First, the sad stuff: The only doctor's order my dad, Basil, ever disobeyed was that final request to load him up with yet another plastic bag of white blood cells. He had leukemia; this after living through a quintuple heart bypass, trigeminal neuralgia, and hip replacement. "No more," he said calmly, that last night I kissed him. He was resigned to his fate. "I don't want any more. I'm OK." He was not bitter and he was not overly emotional - why start now? He was tired and he wanted to rest.

Evidently he had no such plans for me, his only son and youngest child of four. In fact, Dad's death had the perverse side effect of actually aiding my social life. I figured this out almost as soon as we left the cemetery and most certainly by the end of the first night of the traditional Jewish mourning period, the shiva.

This, as you have probably guessed, is the not-so-sad stuff. The occasion of my father's passing stirred all sorts of matchmaking impulses among the visitors to my sister Karen's house during our shiva week. Many, it seemed, weren't mourning as much as they were plotting my betrothal. On night one, it was an aunt's close friend who moved straight from a heartfelt "Your dad was such a special man" to "Is there anyone special in your life these days?" In an odd way, I actually found this most comforting.

Some background is in order: Being single and 36, I've come to loathe such family gatherings - happy or sad - for nothing else but the awkward setup offers that come just as surely as the guacamole dip and the birthday cake. "Do you remember my niece Cindy? She's had her back fixed" goes the pitch from an aunt-by-marriage or a close family friend. "Would you call her?" Always well-intentioned but often lacking sensibility, these matchmaking attempts are a core part of life for bachelors like me.

However, this whole Sorry-your-dad's-gone-wanna-meet-Bill's-college-roommate's-daughter-who's-moving-back-to-the-area? thing caught me off guard. By the third night, and the third setup offer, I asked my brother-in-law what he thought of all this social activity during what is supposed to be a solemn time.

He didn't seem surprised. "You've been mourning extremely well," he said. "The eulogy, the way you were with your mom and the girls. It's not a bad thing. Chicks dig sensitive. Why do you think your sister digs me?" Lou's goofy delusional side notwithstanding, maybe he had a point.

In private, with my dog curled next to me, I was a sniveling mess. But once I left my house every day, I vowed to try and hold it together the way my father did in his final months. I wanted outsiders to know that Bishkie - my father's Yiddish handle - had raised a strong man with good morals, clear perspective, and thick skin. If that impelled a few mourners into matchmaking mode when they met Little Bishkie, who was I to say no? After all, I didn't want to be rude in the shiva house. Seven months later, I'm still reaping the social opportunities.

While my first (and only) date with Marcie - we met through a California cousin of mine - was enjoyable, it wasn't a love connection. My second shiva setup, courtesy of a sister's co-worker, is still getting over a breakup. There is now a third woman. Her name and vitals come from one of my most trusted new dating sources, my friend Josh's parents. She and I have exchanged nice e-mails and are on the cusp of actually meeting after her recent move from the West Coast back home to Boston.

My dad, of course, met more than a few of my girl-friends over the years, but he never once tried to set me up with one of his pals' daughters or anyone from work. Neither has my mother. They figured I'd find my soul mate on my own. But I'm starting to think Bishkie might now be pulling some strings for me, and that's OK. The shiva signifies a time of reflection and also one of moving forward. I miss my dad, and I'm glad to have his help.

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