My Last Eulogy Could Have Been My Own by David Molina

 My Last Eulogy Could Have Been My Own

I’m not sure how I got into the eulogy business, but it was burgeoning.  It seemed like I kept getting the call.  Someone dies (they don’t call), and I get a call  (someone else does that).  Dave, how would you like to give a eulogy?

Giving a eulogy wasn’t my favorite thing, but it wasn’t my least favorite thing either, and for many years I good-naturedly assented to a job that would cause most people to totally freak out.  When someone asked, I took it as a compliment, and in return I worked diligently to do the best job I could.

Part of the freaking out is having to maintain composure while speaking about someone whom you loved very much.  There is always a moment, even with diligent preparation, when your heart gets stuck in your throat.  I don’t cry very often, am not one to sob or weep,  that’s not the problem.  But at that certain moment your heart heats up, and your voice and your lips begin to quiver.  Well, that is a moment where you can totally lose it, and then have to dig your way out of that hole. Besides being embarrassing, it can waste a lot of good people’s time. I try not to do that, and so far I have been able to push through and keep going when that moment came.

I spoke at my grandfather’s and grandmother’s funerals. I also delivered my Dad’s eulogy. I had a lot to say about him, and when the moment came, I got past it and pushed on to the finish.  The best moment of all is when you are done. You have spoken truth, spoken with all of your love and emotion, you’ve faithfully delivered on your promise, just as my Dad had always done. All the butterflies, tension, and anxiety that I walked with up to front of the church suddenly and completely vanished after my final word was spoken. At that moment, a wonderful feeling of peace envelopes me.  It is as if I am feeling a long, deep embrace from my Dad. At that moment, all the other moments are worth it. 

When my Mom passed, my family assumed I would speak, and I assumed the job. No surprises there. In the days prior to her service I began gathering memories and experiences in my mind, figuring I would sort them out and arrange into a narrative.  

My Mom had been in hospice in Arizona, being cared for by my sister Terrie and her husband Dante. It was clear she was on the decline, and pneumonia combined with a broken hip was insurmountable. I had visited her the week before and said what I knew were goodbyes. When the word came, it was no surprise. I went to work crafting the words that would send her off. I had done this before, I knew how to handle this.

But did I really?  I wondered about myself.  How come I can go about this task in a business-like manner?  I just lost my mother.  I felt I was in a strange sort of twilight zone.  Why was I not feeling what I was supposed to be feeling?  Why could I not cry tears?

Another weird thing that was happening was that I seemed to be procrastinating. It was the day before her memorial and I had not written a word. Don’t worry, I told myself. That will come easily enough once I start.  I’ll do it this evening. The evening came and went. No worries, I will wake up at midnight and get it done.  

At midnight I sat there looking at a blank sheet of paper for a good while.  At one a.m. I started writing.  It was not flowing the way it usually did, it was more of a struggle. I back-tracked and rewrote, added and subtracted, and still it seemed incomplete. By this time it was four in the morning.  I could polish it when I woke up after six.

Now from a distance, I recognize my Mom was not an outwardly emotional woman.  Of course she had deep feelings, like everyone, but she grew up learning to bury them.  Like many of her family and generation she was a woman of discipline and duty.  The eldest daughter, and the mother of six children, she was always the one responsible.  She had a job to do.  I had only one memory of her letting loose and weeping, and as a young child I found that extremely harrowing and incomprehensible.  As a mother, she knew everyone counted on her to be in control, and she was, except that one time.

And at six a.m. on the morning of her funeral I wasn’t. I woke up with a pain in my chest. That was strange.  The only chest pains I had ever experienced had been after two hours of running on the soccer field in the Los Angeles basin smog. Here I am - first thing in the morning with chest pain, with absolutely no physical activity.  My eulogy was finished and typed up. We were supposed to be at St. Bruno’s at 10.

My wife and I were staying in a hotel in Fullerton twenty minutes away.  I was concerned about my pain, however I knew that if I told Maria, she would be having a heart attack too.  So I said nothing, thought to myself - we’ll just have to see how this plays out.

