Eulogy for my mother (2008)

This eulogy (and frankly, this post) was one was the toughest for me to write... to date.

Another Ouellette family reunion, in the summer of 2008, just 7 years after my Grandpa Lawrence passed, turned into a mortal reckoning. But this one was far, far more tragic... like the cinematic shot of an ill-struck, woozy victim at the wheel of a car erratically careening back and forth down a winding coastal highway, until finally bursting through a hairpin turn guardrail, screaming in terror, off a cliff, erupting into flames as it smashes into the cliff-side and onto the wave-sprayed rocks below. It was the second of five such bitter detours to our normally joyous, and sometimes raucous, family gatherings. In time, we would later face the bitter imminent mortal truths for my Grandma Doris Ouellette (2010, she was 91), my cousin David Blackwell (2016, he was only 48!... brain cancer 😞), and myself (2025) during/immediately prior to these events. My earlier fond memories of these occasions were being insidiously poisoned by these later episodes of the acrid reality of our fragile human existence... the odds of mortality were finally catching up to our big family after such a long time.

Before leaving Maryland, traveling by car with Becky and a 2-year-old Camille (now Hugo), we were expecting everyone to be there, including Mom and Pops. However, after reaching the Wisconsin Dells, Pops called to say that the doctors were prepping Mom for surgery and they wouldn't be coming... he'd keep us updated. Almost two years earlier, Mom had been diagnosed with metastatic cancer... a return of the breast cancer that had gone into remission 11 years earlier.

But it had returned with a vengeance. Rounds of chemo and radiation were administered, similar to the earlier treatment for her previous breast cancer... but for naught. Metastatic cancers are vicious beasts. They lie quietly in wait, plotting their retribution for prior defeat... calculating their new assault, one more poisonous and destructive than the first. They infiltrate the body like guerrilla combatants, looking for hiding spots to await their moment to strike back. The surgery was a last-ditch effort by the doctors to investigate and see if they could surgically remove the tumors showing up in scans... tumors resistant to the previous treatments. But they didn't anticipate that cutting into her would be the biggest mistake they could make at this point. A couple of days into the family retreat, Pops updated us all and let us know that it wasn't going well. So, I repacked the family and headed further west to Rochester... it was time to see her... bring her home... talk... cry... She was in rough shape, but I wanted to be there with her and Pops. I wanted her to see her grandchild, even if the little one was too young to understand what was going on.

The cancer had spread so far and fast that it had become part of her skin's subcutaneous tissues (and internal viscera)... rendering them as fragile as wet tissue paper, barely able to hold stitches in trying to close the incisions... yeah. Those incisions would never fully heal before her death on November 5, 2008... 61 years old... right after the presidential election had been called for Barak Obama (she had voted for him via absentee ballot... her last civic duty... which she exercised seriously... I guess she hung on long enough to see if he could pull it off 🥲).

It was all traumatic enough for me without the following insensitive dumbfuckery that my employer at the time, Vectorworks, would add. They wouldn't give me any more time off than the three days "bereavement leave" afforded by company policy. Why? Well, I had burned through my PTO up to that point after the earlier summer family reunion and then diverting the family home to Rochester, MN to see her. And I had only been there for two years... I hadn't earned more PTO under "the rules". And I hadn't made enough money (they paid me so well, I went into debt while working for them) to just take a leave of absence I wanted... I needed,,, to take. I'm STILL salty about that. I felt like I was failed by my manager, HR, and C-suite leadership. It's one of the biggest parts of why I REALLY hate corporate America, especially small companies trying to act like big ones.

We flew to Minnesota for the funeral, as it was nearly a three day drive between there and Baltimore... we would need to be in an out... back on the job on Tuesday. I had started writing this about a week or two before she died, knowing her inevitable... and merciful... end was at hand.

Good morning. I would like to thank all of you for being here. Yesterday was a time to remember and grieve; today is a time to remember and honor; tomorrow, and on, is a time to remember and cope and cherish the memories of my mother, Diane.

I would like to take a moment to thank everyone at Seasons Hospice for helping Mom and Dad in her final months. Their job is the noblest service anyone can offer to humanity; finding comfort where there is no hope, compassion where there is no respite from pain, and peace where there is no escape from the inevitability of our human frailty.

I would also like to thank Dr. Charles LaPrenzi, mom’s oncologist. While he couldn’t be here with her over the last few days, he did visit my mom every week since she left the hospital in August. I don’t know any doctors who make house calls like that anymore. He played it straight with her and really respected how well she chose to face the inevitable.

