December 2, 1918 - February 8, 2004

Dr. Joseph S. Shapiro, age 85, of Columbus, Ohio, formerly of Paterson, New Jersey, died on February 8, 2004. Son of the late Dr. Louis G. and Henrietta Shapiro and brother of the late Dr. Paul Shapiro, he is survived by his wife of 58 years, Elise W. Shapiro, children Dr. Daniel (Sandra) Shapiro of Princeton Jct, NJ; Beth (Rabbi Harold) Berman of Columbus, OH and Dr. Lee Shapiro (Patrick Gill) of Albany, NY. Grandchildren David (Claire), Rachel, Joshua (Dr. Kyra Williams) Shapiro, Micah, David, Jordan and Adam Berman, brothers and sisters-in-law, Dr. Henry and Lillian Shapiro and Karl Shapiro and Barbara Shapiro. A graduate of Cornell University and Cornell University Medical College, Dr. Shapiro served in the Medical Corps of the US Army during World War II, stationed in England and later with the Manhattan District Engineers. He received his dermatology training at Columbia University. He practiced dermatology in Paterson, NJ for 50 years, while continuing his affiliation with Columbia University. A past president of the NJ Dermatological Society, he was active in the Barnert Temple of NJ, and a member of Congregation Tifereth Israel in Columbus. Services were Tuesday, February 10 at 11 AM at Robert Schoem's Menorah Chapel, W-150 Rt. 4 East, Paramus.

~Published in The Bergen Record on 2/10/2004.

DR. JOSEPH SCHULMAN SHAPIRO

YOSEPH BEN LEIB GERSON

d. February 8, 2004 / 16 Shevat, 5764

Eulogy by Rabbi Harold J. Berman

For me there is the touching irony that the Torah reading for this coming Shabbat begins with an encounter of Moses with his father-in-law. And the Torah tells us that as impressed as Jethro was with all this story about Egypt and plagues and miracles, he still had advice to give his son-in-law about how he might do his job a little better. I can relate to that. And I'm not comparing myself to Moses, but it is also interesting that as this chapter closes, Moses does not try to change or convert his father-in-law. I understand that as well.

Dr. Joe Shapiro was, to all who came to know him, an unforgettable man, with stories to tell and advice to give and comment to offer, about everything. And in truth he really was incredibly well read and well informed about a host of subjects, and his advice was well worth noting. But he was a bit unorthodox, and not only in terms of religion.

Had I not married his daughter, I would still never forget my first visit to his office, as a seventeen year old with acne, when he told me he could clear it up once and for all, the easy way, by castration. He loved coming on strong like that, with the surprising line you never forgot. He loved watching the reaction, knowing that he had taken you completely off guard.

Of course, I did marry his daughter, and largely because of him. My father had a rash. He went to see the dermatologist. The dermatologist started talking about his daughter, already 23 and still not married. All the rest followed in obvious sequence, and I will be grateful to the last of my days.

He had a very strong sense of family history. He was raised in the shadow of a father who was a pioneer of modern medicine and of a mother who was college educated long before that was fashionable. He was the descendant of a family with pre-Civil War roots in Watkins Glen, New York, where the underground railroad had helped escaping slaves. He had been told countless stories, and he told them to us, countless times. He was proud of "his people," as he would say, referring both to his family and his ethnic roots. He was proud of the tradition he inherited, and of what he had been able to do with it.

His whole life was committed to serving people, all people. He grew up with warm memories of the Colored People who worked for his parents and taught him a lot about life, and about the values that all good people share. He would never take advantage of anyone. Quite the contrary. He was always treating people for free, extending his day, or running out in the evening, to help someone who needed him. He cared deeply about everyone who crossed his path, and while he had his stories to tell, he listened to other people's stories as well. He found people fascinating. History was a collection of many people's experiences, and everybody's mattered.

He may have been destined for medicine, but he was always grateful for the people who helped him, mentored him and gave him opportunities along the way. He never took what he had for granted. Success came from hard work. I don't think he knew the word shortcut.

Sixty years ago this week, he left for Europe, after a training period in Savannah, Georgia. Both experiences changed his life, in different ways. He came back from Europe a seasoned doctor, having seen brutality at its worst, and having seen himself as a physician who could make the difference between life and death for people under his care. And he came back from Europe to head as fast as he could for Savannah, for the beautiful young woman he had left there, to make her his wife, within two weeks. Once he made a decision about something, he followed it through, and he never turned back.

