Remembering My Grandmother

My uncle delivered the eulogy at my grandmother's memorial service in 1994. I was very disappointed by his presentation, so I wrote my own and mailed it to everyone who had been present. Twenty years and several computers later, I had lost the original file. Finding a hard copy in my mother's old file cabinet last week was an unexpected gift.

My grandmother and mother

At my grandmother's funeral, I was sorry to learn that her son's view of her was obscured by sadness at the infirmities of her final years, and that he had but few and dim recollections of the many events, emotions and moments that composed her life and defined her character.

I was sorry that her list of "accomplishments" -- children and descendants -- was so limited, and that the description of her character was confined to praise for her religious faith.

It's true that my grandmother didn't travel around the world, write bestselling fiction, appear on television, save starving lepers or design skyscrapers. She didn't influence America's foreign policy, start a new dance craze or discover a cure for cancer. She didn't even drive.

Remembering My Father

Today is the fourth anniversary of my father's death at age 87. The last time I saw him, he wasn't able to recognize me. I believe that he thought I was a nurse. For health reasons, my mother had to go home early, so that evening, I was the only visitor.

Dad's distress at being alone in a strange hospital room, not remembering why he was there, kept him from sleeping. He felt abandoned and would call out for help. I stood next to the bed so he could see that I was there. His eyes were wide open with anxiety, and he complained of insomnia. I suggested that he might be able to sleep if he closed his eyes and let his body relax. I promised I would stay with him until he fell asleep. So he said, "I'll give it a try," closed his eyes, and dozed off peacefully. Those were his last words to me.