I’ve been struggling with this day for a long time now. Being here, in this moment, is surreal, like a bad dream you are hoping to wake up soon from. And I’ve struggled with how I would finally say goodbye, a farewell that came too soon in both our lives. There are not enough words nor is there enough time for all the memories, too express all the feelings. But, this is what I have to offer to you, to her…

I stand before you today, as a son, saddened, but deeply grateful for the courage, the hope, the care, and the love of my mother, as I remember how much of herself she poured into me growing up.

As a child, I never felt a moment that I couldn’t count on her. I never felt that she couldn’t give me what I needed and sometimes indulge me in the things that I wanted. I always felt loved.

As a teenager, I knew, even as much as we might butt heads and drive each other crazy with our own opinions of how things should be, she was only trying to do what she thought was best because she loved me with no boundaries. She wanted to see me become the best I could be.

As a younger man, I knew, even as much as I struggled with what I was doing, where I was going, and how I wanted to fit in the world, she was there, behind me, encouraging me to go on, offering her concern when she was worried, hoping and praying it would work out, catching me when I stumbled, and cheering me on when I succeeded.

I stand before you today, as a father, hoping that I have the courage, the hope, the care, and the love of my mother to raise my children to feel so loved and supported and grow to their greatest potential.

She showed me how much patience a parent must have, when a child struggles to learn life’s lessons;

She showed me how much pain a parent is willing to endure, when a child suffers by the hand of some of those lessons;

She showed me how much joy a parent experiences upon the sight of a child’s successes at conquering those challenges;

And she showed me how much of oneself a parent is willing to give so that her children might be clothed and fed and educated and protected and surrounded by love;

I stand before you today, as a husband, hoping that I have the courage, the hope, the care, and the love of my mother to share life’s ups and down with my own wife, Rebecca, for the rest of our lives.

I had the privilege of witnessing my parents’ truly wonderful relationship, tackling life’s challenges together, facing trouble head-on, enduring, and coming out stronger on the other side;

I had the privilege of witnessing my parents find joy in their successes, the time spent with family and the time the spent together as a couple;

I had the privilege of witnessing how much my parents loved each other, sometimes in the subtlest ways that often escape those of us who are so close to it every day;

Finally, I stand before you today, as a man, deeply humbled by the courage, the hope, the care, and the love of this woman, as I look out over this gathering and see so many she had touched in her too short lifetime. My life, our lives, have been shaped in so many ways by the kindness that she bestowed upon us.

She always offered her love, her friendship, without bounds or expectations;

She always recognized that in spite of our flaws and limitations, we were worthy of care, attention, and love;

She always insisted that love and friendship knew no politics, economics, race, distance and any other petty, insignificant differences;

She always knew, that even if it wasn’t uttered, even if the sentiment was too hard to express, that the love for each other was there;

No matter our relationship to her or each other, all of us must remember what my mother did to make each of us feel so loved by her.  We can best honor her memory by being that for the others around us in our own lives, every day.  We can best honor her memory by filling the void for each other, not replacing her, but following her example of how to love each other. No one says it will be easy.  As my mother said, anything truly worth doing is never easy, but family, friends, and love are ALWAYS worth the work.

Of course, I broke down crying at the end... had choked up and had to pause a few times during it. But it had to be said... I was compelled to honor her in the way everyone I think expected... typically never at a loss for words.

Even today, it hurts to read. Maybe even more so than when I wrote it. Sometimes I feel like I never lived up to the potential she tried to foster... or stumbled and fell when I should have known better (there are many things most of you will never know... but a few of you do know some). In many ways, I feel her family never lived up to the aspirations I uttered at the end (yeah, I said it because IYKYK!). But it's hard to stick to "a plan" when living one's life. So many balls are thrown at us as we run around the court... some we dodge, some we catch, some nailing us right in the back of the head. We can have faith, rules, guideposts, aspirations, fears, or even denial to be our map. But the truth is, not every moment in life can be answered with those things. Sometimes, we have to make a call on the fly, or we don't have the power to make a call, as it is out of our hands... so, shit happens. We're all guilty of fucking around AND finding out, at some point (or, like some in my family, multiple times (I could've written a fucking Emmy-award winning TV "dramedy" series based on that bunch). Maybe those are the moments, the most painful ones, that really inform or shape who we are or will be.

That's enough... if not too much... for now.