Collectibles

Eulogy 1

Both of my parents died this week. Married for a decade, divorced for 44 years, died twenty hours apart. First my dad in his bed in New Jersey after a long struggle with immense pain, a couple amputated toes and a very uncomfortable catheter. That was Wednesday afternoon. He was 96.

On Thursday morning the call came that my mom died. She was 91. We’d just moved her from the hospital into a care home. She’d recently been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and then, not to be outdone by a few malignant tumors, had a massive stroke. I rode with her and the two paramedics to the hospital, hitting every pothole, siren blaring.

As soon as she was in the hospital she begged to leave—first to go home, up to the third floor of her townhouse where her favorite chair was. Then she begged to go just about anywhere that wasn’t the hospital. She wanted to get to a comfortable place to die. Needed it like a fix. She nagged like a child.

I pictured her flying out the sixth floor hospital window riding on the back of a dragon, or a supernaturally gifted nurse, gown ties and plastic cords trailing in her wake. She was on a mission.

My mom and dad both died in their sleep after losing their appetites for days. Both tiny, gaunt, papery. Like something you could slip into an envelope.

I’m an orphan now.

And yes I did offer to say some words at each of their memorials. My dad’s is tomorrow. My mom’s, next week. Since volunteering to a write a little something I’ve been wracking my brain. Many of you already know that I had a complicated relationship with my parents. And yet in the end, if you have just a little bit of wisdom and an open heart, the tenderness shakes loose and you finally see your crumpled parents like the innocent humans they are—that they always were.

Not to say they didn’t fuck up massively. But that’s not what eulogies are about.

When I woke up this morning to let the dogs out, it came to me. I’m only focusing on my dad now. That’s my first deadline. The theme—Collectibles.

My dad and me, vacationing at the Concord Hotel in the Catskills, 1981.

We passed an antique store. I was his passenger like always. Maybe we rode in an Oldsmobile, Buick or a Cadillac Seville. Or maybe that weird little outlier— his navy blue Chevy Chevette. It was much harder to pretend I was an astronaut in a tin can hatchback.

He pointed out the word “collectables” on the sign. Said they’d spelled it wrong. “Should be an i. Not an a.” I took it in. Never forgot it. A small lesson, but symbolic of who my dad was—not only a seasoned collector, but a master of details.

Over my 55 years I watched and witnessed my dad’s many collections. I remember him writing a list of them in weepy blue ball-point on a pad of white paper the size of a prescription pad. “Over a hundred, babe,” he said proudly. He wrote in tiny block letters, much neater than what we typically expect from doctors.

He collected coins, stamps, antique ads, Mickey mouse figures, postcards, Lincoln and Truman memorabilia—Truman was his favorite president. So many more—too numerous to list. He kept them all meticulously organized in stacks and rows and grids, until they needed their own rooms. When I got older I fantasized an art installation—all of his collections laid out like an enormous patchwork quilt—in a pristine white gallery space. In Memoriam…

When I was little he took me to the International House of Pancakes. They had a promotion then—collectible magnets of all the football teams. First you got your magnet board—One side red and the other blue—AFC and NFC. Each time you returned you received a football helmet to fill in the grid. It was my first real collection. Just like Dad. If I were more careful like he was, I’d still have it now. But it’s long gone.

The Dolphins was my favorite. Photo credit: eBay

Dad and I collected darker things too. Grievances. Ours was a complicated relationship, dotted with resentments and hurt feelings, upsets and grudges. In tandem we packed our grievances into little cardboard boxes, lined them up on wooden bookshelves. Tucked them into glassine envelopes.

Our dark collections separated us for spans of time but they also united us. We were far more alike than different.

Over time, slowly at first and then maybe all at once, we offloaded our tribulations. They grew too heavy a burden—monotonous and exhausting—so we lightened our loads, keeping only what made us happy. Eventually we saw each other through clear eyes. We traded our darkness for time spent together.

It wasn’t enough. It never is. I squandered so much. But the takeaway is infinite and instant, like the flash of delight in his eyes when I’d arrive with my family for a bite. I won’t lose that collectible. With an i.

Rest easy, Dad. I love you babe.

💙