Letter to a Well-Intended Person

Dear J.,

Thank you for your condolences. I want to recognize the time and effort C---'s staff and members have put into my parents’ lives. My father considered L. a good friend and source of consolation to the end.

I received your voicemail on June 30. You alluded to concerns for my father’s care and your desire to express them to me. I called you back within the hour and left a message of my own, but we were not able to connect before you took your sabbatical. Had we spoken then, I would have relayed some of the following. 

Recently, I went to my parents’ house and noticed one of their hall closet doors had been removed. It had been in need of repair for years, but it still worked. When I asked my mother what had happened, she said that on a recent visit you had noticed the door was broken, tried to fix it yourself, and, in the process, it had come off completely. Larry came by subsequently to see what he could do and quoted her $150 for a new set of doors. It’s hung again, but it remains malfunctioning.

The analogy was so strong. 

Anyone who knew my parents knew they were broken. I grew up maintaining them as best I could; it was my life’s mission. While I did not fix them and am still painfully learning the extent to which they cannot be fixed, I helped keep them functioning. I kept the peace. I loved them. I sacrificed for them in ways that altered my life’s course. Besides the years I have given them, the suffering I have endured because of them will take more. 

You stressed to me, more than a decade ago, I needed to be prepared to “leave and cleave.” I remember you encouraged me to set boundaries, foreseeing how disruptive my broken parents would be to my fledgling marriage. As you predicted, I struggled keeping them at a healthy distance. They clung to me, and I dragged them along.

As they aged, more people began to see them as helpless. They had been in desperate need for a long time, but their needs became more superficial as their hair thinned and wrinkles deepened. Out of compassion, many people offered them a hand. My parents clung to them, too. Well-intentioned people saw something they could fix, so they set to work.

At some point in the course of the repairs, it became evident to these strangers they lacked the tools and the capacity to make my parents right. They had drastically underbid the job, and it was jeopardizing their other commitments. So they packed up and, on their way home, would call me to express their concerns as though I was the rightful owner and was being derelict.

I was and am well aware. No one knows better than me that something is wrong with my parents. No one has ever done more for or cared more about them than I have. I was there before the service call, and I’ll be there after the repairmen drive away. I cannot fix my parents any more than the strangers could. My parents cannot be replaced. If only it were that simple.

Rather than make a point, I’ll close with another story rife with analogical meaning. The doctors were unanimous: there was no cure for my father. Having already taken his cognition and coherence, my father’s brain tumor was staking claim to his mobility. When I visited him at the nursing home one evening after work, I found him on his hands and knees. He was naked, pawing at his mattress. He was in a puddle of urine. I bent down, lifted him into a nearby wheelchair, and toweled him clean. I dressed him with the help of a nurse aid and wheeled him to dinner. He sat stooped, barely able to look up. For twenty minutes, I offered him food. For twenty minutes, he refused. The last thing he ever said to me as he swatted at the spoon I offered him was, “I don’t know what I’m doing.” I said it was okay. I said he looked tired. I wheeled him back to his room. I hoisted him up, and I laid him down. I laid down, too, and watched my father sleep. I stroked his stubbly cheek. I did what I could, and it wasn’t enough to save him.

Sincerely,

M.

Eulogy - Final Draft

If you were ever the recipient of one of Scott’s emails, you know he was loquacious. We’re about to prove the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

It’s been a few years since my dad was at his best. He’d been slipping, mentally and then physically, for the last 7 or 8 years. He knew it, and so did anyone who interacted with him. But even though it’s been a while since Scott could carry on the way he did in his prime, his relationships endured. My father was loyal. By being here, you all are reciprocating that loyalty. So, first off, I want to thank you for attending to show your support and mourn with us. It means a lot. Second, I want to thank you, on my father’s behalf and my own, for helping make this terrible process less terrible than it could have been. Scott’s survivors, myself included, will remember that. 

Thank you for caring about my father, for caring for him and being receptive to what he could give back. We owe you a debt of gratitude. He spent the end of his life as many of us do: in great need. You helped meet those needs. We could do no more.

Having addressed everyone else, I’ll come to the subject of my eulogy: Scott Ritter. Some of you had a longer relationship with my father than I did. Most of you didn’t. Regardless of how far back you went, there are some truths about my father that I want you to know. If, like me, you already know them, I want you to leave this place remembering them. I want you to carry them with you as the marks my dad left on this earth begin to fade, as the mortar between the bricks he chose crumbles, the gardens he kept go to seed, his favorite songs garner less airplay, and his few prized possessions become sediment in a future rock.