An hour later, no change.  So now I start thinking - the smart thing to do is to stop by the Emergency Room at St. Jude’s Hospital down the street.  That’s what I would tell anyone they should do.  But I thought once you go through those double doors you’ll probably spend half a day there, even if everything checks out fine.  And if that happens, who is going to give the eulogy?

All this is going through my head as we are getting showered and dressed, as if everything is normal.  The only person in the world who knows about this is me.  And I’m not talking.  I’m running through scenarios in my head ranging from What if I go to the service and keel over there?  To What if it is just gas?  I have never been much of a hypochondriac, if anything I under-think medical issues.  Lump on my head?  Yeah, it’s always been like that.

So given the choice of keeling over and spoiling my Mom’s eulogy versus going to the ER for a very expensive series of tests that show I’m fine and then having to explain that’s why I missed the funeral,  I choose not the most rational but the least embarrassing of the two.  After all if I die at the funeral, I won’t care.  I’ll be dead.  Whereas if I go to the ER everyone will know I was a nervous Nellie and thought more of my own personal safety than sending off my Mom.  If this makes no sense to you, that’s good.  You are processing this whole thing much better than I was, congratulations.

So I walked through door number one which was the double doors of St. Bruno’s, not the double doors of St. Jude.  The eulogy went well, I made it through the moment and pressed on to the finish.  The wonderful moment of peace after the final word cured my chest pain, which really was my heart aching, the whole time.

I never cried for my Mom, and I thought that was strange.  Was there something wrong with me?  No, I never cried until the next day.  I rounded a corner,  just randomly, not even thinking about anything.  It suddenly hit me, out of the blue.  I stumbled to my knees and just wept, cried and cried, probably a gallon of tears.  That had never happened, ever.  But that’s what I did. 

I wept, because I realized I was my mother’s son.

 

Assassin's Escape by Mark Farenbaugh

Assassin's Escape

by 

Mark Farenbaugh

     “Where is he?” asked the U.S. ambassador. 

    “In the main Quito jail, Madam Ambassador,” answered the Regional Security Officer (RSO) of the U.S. Embassy in Ecuador.  The RSO has the responsibility to advise the ambassador and the embassy of the security situation for Americans in the foreign country.

     “Do they know he has diplomatic immunity?” the ambassador asked the Chief of the embassy consulate.

    “Yes ma’am.  But they wouldn’t release him nor let us talk to him.  We did see him through a window.  He looks okay and not hurt.”

    “How did this happen?” asked Lieutenant Colonel George Smith, base commander at Manta.

 His deputy, Lieutenant Colonel Manny Garcia responded. “His brakes failed and he rear-ended a taxi. The absolutely drunk passenger got out of the right side of the taxi and walked around the back of the Deputy RSO’s Ford Explorer and then walked up to the open driver window. He reached in, grabbed a handful of hair, and started bashing the driver’s face into the steering wheel until the Deputy RSO nearly lost consciousness.  As he was losing it, his final reflex was to pull out his gun and shoot the drunk and enraged man.  The taxi driver departed the scene after hearing the shot.  The deputy recovered somewhat, then, called the US embassy. Unfortunately, the local police got there first and took him into custody.”

     “When was that?” 

    “Sir, that was the day before yesterday,” Colonel Garcia continued. “However, I just heard that the Quito police department released him this morning to the RSO chief.  Under orders from the ambassador, he was taken directly to the airport and he departed the country on the first available flight.  No passing by his home. No saying goodbye to the family.  But he made it out.”

     Within a day, the front page of the Ecuadorian newspapers read: ‘Asesino de EEUU Escapa de Ecuador - No Hay Justicia’  [US Assassin Escapes Ecuador - There is no Justice].  The article read that a good citizen was mercilessly shot for no reason. We knew better. The dead man was the son of a rich family; a loser dropout with a long history of violence who decided to beat up an innocent American who disrupted his day.

     A month later… 

    Lt Col Smith’s cell phone rings.

    “Hello, Lieutenant Colonel Smith.”

    An agitated voice said, “Sir, I’ve been in an accident.  There is another guy here.  I’m in the back of a truck.”  The words spilled out in a confused torrent.  “I don’t know where we are.  I don’t know where we are going.  I called the states.  I don’t feel well.  The car flipped.  I don’t know what do to.”   

