The Eulogy in Me

There they all were…

Everyone was there.

My mom’s whole side of the family, or what was left of it, in the Mount Nemo Jewish Memorial place or whatever. The venue for funeral services off of Bird Road at the Jewish cemetery.

Pretty full room, I gotta say.

And it was worse than I thought.

I had pictured it for years now.

This was the place we were my pop and I were thinking of doing the service for my mother’s passing.

Her name was Sande Garcia…or Sandra Alva Atkins, at birth.

But now, 15 years later, it’s for my Uncle Marty.

I’ve known him my whole life.

He was married to my mother’s only sibling. Her older sister, Adrienne.

Aunt Aiddy died of cancer when I was in my late teens.

It was a long, slow, extremely Cancery death.

I was devastated, but didn’t know how to process it.

I guess I never figured that part out, really.

It was my first close loss since my grandmother, my “Abuelita” on my dad’s side, passed on my 10^th birthday.`

Aunt Aiddy died at home. Peacefully, of course.

Nobody goes out swinging from Cancer.

I remember they had me sit in a dark room with her, alone, just after she died.

I guess it was to kind of a, say-goodbye-and-deal-with-death situation in an old-skool, and in retrospect, pretty unhealthy way.

No discussion after or anything like that.

There ya go. Death.

Figure it out, kiddo.

Marty then married his Colombian secretary at his insurance company not too long after the tragedy. She brought family in tow. Mother, son & daughter. The ladder soon to be mothers and fathers of their own not too many years later.

Instant grandkids.

We couldn’t blame Marty, really. He dealt lovingly with her battle with the disease. Right there by her side till the end.

Old Marty “deserved to be happy,” Aunt Aiddy once said shortly before she gave up the ghost.

I remember that the family really came together when my mom’s sister died. Or they seemed to, I guess.

When I was growing up I always hated family functions, for either side of the family.

“Family first, Eric. There’s nothing more important than your family.” My Cuban father would look deep into my eyes and tell me when I bitched about going to some holiday bullshit get together with all of them.

He said it like he was really telling me something. Each time.

But as my mother started wading deeper into the cold water of Early Onset Alzheimer’s, they started disappearing. Fast.

It’s an uncomfortable disease to be around. People tend to avoid Alzheimer’s victims like they’re contagious. Like they are peering into their own mortality. Tethered by only their memories of what they did, where they went, and who they thought they were.

If they peer too long, they see themselves. Alone forever in their own minds.

No one wants to see that.

My father, Victor Garcia, his mantra to me changed years later. It was usually prompted by me asking where the hell everyone went that could have helped just a little with our terrible, yet loving burden.

We were drowning.

A “support system” I think they call it now.

With his Cuban accent, as he’d look into my eyes the same way he used to, “it’s just us now, Eric. It’s just us.”. Again, like he really meant it.

But not as intense this time.

He was tired. He was so fucking tired now.

The service commences at Mount Nemo.

The mood is stereotypically somber.

The Rabbi sucks. Youngish, late 30’s maybe. Nice looking, tall, but semi-awkward.

Ill prepared, he mentioned he forgot his notes and glasses.

The guy was stringing clichés together with wholesale proverbs like a shitty necklace your kid would make at summer camp out of yarn and shiny, plastic beads.

Just burning time up there while I wondered what he’s getting paid.

Finally, Marty’s children spoke first.

My older cousin, Michael, was first. Aunt Aiddy’s only son.

I always liked him. He was a bit older than me and we never hung out much. But he turned into a good guy with a beautiful family and they live in Texas. They weren’t much help when the caregiver bullets were flying around me, but they had a good logistical excuse at least.

My cousin, Jan, was next up. Aunt Aiddy’s only daughter.

She was the reason I was there. She was the only reason.

“Janela”, as my mother called her, is the only one who bothered to check on me when things were rough. She’d come visit my pop with her twin daughters sometimes when she could. Back when my pop was old and alone.

It would make his goddamn day.

I owed it to her. Out of respect for Jan, and therefore my folks.

The rest of the grandkids on Marty’s second family’s side began to speak next.

All early 20’s for the most part.

They were up there in a big group, in support of each other.

Taking turns on the microphone.

They were all crying. Crying hard.

My Uncle Marty was 91 when he died.

He was blessed with not one, but two families that adored him.

He made a ton of money with his company, and he died with his family from both sides around him.

More than just about anyone could ask for.

These fucking kids were crying like he was an 18 year old track star that got hit by a bus.

Is this the worst they all had been though so far?

What did they know about pain?

What did they know about loss?

What did they know about sacrificing yourself and 18 years of the backend of your youth with your life as a not-top priority?

Fifteen years earlier, when we were planning Sande’s memorial, I had the most beautiful speech prepared.

It was perfect. I pictured it in my head a thousand times.

The whole thing.

… I’d have on a brand new, black suit. Fresh haircut too. Super tight.

I’d stand by my mourning father and greet everyone one by one at the door.

We’d all mill around for a while. Drink bad coffee.

Everyone would tell me they were sorry and maybe tell me a little story of sometime my Mom was being maximum Sande.

Before she changed, of course. Before we really needed them.

My father would speak first.

There’s no way he makes it though his eulogy. No fucking way. I’d bet a year’s rent on it, easy.

I’d make sure he gets to his seat ok, and then I’d glide on up…

“I’d just like to ask everyone… Where were you?

Where were you when we needed you? Where were you when SHE needed you?

Now you come in here. All dressed up. Looking sad.

Ready to eat the buffet.

I have a handful of chairs up front for those who belong here.

You know who you are.

The rest of you, get the fuck out.

You know who you are too.”

Short and sweet.

Stone faced and emotionless I would stand there as the confused Jews slowly made their way out.

That was my plan and that was my fantasy.

But I made the mistake of telling a family friend about my surprise attack eulogy.

Once my father found out, all plans were cancelled.

He didn’t need that shit.

Just a simple get together at the house for the few that mattered, or for the most part at least.

It was probably for the best.

I know my mother would not have wanted that out of me.

But, if you knew my mother, you would know that she ABSOLUTELY would have done just that if she were in my place.

I am, and always will be, my mother’s son.

But as I sat there at Marty’s memorial, suppressing my anger, my rage, wanting to literally scream out loud from the hypocrisy…. I thought about it.

I really looked at everyone.

These were not bad people.

These were mostly good, kind people. Everyone just doing the best that they can.

Maybe I was the bad guy.

Maybe that was a reason I didn’t feel like I belonged.

Like I was owed something that will never be acknowledged or repaid.

Perhaps I had changed.

Transformed by my own self-righteousness.

Was it worth it for me to keep dragging two dead bodies around?

Weighing heavy with bitterness.

Trudging forward for all these years, and all the rest to come.

Never looking up.

Watching the sweat drip down to the soil every day.

Yes. Yes it was.

It’s the least I could do.

Literally.

It was the very least of me.

But it was mine.