The Eulogy I Never Gave

Tomorrow is the year anniversary of my Dad's death.  I'm including the eulogy I wrote for him that I was going to give in Hawaii, but I never did.

When memorializing a parent, I’m sure the common response is “I never knew I could love him more.”  My reaction to my father’s death is that I never knew I could love him.  Maybe that’s a controversial statement to make in a eulogy.   But those of you who know me, know that I like to be controversial.  I mean, I was the three year old who carried around a Ken doll in a pickle carrying case.  Seriously, in terms of foreshadowing the future, it doesn’t get more clear than that.  

Now that he’s gone, I often think, what went through his mind when I popped into his life?  Especially back then, I was a lot to take in.  I was precocious.  I loved to dance around the house.  I must have watched every Madonna tour on VHS like 500 times.  And to be honest, we struggled a lot.  He must have been worried that the sweet, loving child who loved showtunes was going to have a tough time.  So he yelled and screamed and told me to toughen up and that I’d better stop crying or else he’d really give me something to cry about.

Oh, he’s going to be so disappointed by the time I finish this speech.  And he’s going to be so disappointed that he didn’t live to hear these words: He was right.  To a point.

And that was the nature of our relationship.  We both thought that our point was better than the other person’s.  And we fought and fought and fought my whole life trying to prove to the other how right we were.  I wanted him to understand me and to be a little bit nicer.   He wanted to make sure that I was going to be man enough to fight for the big dreams I had dreamed up for myself.   But neither one of us could give in.  So we didn’t really get along.

Then the Universe stepped in.  He got sick.  And I was just coming off a TV show I was working on.  Just in time to help out.  I went to his doctor’s appointments and to his nutritionist appointments. I cleaned out my parents’ refrigerator and their pantry getting rid of anything with salt in it.  I took big poster board and wrote all the things he should eat and shouldn’t eat and posted it on the refrigerator door.  And we fought all the way.  “You can’t eat that.”  “Oh yeah?  Fuck you, I’m having a McRib.”  (Sorry for the cursing, but it really does make the point.  You can kind of hear him say it, can’t you?)  I fought with everyone.  The doctors, the nurses, the hospice workers…and even, though it makes me sound like a total a-hole, my Mother.  And every conversation started with, “You’re not doing good enough.  You can do better.”  I wonder who I learned that from. 

Then I realized something.  I had learned all of that behavior from my Dad.  But, throughout my life, I was on the receiving end of all that yelling.  But I didn’t feel like I was yelling for the sake of yelling.  I was trying to get my Dad better care.  I wanted to make sure he was safe.  I wanted to make sure that he held on to his dignity as long as possible.  And I think I was successful.  I just wanted to protect him.  Then, here comes the big idea, I thought, “Wow, if I pissed all of those people off just to protect my Dad…could he possibly have pissed me off my entire life just to protect me?”

That was a big moment.  Because in that experience of fighting for him, I finally understood him.  We finally had something in common.  We were willing to sacrifice looking like the good guy in order to take care of someone we love.  And I hope that my Dad would look at me now and think, “Yeah, that was a success.”  But he’d probably just criticize what I was wearing.

Here’s the final thank you.  Thanks, Dad for being willing to sacrifice looking like the good guy to take care of me.  And thanks for marrying the right woman so that both Chris and I got some tenderness as well.  But most of all, thanks for making a man out of me.  I only wish you were here to toast to that in person.