Scott Ritter had full pockets. His pants were saddled with coins. His shirt pockets were stuffed with pens. Wherever he went, he was prepared to pay with exact change or sketch a picture to illustrate a story. Our favorite restaurant lined the tables with white paper on which dad drew, calculated, or enumerated most Saturdays for a decade. At meal’s end, he would slam down a fist full of change and pick through the pile until he could leave the perfect amount in the receipt tray. Sifting through his possessions, we unearthed hundreds of pens and thousands of coins. We collect what we prize.

Scott Ritter loved to laugh. He loved to crack a joke. He amused himself by injecting witticisms into conversation like a forecast of scattered darkness by nightfall. Even if you didn’t get it, you wanted to laugh along with him because his face, which was formerly much fuller, conveyed such cherubic joy it was irresistible.

Scott Ritter was steady. Although he wasn’t quick, little could slow him down. He rarely missed a weather forecast or a Letterman monologue. When he couldn’t read the paper on a given weekend, he socked it away to read on vacation. He was a prodigious putzer, spending hours picking weeds cross-legged in the lawn. He never failed to answer the phone even in a meeting. Scott prided himself on his attendance record with his various employers throughout his career. Sick days were as frequent for him as leap days are for the rest of us.

Scott Ritter was always concerned there wouldn’t be enough photos of him. As the son of a photographer, he placed a high value on capturing moments for posterity. He would passively lament that, as the man behind the camera, he’d be left out of the albums. To alleviate that worry, we took a lot of photos of him. Adding to those, I uncovered a tranche of pictures from his youth that he had brought with him from Queens to Eau Claire to Manhattan, Kansas to Hollywood, Florida to Ohio to St. Louis. We brought a sampling of them with us today. Please look them over. May they symbolize his better days.

Scott Ritter showed surprising affection towards cats. I saw him do it on many occasions when I would visit him in the basement. He would be at the drafting table with his headphones on, drawing something, or else dialing his way through an automated menu to pay bills over the phone, or else watching the nightly news, and Sweetie, our Main Coon mix, would be in his lap. He’d be petting her as gently as a mother caresses her baby. That says a lot about a person.

Scott Ritter could sneeze and sneeze he did, loudly. Unbelievably, concussively loudly. Like, after he sneezed and your adrenaline diluted and heart rate decreased, you wondered if that sound was natural, was an instinctive reaction to foreign particles in his nostrils or else some sort of wry prank. Regardless of context: in fine dining establishments, in movie theaters, in churches, in waiting rooms, he killed the vibe, disrupted the sense of anticipation, or disturbed the peace. If he were here with us, he’d interrupt me. I wish he could.

Scott Ritter was a magician. He made time disappear. He would leave to pick up a gallon of milk and be gone for two hours. He would transmute a trip to Best Buy into three. Running errands became all day affairs. My mother was ever incredulous when he returned and asked where he had been. The answer was always exactly where he said he was going. As someone who accompanied him on those jaunts, I saw behind the curtain. He browsed. He compared prices. He took circuitous routes through stores. More than anything, though, he talked.

Scott Ritter loved to shoot the breeze—with anyone and everyone. There wasn’t a hostess, waitress, cook, cashier, pedestrian, driver, ticket-taker, usher, attendant, sales rep, foremen, laborer, neighbor, stranger in line, postal worker, custodian, secretary, principal, vice principal, teacher, plumber, HVAC tech, carpenter, glazier, contractor, leadman, student, boy or girl, with whom he wouldn’t engage. He would acknowledge your presence. He’d pick up on some distinctive attribute about you, your eyes, how your name was spelled, whatever. He’d observe it aloud and pull you into an exchange. He was glad you were with him in that moment, sharing a tiny portion of reality together.

Scott Ritter could not throw a ball. He couldn’t ride a bike. He was an atrocious driver. No one taught him, so he couldn’t teach me. But he taught me how to take an interest in my surroundings and how to sing in falsetto. I grew up knowing I was adored, and he didn’t. That’s why he took happiness where he could find it.

Scott Ritter was practically minded. He was not fussy. He had no brand loyalty. He knew how to stretch a dollar. He bought in bulk. His favorite snacks were generic. He always poured a second bowl of cereal to sop up the milk remaining from the first. In advance of every gift-giving occasion, he requested meager gifts like surge protectors, printer paper, and jewel cases. Going back to 2007, the lists were titled: Scott’s Semi-Realistic (at best) dream list. Which leads me to my next observation.

