Note: This is the eulogy I read at my son’s Dec. 11 funeral service in Montpelier, Vt. I read it through wet, blurry vision, my voice weak with emotion, and thought I’d share it verbatim.
A dim, waning crescent moon slumped right in the cold southern sky, casting a crooked grin downward as I fed the dogs, stream beating a soothing rattle in the predawn dark. A startling call from the hospital had awakened us. Gary had taken a turn for the worse, was himself waning, and we were scrambling to leave for Burlington, Vt., to be there for our son’s passing. For 76 tortuous days, he had lain in a breathless chamber of hell. It was not for Gary. Tubes and bags and needles and monitors, doctors and nurses, could not defeat the forces of nature. The young man had run his course, was checking out far too young. We never dreamed it would end this way.
So here I stand today, in a place where I am never comfortable, never will be, to thank you for coming and to salute Gary for 28 interesting, at times difficult, years. You don’t know how grateful I feel to have daughter-in-law Debbie and grandsons Jordie and Arie to carry on my son’s legacy. But what is that legacy? I guess that’s why I’m here, to share my conception of who Gary was and what he stood for. I witnessed his birth and his death, was always there to defend him against teachers and administrators, police and prosecutors and judges, doubters all, and I will forever be there for his wife and children, trying to instill in his boys the values most important to their dad. I will listen for his whispers in the wind, the streams, calm, clear, moonlit nights. He will come. I am sure of it. And when he does, I will find him. Where, one can never predict. It could be walking a tidy stonewall along the spine of a hardwood ridge, at the restaurant, on the highway, busting through a thorny alder swamp, or sitting straight and silent in a secluded stand. Yes, Gary will appear suddenly and unannounced, as he often did, and I will be there for him, whenever, wherever it may be. I owe it to my namesake. For years there were two of us, now one: me.
But this is not about me and the terrible loss I feel. It’s about my son and those who meant most to him. There was no better advocate for Gary than his mom, Joanne, my wife, a professional helper of those who need it most. She ardently defended him, stood by him through good times and bad, sat by his side and displayed incredible strength at his deathbed; for months, every weekend, every chance she got, watching her son face long odds while deteriorating in a place he only wanted to flee. I could not have sat there, could not have endured his pleas to go home, his constant suffering. I would have been enraged, could not have coped. But Joey did; Debbie, too. What they did may be more difficult than dying. Yes, more difficult. I believe it. So maybe I am a coward. I was incapable, didn’t want to breathe the viral air in that dreadful, beeping, flashing chamber of hell; would rather be dead than trapped there.
I have many times wished in retrospect that Gary had succumbed to the sudden and tragic death of a ruptured aorta, saving him the indignity of his hospital stay, his destiny controlled by others, cotton restraints tied to his wrists. I guess it was his cross to bear. He lugged it with dignity and grace, must have known from his medical training that it could be the end. Through it all, he fought valiantly, complained little. A man. Amen.
Gary never had it easy, beginning with a difficult birth, annual ultrasound probes, teenage open-heart surgery. He returned to school about a week after that painful surgery. He lived with adolescent insecurity about a scar down the middle of his chest, then adult anxiety that his insidious disorder, Marfan syndrome, would take another bad turn, one that came out of nowhere at the supper table on the night of Sept. 17, the new moon halfway there. A week later, with a large, orange, Full Harvest Moon reflecting off the Connecticut River, emergency surgery was scheduled. The doctors were confident. Gary was scared. We now know his fears were justified. The urgent surgery went bad, proved fatal, too many unpredictable complications.
It’s not fair that Gary left us so young, was robbed of a promising future, ripped from the wife and sons he so dearly loved. He was a loving husband, father and brother, a loyal son and friend, generous to a fault, a provider, bought a home where he thought the schools would best serve his boys. Those who know him best adored him, respected his energy, his honesty. Not long ago, he discovered his voice and started writing songs, performing them at open mikes to wide acclaim. His boys helped him find that voice. He was comfortable singing to them, and they helped him overcome insecurity we have all grappled with. He was just beginning, had inner turmoil and pain buried deep within to lyrically process. We can now only imagine where his singing and songwriting would have taken him. I told my wife before he took ill that it wouldn’t surprise me if he never worked full-time as a nurse. I was convinced he was on his way to becoming a performer, free as a mayfly dancing over whitewater foam, a lifestyle compatible with his unbridled spirit as he found his identity, learned who he was. Now, we can only imagine how he would have grown as a musician given five years, 10 years and beyond. I think it was his destiny — this, the man who couldn’t cope with public school, left at the eleventh hour and cut an alternative path to Landmark College. He lasted there only briefly, just long enough to acquire the academic skills needed to succeed. Then, with encouragement from his mother, he entered a competitive nursing program and earned his degree, excelled while raising a family. That was Gary: independent, defiant and bright, sometimes too intuitive for his own good, definitely too independent. But really, can we ever be too independent?
Maybe it was my fault. Perhaps I should have supported the teachers who complained he was restless, difficult, predisposed to negotiation. But we never backed down when they identified these qualities as weaknesses and problems. We viewed it differently, did not want to kill his spirit, knew he would need it to fight his demons, prevail. So we stubbornly defended our son, said we were proud to raise an individual willing to question authority, challenge trivial rules and regs, state his case. I defiantly told his detractors that no higher compliment could be paid him than to say he was independent. It told me he was no candidate for time clocks, punch cards, assembly lines, piece work and genuflection. It was clear from an early age that Gary needed to be his own boss. I think his music would have taken him there, away from tedious, conventional routine. Of that, I am confident. He had found his voice, had a lot to say. Sadly, it will not be said.
As we gather here today to celebrate a short life, a waxing quarter-noon winks from the sky above, 10 days till December’s Full Cold Moon illuminates the New England sky. That bright moon will not be cold. Not to me. It’ll burst with warm, radiant energy, hopefully ricochet a random stiletto of Gary’s thoughts through my consciousness. Many years ago at an Ivy League school not far from here, I learned a theory of everlasting life that stuck with me. A young professor explained that human thoughts are akin to radio waves our skulls cannot contain. These thought-waves are released into the universe and forever bounce freely about, sometimes infiltrating our personal spheres and reminding us of those who’ve passed. I have grown to believe this, have many times felt it. My antennae are alert, awaiting Gary’s impulses.
I know he’s out there with, still, plenty to say. So speak to me, Son. I’m listening, will try to deliver.
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