Second In Line

I based this dark humor short story on what one of my hospice patients actually did:

Retired go-go dancer and hospice patient Victoria kept her spirits up by upending people’s assumptions, and the more she mixed people up the better. She startled even the most jaded staff when she announced she was using a dating app. Without revealing that she lived in a hospice residence, she wrote in her profile, “Short-term relationship highly desirable with freewheeling man attracted to the unexpected.” (She smiled and snickered as she wrote that.)

Retired antiques salesman Nathan, looking for a mutual carefree romp, felt he found the right match when he chanced upon Victoria’s profile. Her suggestive comment about men looking for novelties did the trick. He responded, “You mischievous gal! You sound like my type,” and straightaway offered to meet her at the address she gave. Her eyes gleaming with sweet victory, she wrote back yes.

As he neared what he took to be an apartment building, he saw a sign up front that read “Heavenly Hospice” in the most welcoming lettering possible. He stopped dead in his tracks, and wanted to sprint back to his car from that house of horrors. But he did not have it in him to break a promise, even though he was less than exemplary in other ways when it came to romance.

He got buzzed in and fearfully made his way to her room, located–wouldn’t you know it–all the way down at the very end of the hallway. The door to her room was closed, and as he put his ear to it, he could hear sighing and one deep breath after another. He said to himself, “Is this poor thing already drawing her last breaths? Is it already too late for that ‘short-term fling’ Victoria hinted at?”

He was too late, but not because of that. A male nurse had succumbed to her charms just as Nathan was forming his first seductive imaginings during his hurried drive over.


Which part of the story do you think is true? Do you think you will act like Victoria in your last months? For more of my writing, both micro-fiction and micro-nonfiction, see me at

An Alligator Tale

Have you ever read about alligators on a blog like mine? Didn’t think so. But my hospice patient Fernando (not his real name) told me something about them that keeps sticking in my mind, which was but one of many offbeat subjects he brought up during his very long talk with me:“I like to stay here in New Jersey because it’s safe and I like cold weather. Out there in Florida you know what happens? During the dry season, gators go into people’s swimming pools.” I could not help but say, “Come now. How could that be?” Fernando replied, “No, no, it’s true. In the dry weather there is less water and so they look for it wherever they can find it.” I vowed that I would look this up after the visit.

Sure enough, the Internet yielded many stories about alligators in swimming pools, especially gators nine feet or longer. (You can see the videos for yourself on Youtube and elsewhere.) Well, okay, if you really insist on seeing one of them, here’s a sample link:

At any rate, since I wanted to know not only if this were true but why, I got an answer from a CBS News article published in May 2017 called, “Look Before You Leap: Massive Alligator Lurks at Bottom of Florida Pool”. As to why the alligator wanted to be there, “a public information officer for the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Office said, ‘Let this be a reminder that it’s mating season in Florida and these creatures, especially the females, are on the move looking for areas to lay eggs.’” Okay, I get it. There isn’t much water available during a dry spell and the pregnant or pregnant-to-be gators are desperate for any body of water, no matter how small.

Now you know. And now you know how I can still do hospice work after eleven years on the job. It’s not all about dying and funerals I look forward to talking with Fernando again, especially because at the end of that most recent conversation, he asked if I could have a volunteer come visit and read out loud Don Quixote to him. I can’t wait to hear why he asked for that particular book. If the answer  is um “novel”  I’ll let you know.

Hubby Survives Death Cafe

Being the husband of a hospice chaplain can have its odd and trying moments, as you will see in Steve’s darkly comical anecdote below:

 A few years ago my wife told me about a nearby event called a “Death Cafe.” I was instinctively leery of anything with such an ominous-sounding name, but she seemed enthusiastic about being able to promote her hospice book there so I decided to try it out. Even though it was already evening, it was considerably warmer and more humid than the average summer day. The event was on Park Street in Montclair, New Jersey in a fairly upscale neighborhood, so I wasn’t too concerned about a lack of amenities. Unfortunately, my original fears proved to be justified as the meeting was on the top floor of a house in what would be called an attic in a less swanky town–and which had no air conditioning. One of the primary topics of discussion was whether assisted suicide should be legalized in New Jersey, but I was distracted from concentrating on that matter. The temperature in that packed single room was near 120 degrees with almost zero ventilation, so I tuned out whatever weighty issues were being discussed and quietly lay on the floor. I looked up to a majestic vaulted ceiling with outsized musical notes, and realized to my surprise that it was the beginning of the song: “You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.” I remembered that Herman Hupfeld, the composer of this catchy tune featured in Casablanca, had lived in Montclair. I had no idea that I would ever be in his attic, or why he never had air conditioning installed.

