Eulogy 2.0

/ Jeff Cann

Almost a month ago, I posted a story titled Eulogy written the day after my father died. While it was clearly about my father’s death, it was about me more than him. Yesterday was his memorial service, and what follows is what I read. It contains element of the first piece but shifts the focus. Is it weird for me to want to post this? I don’t know, maybe. But it seems strange to spend so much time writing something and then not post it on my blog.

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When he turned seventy, we gathered in a nondescript Rockville restaurant, a long table in a windowed annex, tall potted ferns decorated the space. My father. His wife, her kids, my brothers, our spouses and me. Those who had children brought them. My father made a short speech, wrapping it up with “Now, I’d like to live to one more birthday with a zero in it.” A few minutes later we sang him Happy Birthday with at least one of his smartass sons adding on to the end of the song “and te-e-en more.”

In my fathers’ final weeks, we contracted an organization called Seniors Helping Seniors for overnight care. The purpose was to have someone on hand to call for help if help was needed, but for many of those nights, this person served as a confidante, someone to talk with when dad couldn’t sleep. Each morning, the caregiver made a written report. One of the first morning reports included this comment: “We discussed his life for much of the night. Wow, talk about ‘Never give up!’”

About His life: His mother died when he was an infant. His father died ten years later. When he was a teenager, his sister, already an adult, handed him off to a neighbor, and she moved to England to get married. His first wife, my mother, died of cancer. His second wife, Diane, died of cancer.

I once discussed my father’s life with a therapist. She gasped. “He’s lived a life of abandonment.” Seemingly. But true to form, his final months were brightened by a budding relationship with Carla, a lovely woman from his assisted living facility.

Never give up. I think that was my father’s guiding directive. In fact, as we cleaned out his apartment after he passed, I found a black coffee mug emblazoned with the words: “Never, never, never give up,” a famous Winston Churchill quote. Incidentally, it’s also the title of a popular song sung by Thomas the Tank Engine. So clearly, it’s an ideal held by the most prominent statesmen of the modern era.  

I never once heard him complain about the hand he was dealt. When his sister died in the 1990s, living alone and without any savings, I mentioned to my dad that her life sounded bleak. He responded that “we each make our own bed in life, and then we need to sleep in it. She picked her own path,” he said with a head shake. This brief exchange probably helped me understand my father more than anything else he said to me in my prior thirty-six years of life. 

My dad was the ultimate bootstraps kind of guy, meaning he pulled himself up by them, constantly. When adversity struck, which it did repeatedly throughout his life, he regrouped, picked a direction, and kept moving. He simply wasn’t one to dwell in the bad, to engage in self-pity. He remade his bed and moved on—even at the very end.

In his years at Sunrise Assisted Living, my dad rekindled his love of chess. He would play all takers, who were, unfortunately, few and far between. Most of his matches came from a bright high school kid who generously visited Sunrise periodically to brighten the resident’s days, and from Russell, a friendly young member of the Sunrise staff. Chess is a game I never mastered. It requires players to always be planning their next three to five moves. I’m horribly stuck in the present, so my opponent’s counter-moves always come as a giant surprise. My father, though, worked in the future, planning contingencies, plotting a course. He always knew where he was going next. 

A couple of days before he died, my dad had an unusual half hour of clarity. Susan and I had a nice but frank conversation with him about the approaching end of his life. As he recounted many of the milestones in his life, he was wistful, but not particularly sad. He even wondered briefly about what waits for us after we die. And then a nurse came in, and my dad cracked a joke that left us all in stitches.

My dad well exceeded the ten years he asked for at his seventieth birthday party (even if that wasn’t what he meant). He lived an impressive life and left a strong personal and professional legacy. He’ll be remembered lovingly and with respect by the people who knew him. For me, I love that my last real interaction with him was that final conversation he had with Susan and me. One more time, adversity pinned him down, probably for the last time, but I could tell he was already considering his next move.

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

28 thoughts on “Eulogy 2.0”

  4. Really enjoyed reading your eulogy, Jeff. I think it is a fine thing to share in a place where your writing offers a bridge between your experiences/reflections and the world. A eulogy is the last expression of that for someone, albeit by proxy.

