Interesting thing struck me, as I re-read the eulogy I was asked to write a year ago. We were one of the many friends told, in a personal visit, of Robert’s lung cancer. He understood the diagnosis to be a death sentence, and he was coming to say goodbye.
Months later, the end nearing, came the request from his wife, Carol, to write a eulogy. I was touched, knowing what a wide circle they had. I sent my draft to Carol – wanting to make sure that what I wrote was in keeping with what they wanted and or expected. I thought Robert would get a kick out one of the out of the ‘insider’ reference: that he was a dedicated pot smoker, which he called ‘weed’. Carol called to say it was beautiful and Robert would certainly get a kick out of it. But she wasn’t going to share it with Robert because then he’d ‘know.’
Carol’s decision not to share my words with Robert was confusing. I was sure from Robert’s demeanor and delivery on that ‘announcement’ visit, he knew he was dying, and therefore I assumed wouldn’t shy away from hearing the Eulogy. (In fact, I’ve often thought it sadly ironic that the dead never get to hear the loving words of those who are left, bereft) Back to Robert and Carol. I also assumed his attitude of acceptance reflected Carol’s.
Now, as I’ve learned more about the journey and decision-making around death and dying, my assumptions were just that: my own assumptions.
Looking back, who’s to say that – although Robert seemed accepting – his ‘acceptance’ didn’t extend to shoving-in-his-face-reality of my eulogy. Or perhaps his bravado changed with the course of the disease. And who’s to say that Carol was ‘accepting’: I now recall her saying, “Robert has pulled off lots of pretty amazing things,’” with the underlying message: he’ll do it this time, too.
Alas, this was one thing he couldn’t pull off.
Mine was the last of three Eulogies, on a hot summer day in a church filled to bursting. Of the two others, one was from Carol’s grown-up children – to whom Robert was step-father – the other from Robert’s sister, up from Jamaica where Robert was born. Both were respectful and reverent, with religious references. The presiding Reverend punctuated with ‘Ehhhhh-men’ and ‘Praise the Lord’.
So it was with some trepidation that I took my place at the podium, facing the solemn crowd of mourners. Of my insider reference had Carol said: ‘some people will get it, for others it’ll just go over their heads.’
I plunged in:
“Many of you know Robert from Church, from property management or from a mutual past. My family got to know Robert and Carol through house painting. They started off painting our house, and continued to paint our lives – in many ways, and with many colours.
We had much in common, besides eating and drinking together – which Robert and Carol often did as they pretty much moved with us, our teenage daughters, and our dog Rufus in The Great Painting Project. We discovered then that both families knew who the boss was in the house: the dog. Robert’s Bear, and our Rufus. In the years after, there wasn’t a phone call that Robert didn’t enquire about the dog’s health.
There wasn’t anyone who met Robert who wasn’t impressed by his genuine interest and depth of knowledge. At our annual party, everyone soon knew Robert. Often were the times Carol would wait patiently while Robert finished a conversation that you could count on to be thought provoking. We felt better, more honorable, more conscientious when Robert was around. Robert’s standard of excellence in everything undertaken was and is something we aspire to achieve.
I have several pictures of Robert in my head – and each one has him contemplating, considering, solving before speaking or acting. Like the time in my garden: I’d only recently embraced horticulture and was still trying to figure out the good the bad and the ugly. Robert demonstrated his knowledge: providing in my mind’s eye a picture of the future, as he walked through the fledgling plants, in his unhurried measured Robert style,” These are ladyfingers. This is a jump-up-and-kiss me, that one, a ‘Zebra’”.
Once we’d identified all the flowers, I had a nagging question: “Robert,” I asked: “can you help me with a weed question?” Robert’s face was incredulous with mischief and delight. “A Weed question?! You’re asking me if I know about weed?”
The solemn church erupted in laughter (which mystified the good Reverend), and Carol’s face beamed up at me from the front row. And so Robert’s spirit made its presence known.
I remember thinking: Whew. I was not struck down dead by my irreverence.
Reflecting back, that’s what mattered most: Robert didn’t need to read the eulogy. He knew how precious he was to us. What was important on that sad day was: Even in death, there can be life and laughter.
