a neurologist at the Cleveland Clinic and in retirement became an expert witness for the Social Security Administration. He was awarded a full ride to Michigan State University and as a debt of his gratitude, started the Hershel Goren Scholarship. A similar opportunity exists for medical students at Wayne State University.
He graduated from medical school and went straight to Vietnam, an experience captured in only a handful of slides, a short diary, neatly pressed uniforms and a prayer shawl Jewish soldiers were told to bring with them to the war in case they never made it home. Members of my family divided up the small number of possessions we found personally valuable, including the reflex hammer neurologists use, which sits on my parent’s mantle.
Hershel never married, never moved, rarely took a new route to work and stopped traveling after 9/11. His Saturday could not be disrupted by family visits because he had a regular trip to the fish market to complete and cookbooks to adhere to in alphabetical order, no less. We imagine those endless weeks of consuming chicken to be the most dreary.
When one lists the details of my uncle’s life, it seems confusing, or sad or monastic or unfulfilled. However, my dad made what is likely the most accurate statement: “His internal life was fulfilled.” While the rest of us are busy amassing large quantities of stuff—bigger houses, nicer cars, iPads, iPhones, full DVRs, children and food, my uncle lived no differently than he did during his four years of residency.