We celebrated our Canadian Thanksgiving last week. It was lovely to have some of the children here for the weekend Sadly, they weren't able to all be here as one lives with her husband in Switzerland and two others were working. Regardless, it was a beautiful day and we were 10 around a table laden with plentiful food and decorated with autumn harvest decor. As my husband said the blessing I was struck by such a stab of grief that I almost doubled over in pain. This was the first major holiday that we've had were my father wasn't with us to say the blessing.
Loss is a part of life. We live (hopefully we live well), we die, we leave others behind. My grief is no more special than anyone else's. When we lose someone we love, we all hurt. My father passed away on May 16, 2019, so just a little over 5 months ago. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was extremely busy for the first few months after Dad's passing. Beyond that, I had to be strong, for my mom, my kids, my grandson, my husband (who has lost both of his parents since July 2018, within a 6 month period of each other)....there was no time to actually stop and process his death and deal with grief of my own.
But lately, the thoughts of loss and sense of despair at his passing have been pushing ever closer to the surface of my thoughts and I realized as I sat around our Thanksgiving table that the time had come to try to process his passing and the big hole he left in my life. I'm thankful that I had 51 years with him. I'm thankful that he was the man that he was. I'm thankful that I was able to be with him the last seven weeks of his life, from the time of a definitive diagnosis to his death. I wish I could have done more for him. Did he know how much I loved and appreciated him? I pray he did.
"For those who don't know me, my name is Carolyn Bateman and I am Bob's daughter.
Writing this eulogy is one of the hardest things I've ever done. Not because there isn't anything to say about Dad but because There's too much to say and I couldn't find the right words to encompass all that he was.
When my children were young people started wearing bracelets with the letters WWJD on them, they stood for What Would Jesus Do. But in my house the question wasn't What Would Jesus Do? It was What Would Poppa Do? Whenever any kind of problem, moral dilemma would arise; my kids knew, as did I, that whatever Poppa did would be the good thing, the kind thing and the right thing.
Tuesday night was difficult for me. I was really missing Dad and the grief felt overwhelming and soul crushing. When I told my friend Scott about it, he asked me one question "What Would Poppa Do?" Immediately I responded that he would have a good cry, pray, then go to sleep, knowing that tomorrow was a new day. His question brought instant clarity and was a reminder that Dad was still with me.
My Dad had an unshakable faith, even at the end of his life he knew that God was with him.
The day that he went into hospice I wept as I hugged him and he put his frail arms around me and whispered "Don't cry, I'm not gone yet and I'll always be with you". Whereas others would have been numb with fear he was comforting me, putting aside his own needs, as he had always done. He offered us all his unconditional love, his helping hands and the voice of reason. In his quiet way Dad made his voice heard. Dad knew words mattered and he chose them thoughtfully and carefully. When he spoke, he truly had something to say and people listened.
If anyone at church, work, in the neighborhood or in the family needed a helping hand we all knew what Poppa would do- he would be there to do whatever had to be done, no questions asked and no payment necessary. It didn't matter whether he had known someone for years, days or not at all. He was the go to guy. Ever resourceful, Dad had the knack of being able to find a solution for whatever problem you had. He was our own personal McGyver.
To Dad community was everything- the world was his family. No one was a stranger. In Dad's eyes we were all painted by the same brush- we were all children of God. He found value in people and relationships not in things or possessions.
Dad appreciated the subtle things in life and found joy in even the smallest things. And he loved to laugh. As everyone knew, Dad had the world's worst puns mastered, a trait some of my children have sadly inherited. As bad as they sometimes were we always had to laugh after our initial groans.
Dad instilled in me a love of the outdoors, a sense of right and wrong and the belief that no matter how bad things got I could get through it.
My cousin said something that perfectly illustrates my Dad's character. He said that Dad had the wisdom of Solomon and The patience of Job. The many sorrows and challenges that Dad faced in his life only seemed to solidify his faith and hone his strength, which he gladly shared with anyone who needed it.
The last nine days of Dad's life were fraught with unbearable suffering. But I believe that the closeness that was knit as friends and family alike sat by his side and surrounded him with our love and prayers, would have made the sacrifice worth it in Dad's eyes. Bringing people closer to God and to each other was something he always strove to do. Bringing us together was his last gift to we who loved him.
My father was my hero and my rock. The person I could always count on. On the drive back from what turned out to be Dad's last appointment in Ottawa he asked me again what the Oncologist had said at his appointment on April 3rd. I told Dad that the doctor had said that he only had months left. I began to cry and said that wasn't enough time. Dad took my hand and replied: "there will never be enough time". And he was right. All the time in the world wouldn't have been enough to tell him how much he meant to me or to repay him for of the love and care he gave to em.
Dad's quiet dignity and kind heart equaled a huge presence. And life is much emptier without him in it. I will miss him to the end of my days and am so thankful to have had him in my life. We are all blessed to have known him."
That was my eulogy.
I wish he was here.
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