The following remarks were delivered at Helen Fischer's memorial service on December 14, 1995, by her brother, Ted Nadelson. Good afternoon, in sadness.
I am sorry that we are all here now.
There should have been more time for all of us.
It is no surprise, yet still, a shock.
In a world constructed to meet our needs, there would have been more time.
I needed more time with my sister to remember our pasts and to make our present lives understandable — that is more, tied together, more coherent. But we live in a physical world of uncertainty. Our wishes are not honored, despite our more fervent intent or, even, justification, moral and otherwise.
Yet we all should remember that Helen had a good run within the abysmal setting constructed by cancer. She had metastatic disease diagnosed six years ago in breast and bone — and suffered some pain and difficulty in mobility — but not enough to make her cry out. In any event, crying out was not her way, not her style. She continued working, we might guess, through effort and discipline — she could “rise above it” and not trouble the air around her.
We, sister and brother, talked, joked, laughed (and hilariously), much in the same way that had brought reprovals from our father and mother when together as children we played at the dinner table. We both said that we wanted more of that — basic, human, all-out fun directed at a universe that says, in translation of the Principles of Thermodynamics to the Game of Life, “You can't win, you can't break even, and you can't get out of the game.”
Mother Nature is the cruelest mother of all, not caring about us at all as individuals (or perhaps not cruel, but merely indifferent).
But the mother who raised us, our mother, was not cast in Mother Nature's template — our mother was all for us and took intense, individual care of us as if she were battering down a door. (She too died with a diagnosis of cancer of the breast.)
And so, like her, my sister cared about individuals and, no surprise, worked, for most of her working life, with people in an organization focused entirely on individuals, and individual lives, attempting the embrace of human diversity, asserting the unique place of human nature in nature, and for people until our unavoidable entropic terminus dictated by the uncaring Second Law of Thermodynamics.
We do not know the emotions of others, though we may come close; we can only imagine how someone feels. Yet there is a place for caring. That was filled in by her neighbors, her friends, who were so extraordinarily kind and present for her, and her many other friends who were also working colleagues.
Many of you have told my family of Helen's ability and efforts, and how they helped the association and the many individuals within it. We have felt your kindness, the concern and affection in your stories of Helen's savvy and judgment. We were told that she would help as does a pilot, steering through the crowded political obstacles and the acrimony of easily bruised feelings toward the more open waters of resolution.
One of the few substantive remarks I remember from my analysis occurred when I was going on about my early life and relationship with Helen. Sam Kaplan uttered — I think it came unbidden from him, perhaps he could not control saying it — a heartfelt statement which I render now accurately: “She is very efficient.”
I knew that he had taken a step out of the analytic frame. But “efficient”? My sister who could get into antic play with me at a moment's notice? Well, I did also sense, in my analyst's words, more than an organizational assessment; there was also affection, shared with other members of the association, for her helping generosity. He was aware that she was not only efficient but kind.
The only other statement I remember from Sam was the observation he made after having seen us together in the Waldorf-Astoria coffee shop. He said: “You seemed to be enjoying each other”. That had more surface truth than did his first statement. We did indeed enjoy each other and it was obvious.
The depth of my feeling toward my sister and mother has become deeper, and now both are beginning to merge in memory — tenderly, sadly. My view of women has become clearer; growing old has helped, but more important is my family and the two central women now left in my life — wife Carol, daughter Jennifer. Age has, paradoxically, polished my perception in that direction, if not in others; there is clarity about the absolute importance of attachments coming from my family — from Carol and Jennifer, and son Robert.
I know what women want. It is what we all want — respectful human generosity in this life against the indifference of nature. Women seem to have more of that gift from the outset; men learn with time.
Helen had a sharing relationship with her husband Bill. He was the quintessential “no-nonsense guy”, a manager. They had different tasks; she “did the people” (because she did it better) and he did things — finance and construction in their houses. There was nothing he would not take on with his hands — strong and capable — but he needed her, desperately I think, to manage the human world. Bill died one and a half years ago, and Helen's gravest difficulties began then.
They should have had children. That would have given her a broader landscape, one where her generosity would have extended her purpose and efficiency. But that was just not to be.
And isn't that true of our lives? There is a far stronger force in our lives than psychodynamics; trouble, like energy, is dispensed in packets. I am sad only for what we could have had, all of us — more time with her, good times, and memories.
So we did have our time with her; she gave back more than what she took. We all enjoyed each other, and we remember that.
My family — Carol, Robert, Jennifer, and I — are happy for Helen's presence in our lives, for your presence in hers, good friends, and, therefore, continuing in ours.
An interview with Helen Fischer by Elise Snyder can be found in TAP 28/4.