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

Both my parents taught me about goodwill. And I have done well by their name. Just the kindness I have lavished on strangers. Is more than I can explain.

Ani DiFranco

My mother was the most selfless person I have ever known. It feels odd writing the word “was” when talking about my mom who is still alive, but that is is how I feel. She was selfless. She is not anymore. She can’t be. She can’t be anything now. But, it’s true, my mother was selfless. She always thought of others before herself, often to her own detriment. Even when she entered the nursing home, nearly two years ago, she made every attempt to help others-trying to calm them and talk them through their pain. For as long as she was able, my mother helped, anyone she could, any way she could.

Oddly, it drove me crazy. I used to look at it as a weakness. I thought she let people walk all over her. I thought she sacrificed so much of herself for others, never really using her voice to express her own needs. She was relentless in her pursuit to help others, volunteering years of her life to both local and state PTA. She adopted children every Christmas to buy gifts for them. My mom always donated what little money she had to help someone in need or to support a cause that was important to her. She was the first to make food for a friend or neighbor that was ill or when someone had passed away. So much of her identity was linked to what she did for others. Sometimes I would want to scream at her (and I think once or twice I did!) to do something for herself, to find what makes HER happy, to speak up when she was drained or not ready to take on something else.

What I didn’t realize then, and for years, was that being selfless was who my mom was. She was all heart. And just because her happy didn’t look like my happy didn’t mean she wasn’t happy. She was. She was so happy.

And now, here I am at 38 years old, just returning from a trip to California where I spent time working a charity event for a nonprofit, recognizing for the first time that maybe I am more like my mom than I ever thought. She taught me the importance of giving back through her incredible actions. She showed me that kindness and compassion matter above anything else. And even though, due to her disease, she no longer has the ability to act selflessly every day, in a way, she still is. For her life of selflessness has propelled me into a life of giving as much as I can, as often as I can.

I hope I am doing right by you, Mama. I owe who I am to your incredible spirit.

With a tremendous amount of love and grief,
Your daughter