He was consistent in his values, his integrity and loyalty, his commitment to his community and in his personality as well. If you knew him in his office, or if you knew him from the "Y" or the supermarket or wherever, you knew the same man. Outside his office, he talked about medicine, and also about ideas and politics and history. Inside his office, he discussed all of the above as well. On and off the job he loved to tease. He loved to flirt. He loved to laugh.

But he loved most knowing that he could really make a difference in people's lives. No effort was too great, no time commitment was too much. He worked long exhausting days. And he never complained. That was what a doctor's life was, and doctors, as his grandmother had told him when he was just a child, sit at the right hand of God. To be a doctor was the greatest honor he could imagine. It was his whole life.

It was the life two of his brothers chose as well. Although it wasn't easy for him to say it, he was very proud of them. When he was ill, over these recent years, his brother Henry was the only one whose medical advice he never questioned. And over the past eight years, Karl was more a part of his life than ever before. Karl came to Columbus so Joe could look after him, as he had pledged long ago that he would. But it didn't always turn out that way. Karl and Joe were there for each other. Family mattered a lot.

Joe never looked back over the choices he had made, but he often looked ahead. He thought about all the possibilities, good and bad. He thought about things he would like to do, places yet to visit, or places to visit again, people he would like to have over, opportunities for his children and grandchildren. He was exceedingly generous in making opportunities available. He wanted the best for everyone.

He thought about big things, and little things. One day, already quite some years ago, he gave me this tie. He said: "This is to wear at my funeral" And he meant it. I wore it once, and he said: "No, I told you, it's for the funeral" So what do you say? "Thanks, I look forward to "

He thought and talked a lot about death. He wasn't afraid to die. He just didn't want to. He was grateful for the life he had, from beginning to end, for all the blessings that were his and for all the blessings he was able to share. He was grateful for the love of his wife, who in turn devoted her whole life, in every way, to him. His role in life was to take care of her. But her patience, and strength and love were a lot of what kept him going. His face lit up every time she entered his room. He could not say, enough, how appreciative he was for all they shared. He was proud of Dan and Lee, carrying on a tradition of becoming doctors, but also showing devotion, above and beyond, to their patients and their profession. He bragged, for all the right reasons, about his grandchildren, all their professional and personal accomplishments, some of which he had personally made possible. In earlier years he was the big guy who loved to lift them up and swing them around. They never knew what was coming next; and they loved it.

And he was proud and grateful for a wonderful daughter, who was there for him day after day, night and day, to the very last moment of his life.

I remember that conversation, just after Beth and I became engaged, when we talked about what I should call him. He was hesitant about my calling him "Dad." And I think it was because he never used that word casually. He took the mutual obligations implied with absolute seriousness. To have him as a dad was a unique privilege that I hope I never took for granted.

We offer our sympathy to Elise Shapiro, who shared nearly six decades of devotion and love, to Dan and Sandy, Lee and Patrick and Beth, and to David and Claire, Rachel, Josh and Kyra, Micah, David, Jordy and Adam, to Henry and Petey Shapiro, and to Karl, and Barbara.

Zichrono L'vracha

May his memory always be a blessing

T'hey Nishmato Tzrurah B'tzror Hachaim

May his soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life

Reflections

When I was a child, Father was a giant. His grip was the firmest, his arms the strongest and his shoulders the highest and most secure place in my world.

On an early trip to Jones Beach, I was terrified by the size and force of the breakers but still trusting and confident enough to climb onto Father's back for a ride though the surf. I have a sharp vision of those moments: the swimmers and the shore bobbing in and out of view with the ocean swells, the sheer exhilaration of being alive and feeling the pull of Father's strokes. I loved Father and my closeness to him.

Everything that I have achieved was done with the love and support of my father. He would have been happier if it had been at his direction, but this was neither appropriate nor possible.

Father was strong, dominating, and opinionated and, for many years, this drove us apart. Late in his life a rediscovered a photo of a gleeful, diapered me perched on the shoulders of an equally gleeful and delighted father reawakened long dormant feelings in both of us and gave us a renewed appreciation of each other and a restored sense of harmony and peace.

