Saturday February 28, 1998 Richmond Hill, Canada
My Father's Eulogy
November 5, 1934- February 24, 1998
My Father's Eulogy
November 5, 1934- February 24, 1998
Lord Alfred Tennyson once wrote "It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at
all." More tragic than loving and losing however, is loving someone and losing them before you get a
chance, or better put, before you make the chance to tell them how much you really loved them.
It is also said that the people you love the most, are also the ones you hurt the most. Well, my father and I
loved to hurt one another; it didn't start like that however. My daddy was the person I loved the most as a
little girl. One day he left my brand new baby sister, my mommy and “me” to come to Cada. (my
pronunciation of Canada)
I remember sleeping on a pillowcase made out of one of his old shirts and
finding comfort in resting my cheek there because I know that the cloth had once touched his back
Somehow, it made the waiting to see him again easier. I knew if I kept the faith I would see my beloved
“taticu” (daddy) once again. Nothing made me happier or sadder than thinking about my father--this was
a feeling that would stay with me forever.
When my mother asked me to speak today, I was reluctant. I was afraid. Reluctant, because funerals
always bring out the best and the worst in people--true mourning and true hypocrisy and generally
eulogies tend to embellish the positive and minimize the negative. Afraid? I was afraid of standing here
and rhyming off pretty words that would mean nothing and bring empty and fleeting tears to our eyes in a
moment of general suffering and drama that we all feel. I was afraid, as usual, of disappointing my father.
If my dad hated one thing it was hypocrisy. He was an honest man, who spoke his mind and he had an
uncanny sense of detecting insincerity. He is here with us today, and he knows every person here who is
sincere and those who just came for the show.
My father gave me in death something I wasn't able to grasp from him in life--an incredible strength to be
myself and be unafraid to say what's on my mind in fear of what others may think. So, what I can tell
you is the truth--for that is what he would have wanted. He never believed in cutting corners, or doing
things the easy way--so I must honour him now as best I can, and tell you how I think he would want to
be remembered. I can't speak for my mother or my sister fully--for I do not live inside their hearts--
therefore I will take the liberty of telling you how I feel.
I wish I could stand here and weave a beautiful tale of a man whose life is spent and he attained all his
dreams and ambitions. I can't. I wish I could tell you that my father died knowing how much he was
loved. I can't. I wish I could tell you that he went peacefully in his sleep, I can't.
Instead ,I can tell you that my father died long before my sister and I rocked him on his death bed in that
stinking hospital room. His spirit left long before we talked him slowly and peacefully into Jesus'
embrace--
He lay there with tubes and machines and monitors gasping for breath oblivious to the pain yet stridently
aware of his spirit. I know he heard the last word I said to him," Taticule, luptate dace vrei sa stai si noi
o-sa avem grija de tine--dar daca nu poti -- dute incet, dute incet, incet la Dumnezeu. Shhhh, asa, asa,
dute taticule la Dumnezeu.” (Daddy, fight if you want to stay because we will take care of you, but if you -
-can't go slowly, slowly to God. Shhh, that's it, that's it, go to God, Daddy.)
As I urged him softly with my voice and we rocked him back and forth--we watched the lines on the
monitor becoming flatter and flatter and wider and wider till the straight line told us that our poor tortured
little mortal father had finally found peace.
My father may have physically died this week--but his will died slowly, and painfully throughout the last
decade. It killed my father that he wasn't able to provide for us , as he wanted to. The harsh realities of
being an immigrant in this country who spoke broken English yet who excelled at his profession took its
toll. The age of the computer robbed him of his professional prime and he became an older man left
behind by technology. He suffered a great deal and felt worthless.
I don't think we ever understood his pain, or made him know how much we appreciated what he had
already done for us. The greater the rift grew between us, the greater his pride became.
Pride can be a man's best friend, or his worst enemy and in my father's case, the roles alternated. He was a
man of vision who wanted to bring his family--his daughters, to Canada from Romania so they may have
a chance for a better life. He sacrificed his lifestyle in Romania to come here and started from nothing.
His pride brought him to a new country to make a stellar start for himself and his "girls"-- my mother, my
sister Jeni and I--but that same pride would sadly leave him a broken man many years later.