    It was a call that all commanders hate.  A phone call for help without knowing what, where, how, and who was driving.  A huge mess was about to unfold….

     “Captain, stop talking,” he interrupted. He had immediately recognized the voice. “Tell me if you are bleeding.”

     “No sir, I don’t think so.”

    “Are you in pain? Any broken bones or severely bruised muscles?” 

    “No sir.”

     “Can you tell me if the driver can hear you?”

    “Yes sir, he can.”

    “Ask the driver where he is going,” Colonel Smith had to find out the destination before the Captain passed out.

    “Jipijapa,” responded Captain Drew Bailey. It was a weirdly named, small town on the main road between Guayaquil and Portoviejo. The name was so strange that the commander knew exactly where it was. The hard part was to find out where the captain was in relation to it. 

    “Listen, Drew.  Ask the driver how far he is from Jipijapa.”  The answer came quickly enough.

    “Okay.  Stay calm, I am going to send someone to get you.  It will be our flight surgeon in our ambulance with another person who is bilingual.”

    “Yes, sir.  Thanks.”

   “Who have you called?  Who else knows about this?”

   “I called my boss in the U.S. but had to leave a message. He should be calling me back any minute,” said the nervous Captain.

    “Don’t take the call,” ordered the commander. “In fact, do not take any other phone calls except from me, that’s an order.”

     “How much of a charge do you have left on your cell phone?”

    “It has half a charge left.”

    “Okay, you will be alright. I’m sending the ambulance right now. Drew, let me know if anything changes and when you get to Jipijapa.”

    “Yes, sir,” and the Colonel hung up.  Shit. The next phone calls were to round up an ambulance driver, the doctor, and his deputy. He had to get moving on this before it went sideways.

    “Where is he?” asked Colonel Garcia.

    “He is on his way to Jipijapa and should be there in about 45 minutes.”

    The ambulance with the doctor headed out.  It would take them 90 minutes to get there.

Colonel Smith’s cell phone rings.

    “Hello.”

    “Sir, we are at a clinic in Jipijapa, but they are transferring us to Portoviejo in an empty ambulance. It has two small beds in it. The other guy is still unconscious. His leg looks bad.”

    “Okay, I’ll divert our ambulance.  Try to find out which hospital they are taking you to.”

    “Sir, I am getting a lot of phone calls.”

    “Don’t answer them,” directed the commander.

    Headquarters in Arizona was leaning forward and wanted to know what was going on.  Colonel Smith had to manage the number of incoming calls on his own cell phone.

    “Hello, Lieutenant Colonel Smith.” He had to take this one.

    “Colonel Smith, I heard that Captain Bailey has been in an accident.  He is not taking my phone calls. What is going on down there?”  It was Colonel Smith’s boss.

    “Ma’am, you heard correctly. I am trying to get to the captain with our own doctor. They are en route with our ambulance. I have ordered him to only take calls from me. If we lose contact with him, we may lose him entirely.”  Colonel Smith hoped that would be enough to stall micro-management from afar. He had a big enough mess on his hands already.

He added, “I may need your help.”

   “Sure, what do you need,” perked up the Colonel.

   “Please ask the legal office if our flight surgeon can operate on an Ecuadorian.  A person was injured in the same accident, possibly the captain’s fault.  He is unconscious and being transported by the local Ecuadorian ambulance with our Captain.”

    “Okay, I’ll get back with you.” They both hung up.

    

    Eventually, the U.S. ambulance found the Captain.

    “Hello George,” said the doctor. “Our captain is fine.  No issues.  But I have taken a look at the other guy.  His leg has had severe trauma and is hemorrhaging internally.  I can try to save the leg, but need your permission.”

    Colonel Smith hesitated, “I thought you would say that.  I already asked for legal permission.  The answer is to walk away.”  

 

     There was silence at the other end of the line.

    “George,” protested the doctor, “If I don’t do something, he won’t last a week. He’ll lose the leg, and then possibly his life. If I can work to save the leg, he might be able to get to Quito and get the advanced operation he needs. I’d like to try give him that chance while I’m here.”