Scott Ritter was our Eeyore, a lovable melancholic figure whose resilience overpowered his well-earned pessimism. My wife, Megan, always quick with a conversation starter, once asked my father as we were celebrating his special day, “What was your best birthday?” He hardly paused. “I don’t know, but I can tell you what was my worst…” He didn’t have an easy life. He didn’t have a good life for a few stretches. But he never wanted to forfeit it. He survived his last 24 days without a meal. He never gave up on life or on the people who lived it with him. 

Scott Ritter had dreams, a lot of which never came true. But a few did. And for those dreams that did come true, he was enduringly grateful. Fond memories were his treasure, buried but exhumable. He was grateful for his college friends, to be one of the gang after so many years of unpopularity. He was grateful for Lake Michigan, to set aside the volatility of alcoholic parents or the worries of adult life and bask in the northern sun, dig his toes into the whistling sand, and cool off in the boundless fresh water. He was grateful for a good meal. As a card-carrying member of the clean plate club, he complimented many a chef by eating every last morsel of whatever dish was laid before him. He was grateful for his grandchildren, for the chance to build Legos, piece together puzzles, and make a toddler squeal with delight by snatching them up and tickling them. He was grateful for the company. He was grateful for the assistance. He was grateful for the time.

Speaking of the time, I’ve about taken enough of yours. I’m looking forward to hearing from you, swapping stories about Scott, or Critter or Ritterini as you may have known him. So, I’ll close with a final story and the truth it taught me. 

When I heard the word “tumor” on the morning of June 2nd, I nearly laughed. Another medical professional jumping to the furthest conclusion. True, if you met my father for the first time in late May this year, you would have thought something was seriously amiss. But that was explicable by another diagnosis: Alzheimer’s. He had been diagnosed years before. That was the cause of his dementia. I was operating on the assumption a person could only have one grievous illness at a time.

But facts will disabuse you of fictions if you’re willing to suffer them. You can have a disease that slowly eats away at your brain and a disease that quickly fills your skull. So, the two months following the tumor’s revelation taught me about mutual exclusivity. One doesn’t necessarily rule out another, nor do four necessarily rule out one more. In certain cases, a plurality of factors can contribute to a singular outcome or opposites can coexist. Your father can relish his last dinner out even if he doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him and is worried about where his words have gone. He can exit a moving vehicle in a frenzy, not recognize you when you arrive on the scene, and still reach out to hug you when he returns home safely. A person can die a death like my dad did and have led a life we can celebrate. We can be joyful and grieving. We can be happy and sad simultaneously. So today, we can cry and we can smile. That’s what we’re here to do.

Eulogy - Second Draft

This eulogy begins with two parts, one of them that’s for you and one of them that’s not. I think you’ll be able to tell from context which is which, but if you have any questions, please come and see me once this is over. Then we’re going to focus on my father, and I’ll close with a prayer.

So, first off, I want to thank you for coming out today to show your support and to mourn with us. It means a lot. And I want to curse you for staying at home and never returning our calls to fulfill a dying man’s wish. It means a lot.

Second, I want to thank you, on my father’s behalf, my mother’s behalf, and my own, for helping make this terrible process less terrible than it could have been. Scott’s survivors, myself included, will remember that. I want to curse you, on my father’s behalf, my mother’s behalf, and my own, for making this terrible process more terrible than it had to be. Scott’s survivors, myself included, will remember that, too.

To those of you who knew my dad, for however long, and cared for him, and were receptive to what he could give, we owe a debt of gratitude. To those of you who associated with my dad, for however long, and were careless, and rejected what he could give, we owe you something, too. We owe you something awful because that’s what you deserve when you mistreat a man, a person with weaknesses long predating an Alzheimer’s diagnosis, a person with dignity even after his brain tumor tried to deplete him of it.

Some of you had a relationship with my father for longer than I did. Most of you didn’t. Regardless of that, and which part of this opening addresses you, there are some truths about my father that I want you to know, and if, like me, you already know them, I want you to leave this place remembering them. I want you to carry them with you as the marks my dad left on this earth begin to fade, while the mortar between the bricks he chose crumbles, and the gardens he kept go to seed, and his favorite songs garner less air play, and his few prized possessions become sediment of a future rock.

Scott Ritter had full pockets. His pants pockets were always full of coins. His shirt pockets were always full of pens. Wherever he went, he was ready to pay with exact change or sketch a picture to illustrate a story.

Scott Ritter loved to laugh. He loved to crack a joke. Even if you didn’t get it, you wanted to laugh along with him because his face, which was once much fuller, conveyed such cherubic joy it was hard to resist.

Scott Ritter was reliable. He would do what he could do and prided himself on his attendance record with his various employers throughout his career.

