The Number in His Wallet
Top 5 Reasons to Update Your Documents
Because love is not a guessing game—and neither is death.
1. So the wrong kid doesn’t get the call.
2. So we know where you want to land—your FINAL address.
3. So we can actually get into what needs getting into.
4. So what’s yours goes where you meant it to go.
5. So grief doesn’t turn into a family sport.
My Grandma Millie didn’t believe in “close enough.”Every time I visited, she’d pull out her address book and show me my page—like a proud archivist of my existence.
Lisa Nahmanson
600 w. 116th Street (Chock Full O’Nuts corner)
110th Street & BWAY (Cathedral Parkway Red Awning)
620 116th Street (Mid Block)
113th Street & BWAY McBain Hall (Columbia side)
99 5th Avenue Park Slope
88 7th Avenue Park Slope
Bonar Street Berkeley
Broadway Street SF
Walter Street SF
Bartlett Street SF
23rd Street SF
Belvedere Street SF
21st Street SF
Highland Street SF
Precita Street SF
19th Street SF
Every move. Every version of me. Updated. Crossed out. Cross-referenced. Alive.
So no—I don’t really get to complain about what happened next.
It’s the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, 2007. I’m in my living room on 19th Street in San Francisco.
The phone rings.
Sister: Dad is dead. The Rabbi just called ME!!! Call the Rabbi.
Me: OK… sister. Sure.
No preamble. No soft landing. Just impact.
I call.
Me: Hi, this is Lisa Nahmanson.
Rabbi: Oh, Lisa. This is Rabbi Alicia.
Me: Hi, Rabbi.
Rabbi: Lisa, your father passed away. While hiking. Here in Sedona.
Me: Oh. Oy vey.
Blur.
Grief waits politely while logistics kick the door in.
Rabbi: Lisa, do you mind if I ask—do you know what your father’s wishes were?
Me: Yes, I do. He wants to be cremated.
Rabbi: Oh… okay. Could we ever have a discussion about that?
Me: No, Rabbi. I’m sorry, but we can’t. Those were his wishes.
Rabbi: Oh. Okay. Would it be alright if I gather a group from the synagogue—he is the current president—to prepare his body?
Me: Uh, of course. Yes. Thank you.
Rabbi: Great. I will be in touch.
Me: By the way… how did you get my sister’s phone number and not mine?
A beat.
Rabbi: We tried a number that was in his wallet for you. It began with a 925 area code.
My first Nokia number. From 1999.
Here’s the quiet comedy, if you’re looking for one: My grandmother documented my life like it mattered. My father carried a frozen version of it in his wallet. A Post-it system disguised as preparedness. And in the moment when everything mattered—the system reached the wrong person first.
Not tragic. But not nothing either.
Because someone gets the call. Someone has to answer the questions. Someone has to say, this is what they wanted.
And it helps—more than you think—if that someone is findable.
Update the number. Write it down. Make it obvious.
You don’t need a perfect system. Just one that works when it counts.
dōte.worthy:
Take a half an hour out of your day to metabolize these 2 items for your aging loved one…and for yourself too!!
anecdōtes:
Welcome to anecdōtes, our weekly writing prompt for those of us taking care of aging loved ones while simultaneously googling “am I having a midlife crisis or is this just Tuesday?”
This week’s
Who’s the first person you call when things get real? Write them a love letter.
dōt.age exists because we’re all navigating the uncharted territory of caring for aging parents, and we need to share our stories.
This isn’t about being a writer—it’s about being human and sharing our messy, unfiltered truths of eldercare.
Each week, we’ll drop a prompt.
You write for five minutes.
No polish, no pressure—just permission to be gloriously imperfect.
If you want to share what you wrote, send it our way and we’ll share it on our Substack so we can all feel a little less alone in this wild mixtape that is our lives.
SEND TO: LNahmie@gmail.com