    There was a long period of silence before the commander spoke again, “Doc, I know you took an oath.  And I can understand your situation.”  Another long pause.

   “If you can keep this inside.  I mean, keep it to yourself and not tell anyone. Then, do what you can.”  Another pause. “I doubt you’ll find all the emergency equipment you need, but that is up to you.  No one knows about this conversation.  You’ll need to do what doctors do without getting any credit for it.”

    “Thank you, sir,” said the doctor, “I need about two hours.”

    “I’ll make sure the ambulance has a flat tire,” said the commander.

    

Two weeks later…

    “Why haven’t you curtailed his assignment and returned him to the United States?” Colonel Smith challenged the two headquarters OSI agents visiting the Ecuadorian base in Manta.  The Office of Special Investigations owned Captain Bailey and used him to investigate stolen U.S. property and assess any threats to American soldiers. 

    “Sir, we understand how you feel, but the captain simply had the misfortune of being in another accident. We can’t release him from his duties when it was clearly an accident,” said the Office of Special Investigation’s Chief.

     “Wait, how many accidents has Captain Bailey been in?” asked the commander.

    “Five others. But they were very minor fender benders and were also ruled as accidents,”

    “Guys, you know I have no say in this,” continued the flustered and frustrated Colonel, “But, not removing him after knowing that he has been a piss-poor driver, is negligence. What if the guy he hit, dies?” The Colonel stared out the window. “The country can put him on International Hold and the Embassy will be pissed.  They already had to evacuate one of their own for acting in self-defense.”

    “Yeah, we heard about that,” nodded the RSO chief, “But, we think this accident is not that serious and it will simply blow over.”   The conversation ended.

 

Two weeks later, the one-legged Ecuadorian, died of infection.   The papers read: “Asesino EEUU Mata Otro Inocente Ecuatoriano.”  [U.S. Assassin Kills Another Innocent Ecuadorian]

 

     The following week, Colonel Smith was conducting his long and typical Monday morning briefing, when his cell phone rang. “Colonel, this is Captain Bailey.  I’m at the airport trying to get to my flight back to the U.S., but they won’t let me depart.”

    “Why not?”

    “Well, they say there is a court order that says I cannot leave and they seized my passport and won’t give it back.” The nervous Captain started speed talking, again. He seemed out of breath. It was apparent that he was walking fast.

 

   “They keep saying they don’t know anything.  They called the police.  But I didn’t do anything!  I’m going back to my apartment.  I called the embassy and they don’t have any instructions or information.  I called the RSO main office. They don’t know anything either.  No one will help me. They aren’t giving me any direction…….”

    “Captain,” interrupted the Colonel, “Where are you?”

     “In Guayaquil.”

     “Go back to your apartment.  Lock the door.  Stay there until I can find out what is going on.  Do not venture out for anything, even food.  Do you understand?”

    It only took a minute when the commander’s cell phone rang.  It was the embassy lawyer. 

 

     “Colonel Smith, how are you?”

    “Fine sir,” responded the commander, “By any chance are you calling about our Captain Bailey?”

    “Yes sir. He has been placed on International Hold and cannot leave the country.  An Ecuadorian judge has charged him as guilty of killing an Ecuadorian traveler at a bus stop and has sentenced him to 5 years in jail. I’m surprised they didn’t pick him up when he tried to leave the country. I wonder where he is at the moment.”

     The Colonel didn’t volunteer any information.  “Do you know what the ambassador wants to do?” 

 

    The lawyer didn’t volunteer any information.  They exchanged pleasantries and hung up.

Midnight.

   “Hello George,” said the commander of the military group in Quito. “How are you doing?”

    “Fine sir,” returned the wakening Col Smith.  He knew that Colonels don’t call late at night for pleasantries.

    “I need your buy-in.  The ambassador says that this mess with the captain is ours to deal with.  They don’t want to use diplomatic immunity like they did before.”

    “I understand, sir.  What do you want me to do?”

    “Let’s get him out. Create a cover story.  Be creative.”

    “No problem, sir.  Please get me an airplane. But I would like to keep the Captain’s whereabouts to myself.  Is that okay?”

    “No problem, George. My Lieutenant Commander will take it from here. Good night.”