Scott Ritter was capable of showing great affection towards cats. I saw him do it on many occasions when I would visit him in the basement. He would be at the drafting table with his headphones on, drawing something, or else dialing his way through an automated menu to pay bills over the phone, or else watching the nightly news, and Sweetie, our Main Coon mix, would be in his lap. He’d be petting her as gently as you’d ever caress a baby. That says a lot about a person.

Scott Ritter loved to shoot the breeze—with anyone and everyone. There wasn’t a hostess, waitress, cook, cashier, pedestrian, driver, ticket-taker, usher, attendant, sales rep, foremen, laborer, neighbor, stranger in line, postal worker, custodian, secretary, principal, vice principal, teacher, plumber, HVAC tech, carpenter, glazier, contractor, lead man, student, boy or girl, with whom he wouldn’t engage. He would acknowledge your presence. He’d pick up on some distinctive about you, your eyes, how your name was spelled, whatever. He was glad you were with him.

Scott Ritter could not throw a ball. He couldn’t ride a bike. No one taught him, so he couldn’t teach me. But he taught me how to take an interest in my surroundings and how to sing in false seto. I grew up knowing I was adored, and he didn’t. That’s why he took happiness where he could find it.

Scott Ritter could sneeze and sneeze he did, loudly. Impossibly, concussively loudly. Like, after he sneezed and the adrenaline diluted and your heart rate decreased, you wondered if that sound was natural, was an earnest reaction to foreign particles in his nostrils or some sort of wry joke. Regardless of context: in fine dining establishments, in movie theaters, in churches, in waiting rooms, he killed the vibe, disrupted the sense of anticipation, or disturbed the peace. If he were here with us, he’d interrupt me. I wish he could.

Scott Ritter had dreams, a lot of which never came true. But a few did. And for those dreams that did come true, he was enduringly grateful. He was grateful for his college friends, to be one of the gang after so many years of unpopularity. He was grateful for Lake Michigan, to set aside the volatility of alcoholic parents or the worries of adult life and bask in the northern sun, dig his toes into the whistling sand, and cool off in the boundless fresh water. He was grateful for a good meal. As a card-carrying member of the clean plate club, he complimented many a chef by eating every last morsel of whatever dish was laid before him. He was grateful for the grandchildren, for the chance to build with Legos again and to make a toddler squeal with delight by snatching them up and tickling them. He was grateful for the company. He was grateful for the help.

For those of you who improved his life, we’re grateful. For those of you who didn’t, I’ve said enough. I pray you get all that you deserve.

Eulogy - First Draft

 

The world didn't need S---- R-----. History was not awaiting his arrival. The day's media took no notice. By all accounts, his parents didn't want him. His half brother had his own troubles. He sister split as soon as she could. He wasn't popular. He had a low IQ, was a C student, overweight and uncoordinated, nearly blind, a prolific sweater, single until a dating service hooked him up, and foiled at nearly every turn. The church gave up on him. His employer forced him into an early retirement. His greatest blessing in his last years was a brain tumor, something to hasten S---- R-----'s demise from the otherwise methodical advance of Alzheimer's.

Lately, he had been drooling uncontrollably and babbling incoherently, like an overinflated child now desiccated. With no history of aggression, he started taking swings at staff. He was known as a "tough case" and a "handful." That's how he left this earth that even now is erasing him as his beloved Lake Michigan's waves claw back the shore.

But even with all the tragedy, his life was a sort of triumph. He made it out of a broken home, made his own way, made his own family, made a career, made the best of a bad beat. How many world historical figures could you say the same about? He'll be forgotten, but there's still the record. So, for the record, let me state:

He was C---- R-----'s second husband. He stuck with her through all the sickness and the modicum of health, through the oases of good times and deserts of bad. And he was my father. He loved me as best he could despite his matching low emotional intelligence. He took me out to the ballgame and wrote checks to cover my textbooks when he couldn't get approved for a car loan.

S---- R----- developed a good working knowledge of architecture, how to protect tax-payers' money, and how to hold contractors to account. He favored function over form without succumbing to ugliness. He tried his damnedest to keep from declaring bankruptcy, and even though he did, boy did he postpone it. All his life, he beat the odds that were heavily stacked against the child of two devoted alcoholics.

S---- R----- had a knack for delaying the inevitable, but he couldn't stop it. None of us can any more than his loved ones and medical professionals could get him to calm down and sit still once his mind had been hijacked. So I guess that goes to show that even those who fared better in life still can't do any better than S---- R----- could at evading death. So, fuck everyone else who gave up on him and thank you all for not doing so as evidenced by your being here today.