Everyone has their own way of grieving. Nothing is normal. Nothing is out of the ordinary. Sometimes you follow the stages of grief. Sometimes you stuff it all down and walk around aimlessly.

This past August, my father passed away. It’s something we had been expecting for a while, but that “expectant mindset” didn’t lessen the shock. The night we got the call, I sat and listened to my husband on the phone in the other room. And I just knew. Because you see, there were two sides to my dad. The great man. And the addict.  

Recently, a good friend encouraged me to share the eulogy I gave at my dad’s memorial. I hesitated for weeks because I had tucked that piece of grief away. My eulogy wasn’t anything extraordinary. It didn’t catalog the life of someone I knew well, or who had accomplished great things until their last day. It was simple. Told before a small group who gathered to say goodbye. But then I realized that there may be others who are searching for a way to find peace with a family member who struggles with addiction. I’m not sure if my way is the right way, but I hope they read this and know they are not alone.  

**If the eulogy seems choppy, it’s probably because I wrote it in the the way I knew I would deliver it during the memorial. Slow, and with enough room for the emotion that each piece brought forward.

So here goes…

I want to thank everyone for coming today. Everyone here has their own George story. Zack remembers him as the cool uncle. Kate remembers when he played with our Xmas gift, Teddy Ruxpin, until the batteries ran out and he had to run to May Drug for new ones. He could build anything from scratch and with no directions, and had an uncanny ability to bring a grown man to his knees with his handshakes. Most of you remember him as a strong, handsome, ridiculously talented athlete who loved Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles. The guy who could bench press a freakish amount of weight and could swing a golf club like a mack truck. I have lots of good memories of my dad to hold on to. Enough to carry on and allow them to eclipse the bad ones. In the summers, Nick and I would go to Dad’s sod farm and we would always stop at Circle K for a coffee for dad, and then to Carl’s Jr. for breakfast burritos. To this day, I cannot go through Carl’s Jr. without thinking about my dad. Unfortunately, my husband has heard the breakfast burrito story about 100 times, but still listens as though it’s the first time. When mom was getting her credential, we would go to a restaurant called Chicken Pot Pie every single week. We’d drink Kool Aid and play with the glittery placemats and Dad would try and force Nick to eat coleslaw. To this day, I still don’t think Nick has gone near a bowl of coleslaw. But I think my favorite memory was when I got my expander put in to prepare my teeth for braces. Dad told me we were going back to school and instead, surprised me with tickets to watch the Padres. I remember exactly how I felt standing behind the Padres dugout, tears in my eyes, thinking to myself, this is the best day ever. And to this day, Tony Gwynn will forever be my favorite baseball player because of my dad.

I’m not going sit here and tell you that life is short. That you have to forgive and forget. That you have to move past things and make amends with every person before time runs out. Because I just don’t believe that. And maybe that seems cynical, but I have learned a lot about forgiveness in the past few years. And while I do believe that your heart needs to let go of the power of pain, anger, regret, and sadness over your life, I also believe that there are times in your life when it is ok to forgive, and then let go of the source of that pain. Most of you here know the demons my dad struggled with, and when I sat down to write this…which began a few weeks ago, and actually didn’t get done until about an hour before this service, I went back and forth a dozen times on how to go about this. How do you write a goodbye to someone that you have been grieving for since you were 13? I find myself shifting between the amazing dad that I remember when I was little, and the person that I came to know as an adult. There are so many times that I sit and think, I wish my dad knew this part of my life. So…I decided that today, I would write my dad a letter.

Dear Dad,

I wanted to tell you a little about the people that Nick and I grew up to be. Let’s start with Nick because he is clearly the favorite. He is handsome and charismatic. He thinks he is a semi pro surfer. Everyone wants to be around Nick and he has a way of capturing people around him. Truthfully, he’s just “awesome”. There are times when his mannerisms remind me of you so much that I stop and stare. But there are so many things about Nick that make him uniquely and wonderfully different. He has integrity and he is a man of his word. He is still the sensitive guy I used to boss around when we were little, only he doesn’t really listen  to me as well as he did when we were kids. Somehow, he has convinced Mags to stick around with all of us. In fact, we jokingly talk about how we might actually like Mags more than Nick. She adds a beautiful extra kick to our already crazy family and I’m pretty sure half her intelligence is still ten times what any of us were born with. But she loves Nick with her whole heart, and we love her.

You have a beautiful granddaughter named Sage. She is still trying to figure us out, but I think so far she thinks we’re pretty cool. Her big brown eyes melt your heart and she is easily the coolest person in our family. She has Nick wrapped around her finger, and my favorite thing to do is listen to Nick tell stories of how our little Sagey girl is running the show that day. I think she would have been impressed with your bird sounds and something tells me that she would have been your right hand girl on the sailboat. Nick…he is the most amazing dad. I could watch him with her all day long, and I know that the way he looks at her, is the same way you once looked at us.

As for me…well, I’m a lot like mom. And yes, I am ok with that. I became a teacher and I love spending time with kids you probably would have called hoodlums…again, a lot like mom. These days though, most of my time is spent shuttling kids to a million places, making lunches, and cleaning up after little people. But I’m ok with that too. Cause being a mom has become the most precious gift I have ever been given. I met a boy, and he stole my heart. They say you marry someone like your dad and at first I was a little worried, but Ryan has all the best parts of what I remember about you.

You have a grandson. And he is the sweetest little soul. You and Grant would have spent hours in the garage building model airplanes, carefully and painstakingly applying every sticker and decal. I can see your eyes light up watching it fly high, and then laugh as you planned your next project. I think G would have given you a run for your money in building skills though.

You have two more granddaughters. Em is my sweet girl. She made me a mama, and now she’s giving me the same dose of teenage attitude that I gave you and mom. She sings like an angel, she’s goofy, and I just know the two of you would have played hooky from school and driven around in your old yellow jeep, windows rolled down, rocking out to loud music.

And then there’s Mack. That one. She would have kept you on your toes. But holy hell you would have loved her. I feel like you would have let her get away with anything and you would have danced the night away in the kitchen, foregoing bedtime every time you babysat. By the way, I’m pretty sure she and Sage are going to take over the world.

Mom. She is still mom, Woody to you, and hero to Nick and I. She drives us nuts and we antagonize her; but it is because of her that I can share all these wonderful things with you. Heads up, she might give you a hard time when she sees you at those pearly gates.

I think you would have been really proud of us dad. And while my heart hurts that these little humans that Nick and I are raising will only ever know of you in stories, I look forward to telling them all about the ways that each of them would have been your favorite. And that is how I will choose to remember you. The breakfast burritos, the yellow jeep, the pot pies, the sailboat rides, the Padres, the father daughter dance, pushing your mustache whiskers up into your nose, building a birdhouse and then laughing as I remember mom’s face when we told her “all the birdies flew away”. Losing you has taught me about the incredible love, forgiveness, but most importantly, the grace that God gives us. He loves us despite our flaws, our demons, and our pain. He sees us, and he calls us his own. And for that I am comforted. Because even if your last moments were those of pain and sadness, I know that Jesus called you his own, and that has helped me to understand how truly lucky we are in this life. So, until I see a bright light and I hear the angels singing “Hotel California”, I will keep my faith in knowing that the next time our eyes meet, they will be met with the unconditional love that a father has for his baby girl, and a daughter has for her dad. I love you and I miss you.

Skeeter