It was a mild winter afternoon on December 22, 1992 when my secretary buzzed me and said there was a detective from Boca Raton, Florida on the telephone.  I was confused.  I thought it might be a PBA solicitation and hesitated, but then took the call.

The detective asked me if I was related to Alan Bernstein.  Yes, I said, he is my father.  The detective calmly told me that he had very bad news.  My father was dead.  He had taken his own life a few hours ago.

It was the day after he turned 60.  Two days later we were all supposed to be flying down to Florida for the holidays and to celebrate his birthday.

I tried to remain composed enough to listen to what the detective had to say.  When, where, how.  He gave me all the details.  I thanked him - oddly, even though he had just given me the worst news in my life - and told him I would see him the next day.  I called my sisters, some others, then went home, packed and in a few hours was on an airplane to Florida.

I processed this all very slowly.  I was almost too calm. I do not think I even cried that day. 

Early the next morning I went to see the detective.  He was warm, comforting, sensitive and understanding.  He handed me my father's wallet and personal items, among them the simple gold chain dad wore around his neck.  It was caked with dark, dried blood.  I took it into the bathroom at the precinct to wash it off.  Detective McCabe - that was his name - came with me.   Under the cold water the dried blood on the chain turned bright red as it began to wash off.  At that moment, with the blood falling through my fingers and swirling in the sink, my legs almost gave out, and the weight of it all came crashing down on me.  It seemed as though I was losing my father down the drain.  I am glad the detective was there.  I needed help.

A few days later when we came back to New York for the funeral I gave that chain to my son Joshua.  He wears it still.

It is impossible to understand the torment of someone who takes his or her own life -- someone who has a vibrant life, loving family, and children who adore him or her, as I did my father.

I miss my father.  Most of all, I miss that he missed so much.  His grandchildren growing up especially.  His great granddaugher, and the great grandchildren yet to be.  He would only have been 81 years old.  We could have still had him.  How he would have enjoyed them all.  Yet, I cannot blame him.  There is no room for blame.  No basis to judge.

I have tried to appreciate the things he has missed, even more, for his benefit and for his sake.  I have to enjoy my children for both of us.

And we go on living.

So I have come to believe that happiness is that, to go on living.  To keep breathing.  And that here is nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile.