Eulogy for my maternal grandfather (1993)

This is the first of a small series of eulogies I wrote for loved ones... they kinda represent where it all began... my writing to fully expose my inner thoughts. They're not academic, they're very visceral. My maternal grandmother (Rose Boespflug) passed away in 1983, while I was just a kid (a freshman in high school). I didn't have the faculties back then to say what I did here. Death wasn't new to me. I was an altar boy (Roman Catholic, St. Francis of Assisi, Rochester, MN) and had attended a few funeral masses. There were also a few close and familiar older family friends of my parents and grandparents that had died. But I didn't know how to form those internal feelings and thoughts into something coherent, something relatable. By the time Grandpa Nick (Nicodemus, my Confirmation namesake) had passed away, I'd had some great mentors in writing in high school (thank you, Mrs. McSweeney and Mr. Jewison) and college (hereto forgotten English teachers and my dearest architecture professors, Natalie Fizer, Glen Forley, Richard Sommer, and Laura Miller).

I still cry every time I read it.

Dear Grandpa,

It all started Tuesday afternoon, about 3:00, when I got THE phone call.  Mom was at the other end of the line. The moment she forced that first word out I knew what was wrong.  I felt the blood flood my cheeks, my head throbbed, my mouth drew tight.  I caught the frog in my throat before it could leap out.  My ear burned against the phone's receiver.

I pressed myself to maintain my composure as Mom explained that you had passed away a couple hours earlier.  Something to the effect that your heart simply stopped.  I hoped you weren't feeling any pain.  Pain sucks.  I know you had felt enough of it up until then. 

The funeral, Mom said, would probably be on Friday.  I don't remember anything of the rest of the conversation, if there was any.  All I can remember is how sad I felt.  I remembered I hadn't felt that sad since Grandma died.  That isn't true.  I've actually felt that sad a few times since; at times when I was alone and thinking about Grandma and how much I missed her and how much you probably missed her too.

It was pretty tough getting through the rest of the day; I wept quietly as I stared at my computer screen and avoided the conversation and gaze of my co-workers.  I couldn't concentrate on work.  I already began to miss you.... and Grandma, again.

I work 30 min. away from my where I live.  That evening drive home was the longest and saddest 30 min. I've ever driven.

I've been thinking about writing this letter for a long time now.  I've actually been thinking about it since you started staying at the nursing home.  Something in my gut told me you wouldn't be there long.  Visiting you there in September was one of the most painful days in my life.

It was really hard for me to see you the last time I was home, visiting you at the nursing home.  It was hard for me to see you that old.  I remember when you weren't.  I remember when I was younger, the sticks of gum you offered when I would visit, the way you used to wheeze and whistle when you breathed, the way we would rub your head as you sat in your big chair, the tapping of your foot to the polka music on 8-tracks as we drove around town in the car and the way you used to smile and wink at me after feeding Mom a line just to get a rise out of her.....

Mom.  I can't image how hard it was on Mom, she remembers a man I never knew for 20+ years before I was born and has watched him grow older every day, especially over the last 10 years...

... It was ten years ago this fall when Grandma died.

I don't know which was more painful, having Grandma just swept away without any forewarning or watching you slip away.  It's all hurts the same; there are just as many tears.

I hope you can see us all together here today.  I hope you and Grandma and Tony can see the family and friends that have gathered to honor and bury you.  The greatest pride I will carry with me all my life is my family...  my sister, Mom, Dad, the cousins, aunts, uncles and friends... because of their ability to come together and support each other.  Granted I prefer it on less somber occasions, but we're together, nonetheless.

I hope this family will continue to grow and prosper and come together the way it had when you were alive.  I hope they realize that while you and Grandma are gone, they still have each other.  You died the richest man in the world not because of trivial material possessions but because of the family that you and Grandma helped create, nurture, and accept as your own.  For every child born, every marriage celebrated, every grandchild spoiled, your love extended out to a family which has continued to set new roots, grow and bloom into a flower of such brilliant color and beauty for the rest of the world to see.  With all the troubles we've had to experience on our own or within the family, we all knew we still has each other to fall back on for support.

Well, I think it's time to wrap up this letter; there is so much more to say but there is too little time to express it in.  It may take me a few more of these letters to relieve a lot of the pain and bring back all the wonderful memories. 

I should say goodbye, but I can't, and I won't; part of me still believes that there will be a time when we'll all be together again.  So, I'll say so long 'til we meet again and save a polka and a waltz or two for me.

Your loving grandson forever,

Jeffrey

The end was naively hopeful... more for the audience than myself. My faith, the one I was raised in and surrounded by, shared throughout both sides of my family for generations, had mostly evaporated by then.

Of course, now I spend a lot more time thinking about death... and dying... and what's left behind. I've spent countless hours writing these in my head for other loved ones... most all I assumed who would pass before me. Now... well, these eulogies are a glimpse into my brain, my heart... then and now.