My father embraced Canada, but never let go of Romania ; hence the constant struggle. He dedicated his
life to providing for his family. He was a true family man. When the harsh realities of being an immigrant
in this country prevented him from doing so, he became bitter. I could tell you of happier times in my
childhood--but that wouldn't have meant so much to him. What he would want most would be for his
efforts to be publicly recognized by us, his family.
When I was little he once told me that a gypsy fortune teller in Romanian told him he would one day be a
"great man of importance" --to him that meant success in the material world. He struggled to attain that
goal and when he could not he withdrew within. I wish I could tell you Taticu, that your greatness was in
the breakfasts you used to make for me, in heating our cars in the morning and teaching us to ride bikes.
Your greatness took form in the way you tried so hard to find work, only to be defeated again and again,
Yet, you never gave up trying although your spirit gave up fighting.
Greatness comes in the form of believing in your convictions. In standing by your principles and in never
complaining. Your greatness came across in the way you believed in hard honest work. You always
believed I could write a book--yet I waited and waited--thinking there would always be time...
Your greatness came in the big smile you had for us if we did the smallest thing for you that showed we
cared. Thank-you for all the times, good and bad--for we know above all you loved your three girls.
Tonight we will go home and you will really not be there in body--yet your spirit will always be with us...
Once again, I will lay my head upon a cloth--this time it is the pillow case you slept on last week and I
will find bittersweet comfort that you slept on it just a little over a week ago.
As soon as I finish speaking, I am going home. I will not go to the cemetery. I know you would rather me
go home to prepare the food for our guests than to see you being put into the ground. So many times when
I would come home to cook for you , you would call mama and say, "Gloriuta a venit acasa, si gateste..."
(..."little Gloria" came home, and she's going to cook...)
Regret ravishes those left behind. I have big regrets and small ones. Just a few weeks ago you told me of a
singer you heard and liked--and I told you I had his CD. I promised you I would let you listen to it--and I
never did. For all the things I gave you and all the things I never could--listen to the song now and know I
will not rest until I feel you beaming with pride in heaven looking down at me. We love you daddy. Here's
your song.
(“Time to Say Good-Bye”, by Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman)
all." More tragic than loving and losing however, is loving someone and losing them before you get a
chance, or better put, before you make the chance to tell them how much you really loved them.
It is also said that the people you love the most, are also the ones you hurt the most. Well, my father and I
loved to hurt one another; it didn't start like that however. My daddy was the person I loved the most as a
little girl. One day he left my brand new baby sister, my mommy and “me” to come to Cada. (my
pronunciation of Canada)
I remember sleeping on a pillowcase made out of one of his old shirts and
finding comfort in resting my cheek there because I know that the cloth had once touched his back
Somehow, it made the waiting to see him again easier. I knew if I kept the faith I would see my beloved
“taticu” (daddy) once again. Nothing made me happier or sadder than thinking about my father--this was
a feeling that would stay with me forever.
When my mother asked me to speak today, I was reluctant. I was afraid. Reluctant, because funerals
always bring out the best and the worst in people--true mourning and true hypocrisy and generally
eulogies tend to embellish the positive and minimize the negative. Afraid? I was afraid of standing here
and rhyming off pretty words that would mean nothing and bring empty and fleeting tears to our eyes in a
moment of general suffering and drama that we all feel. I was afraid, as usual, of disappointing my father.
If my dad hated one thing it was hypocrisy. He was an honest man, who spoke his mind and he had an
uncanny sense of detecting insincerity. He is here with us today, and he knows every person here who is
sincere and those who just came for the show.
My father gave me in death something I wasn't able to grasp from him in life--an incredible strength to be
myself and be unafraid to say what's on my mind in fear of what others may think. So, what I can tell
you is the truth--for that is what he would have wanted. He never believed in cutting corners, or doing
things the easy way--so I must honour him now as best I can, and tell you how I think he would want to
be remembered. I can't speak for my mother or my sister fully--for I do not live inside their hearts--
therefore I will take the liberty of telling you how I feel.
