- As the oldest child, I often felt responsible for my siblings and my parents.
- When my dad died, none of my siblings wanted to write a eulogy.
Like many oldest children, I grew up taking care of my siblings — and sometimes my parents. As adults, we'd mostly renavigated our relationships, but I wasn't prepared for the pressure to be responsible for them that surfaced when my dad died in October 2020.
During our week of planning we discussed a eulogy, but nobody wanted to commit to giving one. Because of our relationship with him, it was too fraught. Ultimately, I tackled it so nobody else would have to.
We planned a service
We held a memorial service at the gymnasium in the community I grew up in, a religious cult known as Mother of God.
My dad hadn't wanted a service, but it was important to my mom, and the space was large enough for the people we expected to come. She also felt strongly about having a grave, so she took care of getting a plot.
We interred some of his ashes; the rest are sitting on my shelf, waiting to be scattered at the Chesapeake Bay, where he wanted them to go.
Writing the eulogy was the hardest part
We avoided talking about a eulogy until the night before the service. We'd gathered at my house to put together Chinese takeout containers filled with things our dad loved: bad puns, magic-trick supplies, yo-yos, and Tootsie Rolls.
As we went over last-minute details, it became clear that nobody wanted to speak the next day.
The service was in a community that none of us loved, and we felt conflicted about speaking about my dad. Would we talk about our disappointments? His lies? The harm he'd done to us?
I decided that as the oldest, I needed to step up. But I didn't know what to write.
I asked one of my sisters if she'd meet me early the next morning at a Panera near her to talk through ideas. Over coffee, we discussed what I could say. I took notes and then drove 30 minutes back to my house to get ready.
I wrote the eulogy from the passenger seat while my other sister, who'd flown in, drove to Mother of God, 45 minutes away.
I sent my draft to a friend who'd agreed to print it for me. When she arrived, I wrote some final lines.
I was nervous, but I felt good about what I'd written. It was true, honest, and kind.
Ninety minutes later, when I spoke to the people who'd gathered, I honored my dad — but I also honored who I wanted to be in the world.
I wouldn't make a different choice today
It turns out the pressure to take care of my mom and siblings was a gift. The bad things about my dad are easy to remember, but now I have 1,000 words that speak to the good things about him.
Three years later, I still reread the eulogy and laugh and cry at the stories I captured.