With Strength and Grace

Your eyes are soft with sorrow. Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye. -Leonard Cohen

When I was in high school, I wrote my father’s eulogy for a Speech class I was taking. It seems odd to do this, but in a way, it gave me comfort. I felt it was a way to rehearse for the inevitable, a way to process the pain before it even started. My 17 year old self likely spoke of his love for music and baseball. I am sure I talked of how he taught me to compete and the lessons I learned along the way. There was humor in it, the way my father would want there to be. And, of course, sadness-a great deal of sadness.

Now, over 20 years later in the middle of a pandemic, I find myself doing the same thing for my mother, trying to prepare myself for the pain. I lie awake at night picturing her funeral. I think about how I will want her obituary worded as my father has tasked me with that honor. I write it over and over in my head. I think of who will speak her eulogy and what that person could possibly say in a brief moment to sum up my beautiful mother’s life. I try to picture her dying, whether I will be able to be there with her or not. I think of how I will say goodbye, if given the opportunity to do so.

When I do this, I am often reminded of the day my grandmother died. My parents and I were there with her, holding her hand as she drew her last breaths. Watching my grandmother die was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. And I would have thought it would feel the same for my mother, but she was extraordinary in that moment. She handled the entire day with an immense amount of strength and poise. She cracked jokes in hopes of making my grandmother smile. She spoke softly and kindly. At one point my grandmother whispered to my mom that she was scared. She knew she was dying that day. And instead of breaking down herself like I did, my mother held her hand and surrounded her with love.

Often when I think of my mom, I think of a sweet, lovely woman-a woman you would envision in a television show with an apron on, baking cookies for her family. But on that day, the day my grandmother died, my mom was a warrior. She handled her own pain gracefully and quietly, solely focusing on my grandmother’s final hours. She was the epitome of strength, continuing to put her family first, as she always did.

And as I know the days are approaching that I will be faced with having to be in the position my mother was in with her own mother, I can only hope I will have as much strength and grace as my mother did. I hope I can be a fucking warrior for her. I hope I can keep the sorrow from my eyes and comfort her until the very end. I hope that I can show my daughter the same lesson my mother taught me about death. I hope the day she dies is full of love and as much light as I can provide for her.

And when her eulogy is spoken I hope it includes this:

June loved with her entire heart, stood strong even in the toughest moments, and lived gracefully, right to the very end.

I love you, Mama. And I am terrified to lose you, more than I already have.

With love and grief,

Your daughter