    “Good night, sir.”

    The next day, Colonel Smith departed before sunrise to Guayaquil and the captain’s apartment.

  

    “Captain, I am taking you to Manta.  To my apartment.  Only pack enough clothes for a couple days.  Use bags or a pillowcase; no suitcases. Leave your cell phone on the charger, but leave it here.”

     The girlfriend looked surprised.  She was an educated and very attractive lady.  

    “Can I bring her?”

     “Of course, but not with her cell phone. It has to stay here as well,” the commander continued, “If we are followed, we are going to have to leave her at a hotel where she can find her own way home. Then, we will head south and try to get across the Peruvian border.  Everyone good with that plan?”  They left the apartment and got into the commander’s SUV.

     The commander then made a brief call to Lieutenant Commander Pierce of the embassy. 

“The patient is not feeling well, and we are moving her to another comfortable clinic.”  He always preferred to change the sex of the main character when using phones.

    “Understood,” responded the Lieutenant Commander.  He was following the story they had constructed.

    The three-hour drive to Manta went well, and soon they were all parking in the underground garage of the Colonel’s hotel. Safe for now.

    “You two must stay inside.  Order food from downstairs.  No venturing out onto the balcony and stay away from the windows.”

    Another call was made to the Lieutenant Commander of the embassy. Patient transport was complete, all was well.

Two days later.

    “Hello Colonel Smith,” said the Deputy Commander of Headquarters in the states. “I understand you need an aircraft.  What for?”

    “Yes sir, I do,” responded Colonel Smith, “But, the mission is just as vague as the reason they told you before you called.  May I keep it vague for now?”

    “I get it. You can have the C-130.”   There was one parked on the ramp at Manta.

     “Thanks sir.”

    Colonel Smith called the deployed C-130 commander late that evening.

    “I need you guys to fly tomorrow morning.  Special orders from HQ.  Please fuel up the aircraft with enough to get you to the US.  I’ll brief you in the morning.  Is that doable?”

    “Yes sir.  We’ll be ready to fly by 1000 hours.” The C-130 commander knew that he wouldn’t be getting a call from a commander in the middle of the night for no good reason.

    “Let’s go,” Colonel Smith said, motioning to the door.  The girlfriend had to go her separate way. The look on her face showed abandonment and she had no cell phone to connect her to her shattered world.

    When the commander entered his office with the Captain, the C-130 commander was waiting. 

 

    “The plane is ready, sir.”

    “Please start your engine run up,” replied Colonel Smith, then added, “This is Captain Bailey.  He is your cargo.  Please do not add him to your manifest until you are out of Ecuador.  If you are asked by that nosey Intel Ecuadorian that always snoops around, tell him you have broken equipment that needs to be repaired in the States.”

    “Yes, sir,” said the commander as he departed the office.

Colonel Smith walked out to the tarmac alone, checking for anything unusual.  He could see the Ecuadorian Intel soldier watching the engines of the C-130 starting.

    What luck. There on the ramp was a US Navy Nightingale 727, getting fueled.

    Colonel Smith turned to his deputy, “Say, could you ask that aircraft commander if he has a moment?”

    “Sure,” Colonel Garcia said.  He knew exactly what the commander was thinking.  Bait and switch.

    “Hello sir,” Colonel Smith greeted the Navy pilot-in-command.  “Could you please do us a favor and take a passenger to the States with you?  He is a US Air Force officer in civilian clothes.”

    “No problem, sir. I’ll send my crew chief over to get him.”

     “Thanks.” Colonel Smith turned to his deputy with a new idea, “Let’s put him in a borrowed flight suit and get him in that Navy plane, pronto.  Hold the C-130, with engines running.  When the Nightingale is airborne, tell the C-130 guys to shut down. Mission complete.”

    “Yes, sir!”

   

 Colonel Garcia made another call to the Lieutenant Commander of the embassy when the Nightingale 727 was airborne.

    “The patient has recovered well.  She is safe from any danger.”  Saying the word ‘recovered’ meant that the cargo was in an airborne aircraft.  The type of aircraft was of no importance.

    “Thank you, sir.  Good news.  I’ll let family know.”