A Eulogy for Dad
Well, I guess I’ll start by apologizing to Dad because he had a list of people who were not invited to his funeral, and we couldn’t find it. So, if you were one of those people on the list, we’ll never know. But he will. So, I’m sorry, Dad.
I find it ironic that I’m in a cemetery, talking about how my dad was as essential as the air I breathe, when one of his most iconic sayings was that “the cemetery is full of indispensable people.” It’s a phrase I’ve quoted probably more than any of his other iconic phrases, and he had a lot of them. But today, I call bullshit because he is wholly indispensable to me and Mike, our kids Iris and Harry, his sister, Carol, his nieces Fran, Cindy and Sam, and, of course, my wonderful mother, Maureen.
When I was a little girl, I remember waiting by the back door for my dad to get home from work every night. The knob would turn and I’d light up. As a teenager, that all changed. He’d tell you my favorite word was uggghhh. And my favorite expression was: ::eye roll:: …both of which I’m seeing a lot more of myself lately…. But as my hormones calmed down, and I entered adulthood, I realized something: My dad was the smartest man who ever lived. He became my own personal fountain of wisdom. Whenever I needed advice over the years — up until mere months ago — I’d go straight to my dad. I’m honestly not sure how I will be able to make any material decision ever again. It’s kind of a terrifying prospect. It eventually became difficult for Dad to eat solid foods, but while he was able, I’d bring him his favorite bagel every Sunday morning — the Lox Lover — and we’d get into it. Everything from what was going on at work that week to the meaning of life. Our conversations were sprawling and circuitous and delightful. He listened more than he spoke. He asked questions that got right to the heart of the matter. He’d quote German psychiatrists or Greek philosophers or Shakespeare from memory.
I’ve interviewed hundreds of people over the years, but no one delivered on a microphone quite like my dad. His effortless mix of humor and pathos made him a Last Day fan favorite. He was also a huge hit at The Rec Room when he cameo’d in “My So-Called Mondays,” our Monday night staged reading series of the 90s hit TV show, My So-Called Life. None of this should be shocking. Anyone who knew my dad knows that, yes, he was a great doctor, but really, he was a stifled performer. The man loved a stage. Much to my chagrin, I’m sure some of us sitting here remember his short stint doing open mics at the Laff Stop. Dr. Rip was his stage name. I’ve honestly blocked most of it out, but I will never be able to forget him taping a dildo to a box of Kix cereal and doing a bit on “getting your kicks.”
Even though his official comedy career was short-lived, making people laugh was a lifelong endeavor. Sunday brunch with a violinist? He’s taking the violin and serenading the restaurant. And no he didn’t know how to play the violin. Leading the Passover Seder? He’s putting a colonic brochure in his Haggadah and reading directly from it. Daughter’s baby shower? He’s crashing the party dressed in drag with a plastic doll stashed underneath his shirt that he will give birth to in front of all the guests.
This was my dad. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever encountered someone who marched so singularly to their own drummer. Although my son is a close second. But this was the thing about dad. Whether you liked it or not, he showed up exactly as himself no matter the occasion. No pretense. No ego. Approachable. Down to earth. He wore the same thing to work every single day. He ate the same thing for lunch. He walked 8 miles to school in the snow — or so he liked to tell us whenever we started whining about one thing or another. He drove his beat up Oldsmobile until it gave out. He literally had to staple the lining to the ceiling of the car so the fabric didn’t droop down and block his visibility while he was driving. Why get a new car when the old one still runs?
He also had sky high expectations for my brother and me, and instilled a work ethic that shaped us both into full blown workaholics — a chip off the old block. We both pursued writing, something Dad had all sorts of opinions about. I remember getting so frustrated with the amount of red ink he’d bleed on all of my papers. My writing was insane to him. He wrote medical text books. I wrote from the heart. He stuck to the facts. I embellished wildly. He’d probably have a ton of notes on this eulogy, to be honest. Once, he said to me, with great irritation, “Why do you insist on putting an adjective in front of every noun?” And I gotta tell ya, this kinda encapsulates his ethos: Practical. Logical. A straight shooter.
When I was in high school, I rigged my bedroom window so the alarm wouldn’t beep when I opened it and I’d go out on the roof in the middle of the night to smoke cigarettes. (A QUICK SIDEBAR TO MY CHILDREN, IRIS AND HARRY: DON’T YOU DARE SMOKE. SMOKING IS VERY BAD FOR YOU AND YOU SHOULD NEVER SMOKE.) Anyway, one day, my dad came home from work, handed me an ashtray and said, “If you’re gonna smoke, do it in the backyard like a normal person — I don’t want to rush you to the emergency room in the middle of the night when you fall off the roof and break your leg.”
From that point on, we’d go in the backyard every night and smoke together. Honestly, some of my fondest memories from Dumfries are just hanging out in that backyard with my dad, sparring about any number of things. Oooh we loved to fight. He was truly my favorite person in the world to debate. A Fox News loyalist, my dad somehow managed to raise two communists. My father and I were engaged in a lifelong, very heated, political debate, a torch my children loved to carry. Harry literally asked me the other day, “Who are we going to yell at now?”
The irony is that my relentlessness and tenacity comes from him. He pitched show ideas to my brother until his ears bled. Whenever I complained about having to do something, my dad would say, “Want me to do it for you?” He taught me to stick it out and stay the course — not to quit when the going gets tough. Most of his favorite sayings centered around the irrefutable fact that life is hard. He’d say stuff like, “Sometimes you get the bear and sometimes the bear gets you;” “It’s called work, it’s not called fun;” and “I never promised you a rose garden.” But he also taught me not take any of it too seriously. To laugh through all the hard shit that inevitably comes our way. And so much hard shit did inevitably come our way.
One week ago, my mom and I sat by my dad’s side as he took his last breath. It was the end of a chapter that was long and incredibly painful to witness. I know he was technically diagnosed with Parkinson’s, which slowly stole his ability to move through the world, but I think it was sorrow that took the greatest toll. So while I’m devastated to lose my indispensable daddy, I’m relieved that he’s finally free.
Of course, my brilliant father had a copy of The Prophet by Khalil Gibran in his room, and I’d like to share the end of the chapter On Death, which gave me a bit of comfort in the midst of my own sorrow.
“For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.”
Wherever you are, Dad, I hope you’re dancing — and I hope it’s better than the way you danced on earth. I love you.