I wish I could stand here and weave a beautiful tale of a man whose life is spent and he attained all his
dreams and ambitions. I can't. I wish I could tell you that my father died knowing how much he was
loved. I can't. I wish I could tell you that he went peacefully in his sleep, I can't.
Instead ,I can tell you that my father died long before my sister and I rocked him on his death bed in that
stinking hospital room. His spirit left long before we talked him slowly and peacefully into Jesus'
embrace--
He lay there with tubes and machines and monitors gasping for breath oblivious to the pain yet stridently
aware of his spirit. I know he heard the last word I said to him," Taticule, luptate dace vrei sa stai si noi
o-sa avem grija de tine--dar daca nu poti -- dute incet, dute incet, incet la Dumnezeu. Shhhh, asa, asa,
dute taticule la Dumnezeu.” (Daddy, fight if you want to stay because we will take care of you, but if you -
-can't go slowly, slowly to God. Shhh, that's it, that's it, go to God, Daddy.)
As I urged him softly with my voice and we rocked him back and forth--we watched the lines on the
monitor becoming flatter and flatter and wider and wider till the straight line told us that our poor tortured
little mortal father had finally found peace.
My father may have physically died this week--but his will died slowly, and painfully throughout the last
decade. It killed my father that he wasn't able to provide for us , as he wanted to. The harsh realities of
being an immigrant in this country who spoke broken English yet who excelled at his profession took its
toll. The age of the computer robbed him of his professional prime and he became an older man left
behind by technology. He suffered a great deal and felt worthless.
I don't think we ever understood his pain, or made him know how much we appreciated what he had
already done for us. The greater the rift grew between us, the greater his pride became.
Pride can be a man's best friend, or his worst enemy and in my father's case, the roles alternated. He was a
man of vision who wanted to bring his family--his daughters, to Canada from Romania so they may have
a chance for a better life. He sacrificed his lifestyle in Romania to come here and started from nothing.
His pride brought him to a new country to make a stellar start for himself and his "girls"-- my mother, my
sister Jeni and I--but that same pride would sadly leave him a broken man many years later.
My father embraced Canada, but never let go of Romania ; hence the constant struggle. He dedicated his
life to providing for his family. He was a true family man. When the harsh realities of being an immigrant
in this country prevented him from doing so, he became bitter. I could tell you of happier times in my
childhood--but that wouldn't have meant so much to him. What he would want most would be for his
efforts to be publicly recognized by us, his family.
When I was little he once told me that a gypsy fortune teller in Romanian told him he would one day be a
"great man of importance" --to him that meant success in the material world. He struggled to attain that
goal and when he could not he withdrew within. I wish I could tell you Taticu, that your greatness was in
the breakfasts you used to make for me, in heating our cars in the morning and teaching us to ride bikes.
Your greatness took form in the way you tried so hard to find work, only to be defeated again and again,
Yet, you never gave up trying although your spirit gave up fighting.
Greatness comes in the form of believing in your convictions. In standing by your principles and in never
complaining. Your greatness came across in the way you believed in hard honest work. You always
believed I could write a book--yet I waited and waited--thinking there would always be time...
Your greatness came in the big smile you had for us if we did the smallest thing for you that showed we
cared. Thank-you for all the times, good and bad--for we know above all you loved your three girls.
Tonight we will go home and you will really not be there in body--yet your spirit will always be with us...
Once again, I will lay my head upon a cloth--this time it is the pillow case you slept on last week and I
will find bittersweet comfort that you slept on it just a little over a week ago.
As soon as I finish speaking, I am going home. I will not go to the cemetery. I know you would rather me
go home to prepare the food for our guests than to see you being put into the ground. So many times when
I would come home to cook for you , you would call mama and say, "Gloriuta a venit acasa, si gateste..."
(..."little Gloria" came home, and she's going to cook...)
Regret ravishes those left behind. I have big regrets and small ones. Just a few weeks ago you told me of a
singer you heard and liked--and I told you I had his CD. I promised you I would let you listen to it--and I
never did. For all the things I gave you and all the things I never could--listen to the song now and know I
will not rest until I feel you beaming with pride in heaven looking down at me. We love you daddy. Here's
your song.
(“Time to Say Good-Bye”, by Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman)
Please connect. Let's cook up some goodness together!
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