I concluded soon afterward that I didn’t want to remain in the house, so I went outdoors to walk around the back yard. The old construction hadn’t been modernized, and as it was getting dark, I didn’t realize that there were some sharp black iron pipes located in unexpected places. I banged my head against one of them and soon began bleeding profusely. Not knowing what to do, I remembered that in the uncomfortable attic were several tubs of ice cubes for the drinks, so I went back to put ice on my skull. When I walked in several people screamed when they saw me: blood was pouring out of my head down my body and looked much worse than it actually was. Fortunately more than one physician was present; two of them poured water over the wound and applied ice with towels, and within a short while the flow had mostly subsided. When they saw that I was recovering, a few people remarked that it would have been ironic to have an actual death at the Death Cafe. My wife never got the opportunity to mention her book to the other attendees. I had mostly blocked this experience from my mind until I heard on the radio that assisted suicide just became legal in New Jersey a few days ago, when I immediately recalled the details of that sweltering evening. The fundamental things apply as time goes by.


Steven Jon Kaplan regularly writes quirky stories on his website, true contrarian, as a side show to his main focus on contrarian investing, which is about unfollowing herd behavior in the financial markets.  He is a financial planner. The link to his site is

For more of my own writing, check out  my microblogging on

Adam’s Bad Reputation

Adam just had one simple rule,” Milt was saying, “and he screwed it up. Just one little rule.” Milt was a patient of mine sitting up in bed, who wanted me to debate with him as he summoned each of his phrases with a mighty effort. He often interrupted himself with queries about where his glasses and phone were, and inserted vast stretches of silence between each phrase as I awaited the next stage of the conversation.

Eve and at first the snake had something to do with that too,” I replied. Shaking his head Milt said,“Passing the buck. That’s what everybody does.” I thought to myself, the buck should stop with God at least sometimes. Milt went on, “Adam caused all of us to have serious sin. I have done serious sin.” During the next pause I thought about what a Christian told me about her tradition blaming Eve for humankind’s most colossal goof. At least Milt wasn’t blaming the woman.

After talking about sin for a bit, I then decided to challenge him as he had requested: “Milt, the Adam and Eve business is a strange story. If no one had eaten the apple (I thought to myself it must have been a fig or date or something because the Hebrew says “fruit” and we’re talking the Middle East here, but no matter; I didn’t want to confuse him.) then we’d have Adam and Eve still in the Garden, all happy and innocent and everything for all eternity, but then nothing would go forward. Only those two would be around, and you and I would not exist.”

Milt took this in and then replied, “Yeah, nobody would propagate.” Another long silence. I wondered what he would say next, and then there it was: “Karen, God put us here for a purpose.” He must have known this basic theology clashed with the reading of the Adam and Eve story as being all about sin. As he just said, nobody would have had children if the infamous fruit had sat around untasted, and then nobody would have been around to carry out God’s purpose.

Milt then went on to bemoan the religious conflict between himself and his son. Milt said the only part of religion that he doesn’t like is the proselytizing aspect. His son was involved with some missionary work which entailed being far away. Later I had spoken with the son, who said over and over that he felt called to that work.

I do think that in part, Adam and Eve flubbing up is about our imperfect world. We hold self-contradictory beliefs, and our beliefs are not always congruent with those of our loved ones. Both father and son did agree that God put us here for a purpose. But it is too bad that neither interpreted it to mean that his father’s final days was sacred time for them to make use of together. If father and son could have transcended their differences, they would have fulfilled God’s purpose for them to grow in love and understanding, the holiest and most purposeful task of all.

To see my microblogging, go to

Hooked On Hospice

Working for hospice is like following the progression of about forty different plays at once. What unexpected or surprising thing will one of my forty or so patients casually drop in her conversation with me today? What new realization will I come away with? What will I learn this week about the country the patient is from or what new Spanish expression will they teach me? Which staff members will suddenly materialize at my side as I start to sing to a patient as he sways his foot in rhythm to the music?

No question hospice can be sad, but I am always a sucker for the drama involved among my patients. I get to cut to the chase and see the final act play out all the time! You might say the final act is always known so what is there to be curious about? But that would be like saying the same about any serious opera and therefore not see them. And when the patients or families reminisce, I even get to hear flashbacks of other climactic moments in the earlier “acts” of their lives.

I am not sure why this is so, but I am so dreadfully curious in comparison with most people. I always wonder what the next patient admitted will be like. I might meet a fellow writer. I might meet someone with a career I never heard of before. I definitely will meet people from all backgrounds, from people who have heard of my home town of Erie, Pennsylvania, to someone whose country I myself have not heard of. From the most vocal atheist to the most ardent fundamentalist, to a white American Muslim to a Hindu. From the straightest couple to the gayest, the whitest to the blackest, the one with no children to one with fourteen of them. I will come across the patient who wants solitude and the one who craves society; the one who is agitated and resentful and the one who is calm and humorous.

The staff members who end up staying with hospice have their stories too. One nurse has worked at hospices for over thirty years. Hospice staff have traversed the paths that have brought them to this offbeat career. Best of all, they understand why in the world I would do this kind of work. I do not have to explain. We fit in with each other even as we are seen by some people outside of our circle as misfits to shudder at.

