I have struggled with this eulogy for my paternal grandfather [the paternal grandfather's name]. It isn't that the idea of writing and delivering his eulogy was daunting, even though it was, and is. I have written and delivered one for each of my grandmothers—one four-and-one-half years ago and one four months ago. The struggle came in the fact that each of those eulogies was written rather quickly, and at the request of my parents and uncles and aunts on behalf of their departed mothers. This eulogy was requested by my grandfather himself a few weeks ago, as he began to really notice the physical effects brought about by the tumor that grew in his chest, and as he faced the prospect of his imminent death.
He initially made the request through my father, which allowed both my grandfather and I some distance from the reality of what loomed ahead. Then, a couple of weeks later, he asked me directly, in person. He was weaker, and very cognizant of what was happening to him—of sound mind, if not body. I assured him that I would be honored to deliver his eulogy, even as I was deeply saddened by the prospect. I also promised him that I would not write it until he was dead. I have kept my promise.
Needless to say, even though I kept the promise to not write about his life and death until he was indeed dead, there has been a lot of time to prepare and mourn for this moment. I read and reread an insightful and brilliant essay by William T. Vollmann entitled “Three Meditations on Death.” I read and reread my grandfather's autobiographical account in Voices of WWII Veterans: A Kaleidoscope of Memories collected and edited by Rae Dalton Hight. I read and reread his notes in a book of memories I had him record twelve years ago. I read Scripture and prayed. I shared stories of my grandfather's life with him and other family members. I listened deeply.
I meditated and mulled over his life and coming death, even as my grandfather and my family and I grieved the “small deaths” that accompanied his declining health. His disease stole him away in increments. First, he began to move slower. Then, he was reliant upon a walker. He began to eat less and less. He slept more and more. Then, he became bedridden. His energy flagged. It became difficult for him to move his hands or to speak, and, at the end, even to open his eyes. The whole time, however, he was aware of these losses, as were we, until the day before his death, when he slipped into a coma.
So, the difficulty comes in trying to remember a life of eighty-six years in a matter of mere minutes. And, all the while, trying not to let the past few months of decline and wasting away, the past two and one-half years since his diagnosis of mesothelioma, cancer of the lining of the lungs, define who he was, as important as these last moments and snapshots of his life are. But, we will wrestle through this together and we will try our best to make sense of them.
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I was driving in my car, listening to the songs of Ryan Adams—a singer-songwriter that my grandfather would have appreciated, although I am certain that he never heard any of his music—when the tears came, and, with them, the words for the eulogy that you hear today.
I drove. Ryan Adams sang a song called “The Sun Also Sets,” a song of loss and the brevity of life. He sang “When you get the time / sit down and write me a letter. / When you're feeling better / drop me a line. / I want to know how it all works out. / I had a feeling we were fading out. / I didn't know that people faded out so fast, / that people faded out.” These lyrics, with their accompanying mournful piano and country-and-western slide guitar, confronted me with the reality of what had just happened. The entire world had just changed for me and my family. A generation had—has—just passed. I wept like I have never wept before.
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Eulogy is by Troy's Work Table and was delivered to a full funeral home at the paternal grandfather's funeral service. The picture was taken by Troy's Work Table at the same.
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