Dan Chokes Up at his Dad’s Memorial Service

Out of nowhere it just happens.  In front of 200 or so people at the Chapel at Cedar Crest Retirement Living Complex, I am eulogizing my father when I can say no more.  Words just won’t come out.  Having just mentioned my wife Hannah, I choke up.  I pause, look about the audience, and interestingly don’t feel distressed or embarrassed.  Must be my age.  I’d be freaking out if I were in my 20s.  Usually, I am so self-conscious and wondering what everyone else is thinking.  Not today.  This time I just wait, and then maybe 5-10 seconds later I am good to go.

In the two weeks since Dad died peacefully at the age of 94 in his and Mom’s apartment, I have been filled with his life and death.  Till sixty-three, I still had both parents, alive and well, in my life.  I was there the night he died.  The hospice nurse came quickly that late evening to confirm his death, as did the funeral director who was in charge of transporting his donated body to the Columbia University Medical Center.  It was a blessing that he went peacefully and quickly.  A blessing for him and a blessing for us, his family.

Then it happened again as I was preparing for my big eulogy finish.   … He (Dad) lives on in me and my siblings, Patty and Dick, our spouses, Hannah, Barbara, and Glenn, and our children, Molly and Tip, Robyn, Will, Jon and Lauren, Brian and Amy, Kara, Tara, and Anna.  We are the evidence that he lived a good and successful life.

I get to the Molly (our daughter) and Tip (her now husband) part (see above) and choking up sneaks up and grabs me again.  Again, no words come out.   I can’t go on.  I pause.  I look around.  And again I wait.  Fact is, I feel a calmness.  I know what is happening and I just wait.  I see the pausing as a good thing.  In a few seconds, I am okay to finish. 

At seismic events like this one, being emotional is no better than being unemotional.  We each are wired differently and our reactions to such charged moments in our lives are neither good nor bad.  They just are; each of us mourns and grieves and celebrates in our distinctively unique way.  My wife Hannah is emotional in a good way.  Me?  Less so, but I have my moments, as I do today.  Today I notice the emotion, let it stir within me, and let it come out the other side, able to continue my eulogy.  No matter how we all react, our Mom needs us all even more so from this day forward.

Choking up today reminds me of times in the past when I publicly read from my book, Sweet Dreams, Robyn, narrative poetry about our family dealing with our daughter and sister Robyn’s childhood leukemia.  Even though the events of those days happened 25 years ago and Robyn is now a healthy 29 year old, I can’t get through a reading without reliving those times and choking up.  Seeds of my emotions lie dormant until they remind me of what a powerful time that was in my life.

By the way, if you do have not have your own autographed copy of Sweet Dreams, Robyn (70 pages, paperback), email me a mailing address and Hannah and I will be most pleased to send you an autographed copy as a gift.   Truly, we’d love to share our family love story with you. 

(Dad died peacefully May 8, 2011)