Saturday, May 10, 2008

Dad's Eulogy

My father died in my arms last Friday, May 2. It was a terrifically painful day for us all, as I sat next to him and fed him morphine every 25 minutes to ease his pain. He couldn't talk or open his eyes for very long, but he managed to hold on until he'd seen each of his children and grandchildren. The following are the words I spoke at his service yesterday:

As a young girl, there was nothing I ever wanted more than to please my father. He was the kind of man who wore his accomplishments like clothing. His lapel bore evidence of his involvement with Kiwanis and the city council, his car was always spit-shined and immaculate, his watch was set with military precision. He was the hardest working person I have ever come to know and it was so terribly important to him.

I think that was why people around him always rose to the occasion, too. Having him recognize your efforts and say he was proud of you meant so much. He held himself to such a high standard that it felt awesome to have him acknowledge how much work you put into something.

Having said that, I can recall so many moments where I was struck by his ability to relax, too. I remember one incredibly hot summer day in Klamath Falls where Mom had filled our plastic pool with the hose and set it under the shade of the cherry tree. Chris, Katy and I and were lounging in it to get some relief when Dad came home from work, changed into his jeans, grabbed a Coors Light from the fridge and pulled up a lawn chair. Rolling up his pant legs, he sat down and put his bare feet into the pool, nudging us off to the side, kicked back and popped the top on his beer. We were delighted to have him sharing our cool oasis.

Sometimes in the evenings we would sit around and listen to tapes of Bill Cosby. Dad had such a terrific laugh and a great sense of humor. We spent many hours curled up on the couch together cracking up at the stories of Fat Albert and Cosby’s imaginary conversations between God and Noah.

Ding! “Noah”

“Who’s that?”

“Me, Noah, the Lord.”


“I want you to build an ark, Noah.”

“Right…..What’s an ark?”

“Get some wood. Build it 300 cubits by 80 cubits by 40 cubits.”

“Right….What’s a cubit?”

The thing is, my dad would have built that ark. And he would have done a dang good job of it. He was so committed to doing a job and doing it right. He never started something he didn’t finish. He probably would have been pretty impatient about it all, and most likely uttered some not-so-polite phrases in the process, but he would have done it. He never found anything he couldn’t master – sports, fixing his cars, working a budget, barbecuing a steak, being a grandfather. He’d just keep plugging away, faking it if he had to, until he’d made it into something he could be proud of. Giving up wasn’t something Dad understood.

He was a fighter all the way. He held on through the pain and disappointment of his illness, waiting until he’d had a chance to say goodbye to his children and grandchildren, and he’s still here. I will forever carry his tendencies for impatience and perfectionism. My daughters will carry on the legacy of the ‘pickle factory’ they laughed about every time they got together. Chris holds Dad’s passion for sports and everything competitive. Katy has the honor of having him exert himself one last time to wrap his arms around her.

We will find him in places unexpected and strangely appropriate. Every time the Ducks take the field at Autzen Stadium, whenever we see someone waxing their car in the sunshine on a Saturday, watching the planes take off at the Albany airport, hearing his voice in our heads reminding us to check the tire pressure and drive safely…

In so many ways he will remain, making us smile and shake our heads. It turns out he did build an ark – one that we are all on today, resisting this flood of sadness, sailing through together to a day in the future where we can walk a little taller and breathe a little easier, having found our way through the grief to a place where what remains is pure love and light and lessons learned from him. Thanks, Dad.


Michelle O'Neil said...

Beautiful Kari.

So glad for your relationship. So sorry for your loss.

Scott from Oregon said...

Bittersweet. I am happy you had such a great human for a dad. I am sorry you lost him.

It sounds like he and my dad had much in common.

Even Bill COsby...

MY OWN WOMAN... said...

Kari, I am so sorry for the loss of your father. He sounds as if he were a man that made the world in general a better place to live and will be missed by all the knew him.

Your eulogy was beautiful, something I'm sure he'd have been proud to hear. In your sorrow at this time, I do know from experience that although your heart is heavy now, one day there will be a time when those things you wrote about your dad will bring laughter and tears of joy to your heart.

May your god help you through this difficult time.

CRB-H said...

Beautiful. I am so sorry for your loss. It is painful but time will help. It has been two years for my mother. My thoughts are with you.

Deb said...

One of you father's greatest accomplishments is the woman you've become. Loving. Articulate. Forgiving. Open. Empathic. Compassionate.

So sorry for your pain and loss. Sending you love and light and comforting warmth.

Nestor Portillo said...


Please accept our condolences for your loss..

Nestor and Maria Jose

Carrie Wilson Link said...

I was holding it together until that last paragraph, but that's just plain unfair, tying the ark back in there, now I'm a mess! No wonder you were the one asked to write the eulogy!

I'm sorry for your loss, Kari. He left a huge, gaping hole. I know you'll fill it up with love, all in the fullness of time.


Anonymous said...

I am so very sorry about your father's death. My heart hurts with you.

The eulogy was beautiful, pure love and perfection. I know with time, you will ride that ark until you get to that place where it is pure love, light and lessons learned. He wouldn't have it any other way.

I am so very sorry. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family. Be gentle with yourself.

Love and more love.

Jerri said...

I am so sorry for your loss, Kari. Even in the midst of that sadness, I hope you're proud of the woman you've become and the tremendous job you did with this eulogy.

Once again, your dad is proud. I'm sure of that.


Suzy said...

My sincere condolences.



Jenny said...

So sorry for your loss. That's very sad.

La La said...

Beautiful eulogy. I'm so sorry for your loss.

Jess said...

So sorry to have been away from here so long, and so sorry to hear about your father. Beautiful eulogy though, what a lovely thing to have written for him.

Take care of yourself.

Big love.

Miss Devylish said...

I finally was able to read this. I'm sure you understand why I couldn't.. May was Dad's birthday and when he died.. Still I knew I would cry by the end w/ how you write. It's beautiful, Kar. I wish I could've mustered some of my own writing at the time of my father's memorial.. but I could only get thru psalm 23.. which ultimately I knew he was happy with too.

I'm sort of out of words on this.. which you know why that is too. I'm just there w/ you.. But sending you love..xoxo

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