Jump to content

Menu

My brother's eulogy.


Chris in VA
 Share

Recommended Posts

I hope you don't mind if I share the eulogy I presented on Saturday for my brother. It's written as I talk, not as I'd write. My father wrote a beautiful one, giving more "facts and figures" of his life--mine was just memories. I'd like you to know him, a bit. Thank you for supporting me during this time. I really appreciate you all. 

 

 

When I heard Isabela wanted to have a time of remembrance for Ken, I so wanted to share. The longer I sat in the quiet space of memory, the more those memories appeared, like stars coming out at twilight.

I came into Ken’s story when he was five, and he was nearly ten before my memories begin. We lived, by then, in a big white house on Brookdale Drive, in Cheshire;  a house with an enormous backyard that sloped down on one side into the Robinson’s property. I remember sledding down that hill, and Kenny using his toy skis with the bamboo poles—they made holes in the snow and the kids got mad at him, because they couldn’t sled with the holes all around, so he went inside, and I followed, because I knew Mom would have hot chocolate for us. Mark’s best friend was Mark Zarambo, Kenny’s was Patrick Dowd, and mine was Anita Ziermann, who was particularly interesting because she had a glass eye and a cat named Boos-a-Boos. I remember staying at Anita’s house while Mom did Cub Scouts with the boys, and the day I got to go as a tag-a-long, to the chicken hatchery. The baby chicks fell asleep in Ken’s hands.

I remember moving to Ohio when I was starting Kindergarten, and Ken was in 5th grade, and Mark in 6th. The house was blue this time, and next door was a woods we loved to tramp through. I remember Mom working at Penney’s, and in the summer the boys would babysit me. We’d have a list of chores to finish before Mom got home, and I was a challenge, because I cried at everything. Once Ken kept track, with a tally, and I think it was twelve times in one morning. And I remember our pool, and our dog named Sam…

And Oh! Christmas Morning was the best, because I was allowed in Mark and Ken’s room, which was sacred space. One doesn’t simply walk into one’s brother’s room. I’d come in clutching my stocking and they’d open theirs, because we got them in our beds on Christmas Eve, and that gave Mom and Dad a little time to sleep in. And even the dog got to come up, and then we’d go to the tree downstairs all together.

I remember finding out Ken had CF, and how he had to get his tonsils out, and how I was too little to visit him in the hospital, because in those days they didn’t allow siblings to visit. I stood in the parking lot and looked up, and he waved to me from the window, wearing his hospital gown. And I remember the sound of Dad clapping Ken’s side to loosen the mucus so he could breathe better, while he laid on a long board propped against the wall…and Ken’s mist tent, and Ken’s green pills…And still Ken was on the tennis team and made straight A’s and was still my brother, after all, and CF didn’t and couldn’t change that.

More houses, more moves, and Ken was off to college, and I was growing up. I sent him a care package with chocolate chip cookies, and Ken said his roommate told him they were so good he wanted to marry me—and then Ken told me he had someone he wanted me to meet.

And I remember watching Isa, as she faced my brother, just before he put the ring on her finger, and she realized she still had on her lovely, long gloves, and she playfully plucked them off each finger, like this—and he looked at her. And I knew they were perfect for each other, and I was so happy.

Both my brothers married extraordinary wives.

And I remember a really difficult time in my life, just after Hurricane Andrew, when that Hurricane seemed to enter my heart, and I called Ken, and he said,

“Well. Anything you need.â€

More stars…

I remember the generous act of a stranger meant Kenny could finally take a deep breath, and another, and another. And time stretched a bit, and let go of him a bit…

And Isa and Ken’s life was enriched by Zachary’s arrival, and then Sam’s. I remember meeting Zachary at my parent’s 50th Anniversary, and Ken saying, “Hey, watch this!†as he put Zach on top of his head and shook his hair on Zach’s belly, and Zach just chortled his baby laugh…and I knew Ken would be a wonderful Dad.

And I remember when the space between us grew too wide, and neither of us seemed able to bridge the gap, and oh, what we missed in each other’s lives, what time we wasted.

But,

I remember last January, on my birthday, when I answered the door and there was the most beautiful bouquet, and I took the card and read, “Happy Birthday! Love, Ken and Isabela, Zachary and Sam.†And my heart just broke open, and I knew I was remembered. And loved.

You could look at my brother’s life and say he got a raw deal—he was born with CF, he had to give up his career because of his health, he got cancer. Or you could see that he lived each day of his 59 years. He graduated with his Ph.D, got to work in Germany, married an amazing wife, raised two fantastic kids, helped many in the CF community, contributed to the lives of needy children, and was, in the end, a most kind and loving brother. And much more.

I don’t know the lessons Ken’s death will teach me, except this—

Live the life you are given—all of it, every moment. And, death will never be as strong as life.

They say death gets the final word, but I hear Ken’s life singing loudly in this room. And you are the stars of his life. And look how much light there is! Darkness will never overcome it.

I love you, Ken, and I will miss you. 

Edited by Chris in VA
  • Like 40
Link to comment
Share on other sites

My eyes are sweaty. Thank you for sharing these bits of your brother with us. That story about the Christmas stockings - I can practically see it. And the wedding with the gloves.

 

Hugs to you.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

 Share

×
×
  • Create New...