(Back in 2001, I sought and found help for my mother here.  The posts
were entitled Wits End, PA.  She died a week ago today.  I delivered a
eulogy Friday morning at her funeral Mass, which I share today to offer
my thanks to this group, and any comfort it might offer to those on this
path.  Dad was Italian, Mom was not.  The rest is self-explanatory.)

Four years ago, I sat in this church for my father's funeral Mass. I did
not come up to speak, as I was at a loss for words, still in shock.
Today, I'm not in shock, but still searching for words.

Forgive me as I proceed. I am trying to make this about them and not
about me, but I only know them in relation to me. We all grow up
thinking everyone's parents are just like our own. When mom cooked
pasta, she would always bring a small dish to dad and ask
him if it were done. He'd say yes or not quite and dinner would be
served accordingly. When I was 20 or so, a friend asked me if mom hadn't
been cooking long enough to figure out on her own whether it was done.
Of course she had, but it was something I didn't understand at 20--a
ritual between the two of them, exchanging signs of respect and love.
There were so many other signs throughout the
years, most of which I would miss at the time.

At the start of 2001, Alzheimer's was just a word in a medical book to
me. In the middle of that year, I called from down south to wish dad a
happy father's day. Mom told me he was at the ballpark. When I called
back later that day, dad told me that mom had been mistaking him for her
brother who died in 1979. I called
some friends about this, and they suggested that mom be evaluated for
Alzheimer's. I told dad this, but he never did take her to the
doctor during the remaining two months of his life. I couldn't
understand why, but I think I do now. If you spend 60 of your 85 years
married to someone, you don't want to hear that you are losing them and
that there is nothing you can do. Signs of respect and love.

As a child, I would try to play one off against the other (Can I go to
the movies, dad? Mom says I can.), with miserable results. It seemed
like they always had their stories straight, their viewpoints aligned.
The other kids might be out playing on the street, but I would do my
homework first. If I brought home a test that I had gotten a 90 on, they
would go over the two questions I had gotten wrong. I was given a life
with strength and foundation. At the dinner table, dad would talk about
wanting to tell one S.O.B. or another off, and mom would hear him out
and calm him down. They always had one another's back--always.

Most families are built by biology.  PhilandBret--that's how I think of
them now, almost as one name, PhilandBret--built theirs
with a pen and a promise. I did not know this until 2001. My first
reaction was shock, of course. Most people have anger as a second
reaction. Mine was guilt--if only I had known how much they went out of
their way for me, if only I had known that I was their choice and not
their duty, I would've tried harder in life. I did search for and find
my birthmother, and thanked her for her loss and sacrifice, wishing to
thank Phil Sr. and Breatice all the time. I'm
not really sad that he and she are gone. After all, they are both now
whole and reunited. Sixty years together, four years apart, eternity
together--who here could not envy the luck they made? No, if I had a
reason to shake my fist at God this morning, it is that He didn't give
me the wisdom to fully thank them before they were
gone.

Perhaps the only way to thank them is by heeding mom's last words. They
sounded so familiar, that they could've been her first
words to me as well. When I went to the hospital on Saturday, mom was
saying a lot, but the words were mostly unintelligible, like
you'd hear from someone having a bad dream. However, when I leaned over
her to kiss her goodbye on the forehead, she looked at me and said,
"Stop goofing off."

I'll stop goofing off, now. Thank you, mom. Thank you, dad. Thank you,
God, for choosing them to be my mom and dad. Good people, when you leave
here today, I ask you to say the same to and of your parents.

-Phil Ruggiero, Jr.