Trying to get it right

Usually, I share in this newsletter what I've been writing—or not writing—each month. But last month's work wasn't for this newsletter. It was for my family.

Through the early part of May, I was working on Mom's obituary and eulogy.

I’ve done this before—first Dad’s, then Judy’s. It doesn’t make it easier, but doing theirs helped with Mom's. It gave me a place to begin and a place to build out the details.

I was never the one who held the family's stories—for a long time, that was Judy. She was the keeper—our family's and her friends'—because that's who she was.

When she got sick, I asked if she'd help me with some of the details for when I'd have to write Mom's obituary—details I knew I didn't have. She said no—it wasn't the time, and perhaps Judy didn't want to imagine not being there for the funeral. And then my sister passed before any of those stories could be shared.

So I spent a lot of time last month just trying to get the details of Mom’s obituary right. When did Mom and Dad meet? When did she go to nursing school? How long was she a nurse? All things I wasn't around for. I called people, checked the history book, and went through the photo albums. —, I hope I got it right.

Her eulogy was a different kind of challenge—one I'd been thinking about since I wrote my Dad's.

I always wished I had done his differently. I'd put it too much from my own perspective, jammed in disconnected pieces, never gave a rounded picture of who he was, and hadn't remembered the details well enough.

I told myself I'd start Mom's early, while she was still alive, so I could get it right. But that felt morbid, so I put it off.

Then, when Judy passed, I found myself writing hers. I tried to do better—more focused, a fuller picture—but I still think I could have done better. I'd written too much through my own eyes and not others.

So when I got to Mom's, I knew what I was trying to do. I tried to write her as others saw her too, not just me. And something in the writing held together in a way the others hadn't. I'd gotten better. I just wish I hadn't had the practice.

Another Obituary

I had also been sitting on another piece I was struggling with—my Aunt Donna's obituary.

Donna had spent most of her life out of province, and when she passed, there was no funeral, no obituary. Nothing in the public record. Having nothing to mark her sister's passing weighed on Mom, so Judy made a plan.

She got a small bit of Donna's ashes and took us through our old hometown, leaving Donna at places Mom could visit, ending at the cemetery. Afterward, she had a plaque placed on my grandparents' tombstone, so Mom would have somewhere to visit her sister.

When we lost Judy, a woman from my hometown reached out for her obituary. She kept the cemetery book—a record of everyone buried there. When she saw Donna's plaque, she asked if I had anything on her as well.

I didn't do it immediately because I didn't have the details. Judy and Mom would have been the best voices, but Judy was gone, and Mom's dementia was too acute. I knew Donna, but not well enough—I’d only seen her during holidays.

But then Mom passed, and in piecing together her story, some of Donna's surfaced too. It was enough to build something. I shared it with one of her friends and her stepson, and they said it was good—I hope so.

Their stories

There is the saying that we die twice: once when we're gone, and again the last time someone remembers us.

Writing my family's obituaries and eulogies was my way of remembering them—and helping others do the same. To remind us they had been here, that they had been loved, that their lives had mattered, and that they hadn't simply disappeared.

I'm not sure I got every detail right. But I hope I got close enough.

Until next time,
David