If nothing else, this job gives me so much to think about. Mortality and spiritual values, sure, but so much more, as readers familiar with this blog have seen for the past six years. If you are new to offbeatcompassion, have a look at the past few posts. If by any chance you are pondering an unconventional direction in your career, by all means make a comment here or contact me with questions. My email is, and my twitter link is

Pay Dirt

“I got a weird notice from our Jewish funeral home,” began the daughter of a hospice patient who I will call Donna. I was on the phone with her because she had asked for a rabbi on our hospice staff. “They have those dinners, you know, where they try to get you to prepay?” I thought to myself, no, I didn’t know they did that! She continued, “And what confused me is the paper they gave me that said ‘burials or cremations.’ How could a Jewish funeral home be offering cremations? Anyway, that’s what I want. But I don’t know what to do.”

 I responded, “You mean because that’s against Jewish law?” (After the phone call, I checked, and yes, some Jewish funeral homes offer cremation, with at least some requiring procedures such as burial of the ashes.)

 “Yes,” said Donna. “My mom taught Hebrew school, tutored students for their Bar/Bat Mitzvahs, was very active. But I want something in my house to look at and remember her after she’s gone. I want to put her ashes in an urn and have it where I can see it.”

 So here she was, conflicted about following Jewish law and following her needs as a mourner. When I face a dilemma like that, I try to be creative. “I wonder,” I suggested, “if there is some other thing you could display on the mantelpiece that would be distinctive and remind you of your mom? That way you could still have a traditional burial. What about something she made, like an embroidery, or something she wrote or painted, or something she owned. Maybe clothing?” Donna said no to each one. She definitely did not want the obvious one of photos, because “that would be the same as what I had before Mom died.” I was running out of suggestions. Now what? I kept on thinking, and I had to think fast, because Donna was in distress and I did not want to leave her empty handed. Also, “dead time” (pardon the pun?) on a phone is almost as bad as on the radio.

 ..Ahh, now I got it. I reflected on how some mourners bring or order some soil from Jerusalem to place into the grave during a funeral, which led me to a related concept: “Donna, what do you think of taking some of the dirt they dig up to prepare your mother’s grave, putting it in an appropriate container like a jar of some kind, and taking that to put in your home?” Donna warmed up to the idea, especially when I added for good measure that she could get some dirt from Jerusalem and add some of it to the grave, and some to the sample that she would be taking home. Success! No conflict between remembering and feeling closer to a deceased loved one and between being an observant Jew. No tug-of-war for her between “Honoring thy mother and father” and honoring Judaism as her mother had done. We had hit pay dirt.


This  June 2nd, 2019 article of mine reprinted with permission from


Some kinds of losses are so slight and undefined we may be unaware of their impact. Poet and photographer Jay Alan Martin reflects on the loss of one resident in a neighborhood with a wistful nod to the objects that speak to her lingering presence:
Junipero Serra is a road not lived on by the pretty or the rich. It’s a beaten path from 280 to the Golden Gate, exuding bumper to bumper exhaust, breathed by those who made peace with the urban curse in the darkening houses walling the freeway.
A woman tumbles from the Muni train. She waddles to her home on Junipero Serra.
I know her, or do I know of her?
After work, she hauls her backpack in a grocery cart on the short slow journey home, finally.
She’s short, Filipino, broad nose plunked on broader face, rivers of wrinkles rounding pits and pocks on a wincing face.
On weekends, she weeds her front lawn, sitting on dirt, her wide sweaty neck beading like hot wax.
She pulls weeds slowly. I don’t know if they’re all weeds. She pulls her arms like the torque of axles needing grease.
The yellowing house looks on.
I haven’t seen the woman in months.
Now the curtains she had put up some year swirl recklessly in the windows. The black jetties that peek between the curtains are impenetrably black, her eyes I see.
The lawn is all weed. The house stands more than just still.
She’s there on the curb.
All of her Kodak moments bulge glossy in 4 x 5 albums.
France, Italy, Greece, the Philippines flip in wind. The noble knights of the Loire riding their sweaty horses are still as stone, and the ancient columns towering over 10,000 worn tourists are fading even in the spring of San Francisco.
Her scrapbooks, newspaper cuttings, spiral notebooks, notes to a dead husband, kids (who put their mother here) wait.
One notebook called, “Cakes,” flips open.
She wrote in a fine hand. Rustling pages reveal “Coconut Frosting,” “Sour Milk Devil’s Food Cake,” “Cheese Chiffon Cake.”
The recipes flow from light green pages onto the thirsty grass.
The backs of the cake recipes are tortured by tumbling multiplications and divisions, indecipherable code calculated for sweet consumption.
Foxing eats “2 c. sugar.”
I take the Cakes notebook. No one is touching the leftovers.
Jay Alan Martin is a writer and photographer who lives with his wife and cat in San Francisco.
He explains that “foxing” is “that slow growing of old paper.”