    Maybe we should write our own and post them in advance.

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  6. I think your eulogy is timely…to me. While I read it, I found myself thinking about my aunt. There’s much I need to educate myself on about dementia but the one thing that frightens me …are not the moments when she’s out of sorts, it can get pretty scary at times…but those real clear moments when she voices her thoughts on passing. She always ends with… life goes on, you better be ready. She’s 88. I think it’s her way of dealing and assuring us that all will be well. Good or bad, all will be well. I sincerely hope it will be.

    Your words are beautiful. Thank you for sharing.

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    • I found the dementia part of my father’s decline to be really frustrating. The quality of our conversations has been deteriorating for years. At his assisted living facility, their mantra is “meet them where they are” regarding the memory patients. I found it all less frustrating when I began to do that myself. Thanks for your generous comment.

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  7. This is a beautifully written and meaningful tribute to your Father, Jeff. Thank you for posting it.
    ~
    If there’s a new bed, I’m sure he’s doing a fine job of making it right now.
    ~
    Kind regards,
    David Don

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  8. A moving eulogy, and wonderfully penned. The chess reference struck a note with me as I played a lot in my youth (but haven’t touched it for decades). Thank you for sharing your father with us, Jeff. Wishing you all the best, my friend.

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    • Every time I see a reference to chess in pop-culture, I wish I was able to play. My mind simply doesn’t work like that. One blogging friend is actually a chess coach. The thought of that impresses and intimidates me. Have you looked into any adult chess clubs? Seems like it would be a good was to connect and communicate with others.

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      • Sometimes I miss the game, but I stopped playing because it was just too stressful for me. I was in chess club in high school. I recall games and tournaments where I was nearly sick to my stomach due to stress and the weird competitive nature I had regarding chess (losing was devastating for my low self-esteem as a teenager and I was incredibly hard on myself if I made a mistake). I’ve thought about playing again online but have avoided it. It’s strange how a person can love something and hate it at the same time, you know?

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    • This makes me a little sad. I distresses me that you get ‘normal’ family from this. Yes, I think we are pretty normal, but it’s something I just take for granted. My wife pointed out how well my brothers and I are working together on closing up my father’s affairs. It didn’t really occur to me that that could be unusual too. Lots to be thankful for… once someone points it out to me.

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  11. That is a beautiful memorial to your father. And no, there is nothing weird about wanting to write about someone as you are letting them go. I think it is part of the grief process that accompanies death. Or, maybe it’s just for people who are writers. We process our grief by putting it into a context that helps us encapsulate what a life is and what it means when it is over. I love the line about your father always thinking of his next move and that what comes after death is just another move in the game of life. I hope he has a transition to another big board somewhere and is playing his heart out. (I may be agnostic, but I don’t assume I know it all or that I am right. As a fellow chess player, I hope he’s got a nice move saved up that gives his board a new chance at a win. Or at least, a draw.)

    Peace to you as you remember and as you let go of any sadness that accompanies those memories.

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    • Thank you. I can’t really call myself agnostic, since I pretend that I *do* have it all figured out (aliens are involved–too much Star Trek as a kid). My memories surrounding my dad aren’t really sad. I’ve been expecting his death for a very long time, and I think I’d gotten used to the idea. I do think it’s worth planning our next move because I think it might help steer us in our next life. I wanna be a house cat.

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  12. Jeff, I’ve returned to this page to say that your writing. about your father’s attitude of making the best bed you can in the circumstances that you find yourself in has been inspiring for me and, I hope, Zsor-zsor.
    Thank you once again Jeff.
    I hope you are traveling well in the wake of his passing.
    Kind regards,
    DD

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    • There’s some irony to this comment. My father might have been the least introspective person I’ve ever known, Any benefit he got from operating this way was in his nature and undoubtedly NOT a result of strategic planning on his part. That we can look at it and try to emulate his method just highlights the zen of Jerry Cann. Wishing you the best, DD.

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