I am still riding on the shoulders of a giant.

~Daniel W. Shapiro

It was a great life. That's what Dad always told me - it was a great life, and he was thankful for it. Great - raised by parents he loved and respected with brothers whom he cherished; great - to have been a doctor and a true friend, making huge differences in the lives of others; great - because of his love for Mom, his children and grandchildren and for all his family; and great - because it was a life lived with purpose, integrity and giving.

I can close my eyes and see Dad as a younger man - full of strength, energy and knowledge. I can see him rushing through the office, making people laugh, dancing, throwing us in the air, embracing Mom as he returned home, laughing and loving - and always being in charge. It seems there wasn't anything he didn't know - he was the world to me. He was tall and strong and vital, and I felt protected and safe in his presence. He was proud of my brothers and me - this I always knew and it always gave me strength.

Even as he declined, he never lost his sense of self, his ability to tell a good story, his connection to old friends or his ability to make new ones, or his high standards. Anyone who met Dad - at any point in his life - remembered him.

I am so thankful for my Dad's long life, for his 58 years with the woman he adored, for being such a wonderful father to Harold, for giving and receiving such joy from each of our children, and for sharing our daily lives these last 10 years. I know my sons will always cherish the memory of their brilliant, outspoken and always loving Grandpa, as will we all. I am proud to have been his daughter.

It was a great life.

~Beth S. Berman

Everyone who knew my father before his last year knew that he was larger than life.  In my own mind, looking back, I often thought of him as much larger.  I have a memory from early childhood of eagerly anticipating his arrival home (from the office,  of course) so I could place both my feet on one of his, grab onto one of his legs and enjoy the ride as he walked around the front hall of our home.  I don't know that I was ever that small or he was that big, but that is the mental picture I have preserved.

My father had many contradictory qualities.  He took obligations seriously, to his patients, his professional colleagues, his employees, his friends, his family, particularly to his parents (whom he worshipped), his brothers, his children, his grandchildren, and, most particularly, to our mother, his wife.  This sense of obligation, of so many obligations, endowed him with a sense of purpose.  It did not leave him with guilt, because he met all his obligations and seeing those obligations fulfilled certainly gave him some pleasure.  But, it did take a toll - missing supper and eating the leftovers almost every night, and the sacrific of physical health to a host of stress-induced ailments.

Yet, despite the rigid formality of his professional life, despite taking all these obligations so seriously, my father was not cold, distant, or arrogant.  He could listen, he could laugh, and he had his uninhibited moments, many of which embarrassed the rest of us.  I always dreaded getting on the elevator with my father if anyone else was riding with us because he could never help attempting to engage or provoke the complete stranger who was, for only a few seconds, our companion.  He never passed people wordlessly.  He was generous with compliments.  He had a skill of noticing what made someone special and his observations were never silent.  If he ever felt he could help someone (and he was perceptive at detecting others' needs), he would go far out of his way to do so, often taking the recipient of his kindness by complete surprise.  To his friends, he was incredibly loyal and often displayed a selfless devotion.

I will always recall with pleasure our Sunday morning walks.  We would leave the house on Derrom Avenue and he would ask me in which direction we should go.  The directions were not North, East, South, and West.  Instead, the direction he sought was help in selecting which family friends we would visit, for they were virtually all in walking distance - the Radins, the Schnees, the Brachs, the Garths, the Josephs.  And I knew whichever direction I chose, we would be warmly welcomed and embraced, even as unannounced visitors.  These were our best moments together.

But my father was at his best, certainly his healthiest, in the water.  At the "Y", I would watch with silent admiration as he dove in one end of the 60 foot pool and swam powerfully and gracefully underwater full to the other end before coming up for a breath.  To my mind, no one swam better or with better style.  And at the health club, they swam nude and this very formal man had no self-consciousness about his body.  At the sea, he dove fearlessly into waves.  This man who always urged us toward careful planning and caution could be incredibly brave, fearless, and, to me, it seemed, even reckless.  And, finally, in a tub full of hot water, my father could and would relax.  During these long baths, the bathroom became his audience chamber.  Our longest conversations were held there. 

One glimpse of my father was certainly not enough to describe the man and I love and appreciate his complexity.  I am proud to be my father's son --   a Shapiro of Paterson.

~Lee S. Shapiro