Eulogizing My Mother

I had a lot of time to think out in California over these last months.  I would lay in my bed at night in West Hollywood, sleepless, thinking about Mom, thinking about her life, thinking about different times we spent together as a family.  And I spent a lot of thought digesting everything that happened in this last nightmarish five months, all of the things she said and did when she was manic, what this cancer was doing to our family, wondering whether we should have fought it harder, whether it would have done any good, and what we were losing with the loss of Carol.

I found I wanted to eulogize her when the time came.  I wanted to take a shot at expressing what was important to her, what messages she would want us to carry forward into the future, from her legacy and the legacy of her parents and our ancestors who probably have influenced who we are more than we can know.

But how do you express a person's entire approach to life?  Should I take the responsibility for doing this onto my shoulders?  The answer kept coming back, "Yes".  Grieving or not, I was the best person to do it.  If I didn't, who would?  Pastor Wentworth has had a great relationship with my Mother, but it's not the same as someone who has known her intimately for 53 years, who "grew up with her", as Mom used to say we did.  She was so young and naive that she learned a lot as I learned it with her.  We were very good friends.

So here is my Eulogy for Mother.  I delivered it at her funeral today, holding together somehow enough to speak the words in front of her large "Rain Forest" of people who attended.

Eulogy for Mother

Delivered at Carol Lee Miller’s funeral December 28, 2011 by Rebecca Miller

Do you remember the first time you realized that your parent had a name other than, "Mommy" or "Daddy"?  I do.  

I was little, at the old farm house on Copley Road, standing at the counter while she washed dishes, reaching up to the counter, swinging one leg, saying, "Mommy, why did Daddy call you 'Carol'?"

"Because that's my name."

"No it's not, your name is 'Mommy'!", I exclaimed.

"No, my name is 'Carol', like your name is 'Becky'.  I am your 'Mommy' and you are my 'Daughter'.  A 'Mommy' is what I am to you.  I am your 'Mommy', but my name is 'Carol'".

"No, it's not!  Your name is Mommy!"  I insisted.

Well, I still want to own her, to keep her, to have her as mine, like I did 50 years ago.  But Carol belongs to the ages now, and her legacy reaches beyond what I could have imagined.

She taught me everything, from tying my shoes, to riding a bike, to holding my breath under water.  She answered a myriad of questions all through my childhood, with kindness and interest and truthfulness.  She helped me learn to bake bread, to embroider, knit, sew, and quilt.  She taught all of us to harvest vegetables, nuts and fruits, and how to preserve them by freezing or canning.  The number of things Mother taught me is un-ending and they have left a huge mark on my life, formed me completely, and helped to make me and my siblings the good people we are.  

Most of all, she taught us how to be independent, capable, and happy in life, how to look around at our blessings and thank God.  She cultured an attitude of gratitude that we still carry with us.  She sang happily around the house, she greeted Dad and us lovingly, she showed affection easily, and she was forever working, working, working, for us, her family - sewing, cleaning, canning, gardening, knitting, packing lunches, and organizing chore lists, back-to-school supplies, and camping trips.

That is how I saw my Mother in my long-ago memory.  Along with Abraham Lincoln, I think, “All that I am or hope to be I owe to my angel Mother.” 

However, these last months have taught me a lot more about Carol.  She kept a circle of friends that was broad, deep, and varied.  She and Dad have known how to maintain friendships for a long time, by visiting, calling, and writing.  They regularly "visited" in the old way people did, by dropping by when they were in the area, or by going out of their way to be in the area.  They would call, or not, and drop in and visit.  When we were kids, they'd load us in the car and "go visiting".  This is an art form that as a society we are fast losing.  Having 100 friends on Facebook is not the same as having a wide circle of friends that you visit regularly.

We all learned a lot about Carol when her tumors and swelling took the "filter" away between her unconscious brain and her mouth.  She started speaking things that were deeply buried, sometimes scary, sometimes hilarious, sometimes wonderfully creative, and sometimes silly, like Carol singing the OSU fight song and planning to "Dot the I" with the OSU marching band, something that her conscious mind would never have done.

The focus of her imagination, though, was her people.  The people in her circle, the folks she loved and visited and made quilts for - her "Rain Forest".  Carol told a story over and over about how a doctor at The James Hospital commented on how large the men in her family were, after seeing several standing outside her hospital room.  He said, "Those aren't men, those are trees, they're so big!"  That got her started on naming everyone in her "Rain Forest".  

"Come on, be in my Rain Forest!" she wrote.

"No Willow, no Sadness 

No Palm 

No Rats Allowed 

If you like, just giggle with us 

If you like, plant a tree"

Then she proceeded to name every person she knew and matched them with their "Tree Name", she called it.  She had great fun with this and wrote rafts of notes on the topic, and asked everyone around her, "What kind of tree do you want to be?"

Her great-grandson, Tristan, was a "Twismas Twee" which she always spoke with a giggle.  His twin brother Nathan was a "Nutmeg Tree", because they were born near Christmas.  David is a Redwood, Charlie a Sycamore, Chris a Sassafras, and me "The Moon Tree" - the really tall one on County Line that we climbed as kids.

Because these people were so precious to her, Chris and I suggested she make a visual chart of her Rain Forest.  Her personality at that time was so energetic and so powerful, you found yourself carried away by it, even if it was a little silly.  It was precious and precocious, a little child-like, and harmless, so we went with it.  

Because it is precious, I took the time to transcribe her rain forest, over several weeks, and I’ll make it available on the Blog.

I'm explaining all of this because I think it shows us the essence of Carol, of her caring for people, her concern for the lives and well-being of the people around her, and how her caring really knew no limits.  It extended to every last person she knew.

Are all of us as indiscriminate with our love?  Do we blanket so many people with our quilts?

I can feel myself growing bigger through this experience, shouldering the burden of loss, becoming ready to carry on the legacy:  Carol’s legacy.  She and Dad stepped up to follow their parents, the greatest generation, to carry their torch forward, to live their values, to be the good guys in the world.  Now it becomes more our duty since Carol won’t be here to do it.  The world needs her values and her goodness and generosity.   So let’s remember to pay it forward.  It matters what we do and how we behave with other people.   The crowd here today is a testament to that idea, that it matters, that Carol touched people’s lives in ways that mattered to them.

We all have gifts for others.  They may not be quilts, like Carol's, but we all have gifts for others.  Are we as generous with our gifts as she was?  

Shouldn't we be?

I think there's a lesson in her last days for us, now.  If I had swelling and tumors in my brain, and all inhibition removed, what would come out of me?  

Would it be a beautiful rain forest full of all of my loved ones?  Would it be random computer program code?  Bits of books I’ve read?  Knitted garments I wished I had made for family and friends?  Or bitterness for all of those who hurt me?  Would it be ugly and mean?  Would my brain, exposed, be as lovely as Carol's?

Would yours?

We are here today to honor Carol, to honor Carol's remarkable and hugely intelligent brain, and to honor her character.  She did not always have a joyous life.  She had a mother who didn't want her and let her know it.  But in spite of that rough childhood, her difficult baby deliveries, her health problems, and the setbacks she had with her auto accidents, head injuries and broken back, her character remained true and good.  She had faults, as we all do, but they were of the minor kind.  Her essence remained earnest and seeking to continue to find good in those around her, and to express the good in herself.

If I have an over-riding feeling of her during childhood, this is it: that she poured her goodness into me at every opportunity, and tried to withhold her meanness and faults.  Like all of us, she didn't always succeed - I distinctly remember a backhand full of dishwater when I stuck my tongue out at her once - but the point is she stayed gold.

And now, as Pastor Wentworth prayed, "Help us to remember that you are with her, Jesus, and that she has been your faithful disciple."

I'm still having a hard time letting her go, giving up that sense of her as "My Mother".  But she truly is Carol, and she belongs to God.  She never did belong to us. She was only on loan.  And what a wonderful life with her it has been.

Carol’s last words were to her daughter, Chris.  When Chris told her goodnight and said “I love you, Mom,” Mother answered back, “I love you, too.”  Chris said, “Sleep with Angels!”, and she said, “I will!”

Sleep with Angels, Carol.