Two Eulogies

A journal entry by Zane Callahan, dated 2/13/19:

Gracie’s gone.

For once, she gets a lucky break.

Gracie’s suffered from the beginning. She’s been repeatedly flung through the wringer for fun. Life or Fate – or whatever Being sits in the driver’s seat – has had it in for her from the start.

Mom was already at a “risky” age when she had me, let alone Abel. But they wanted a girl. The docs told them it wasn’t wise, that her pregnancy with my brother had already been irresponsible. They tried for another year, and no dice. Everyone gave up…us boys would have to do.

Nine years later, along comes this miraculous accident. It was supposed to be impossible. Mom was supposed to be too old. This little girl was never supposed to be here. But she was conceived and brought to term and lived. Well, that must’ve pissed Somebody off because all her life, Gracie was made to pay for the undeserved gift of having been brought into the world.

At first, the payback was small. A hearing impairment here. A reading disability there. Prickly thorns in her side that made every little thing that much more inconvenient, that much more irritating. But we learned sign language. Dad sold his car and paid for some extra tutoring. We got by.

Gracie was 12 when she broke her back.

She’d been left stranded at the tutor’s, so her instructor agreed to give her a lift home. The drunk driver that plowed into them killed Gracie’s instructor on impact and paralyzed her from the waist down. Welcome to a new normal. Dad usually picked her up, but that afternoon, the buses were backed up real bad. Of course, he would’ve had his car if he hadn’t sold it to pay for the tutor. Mom could’ve picked her up, but she used to see a shrink back then. Of course, she wouldn’t have needed counseling if the precious daughter she had prayed for hadn’t been born with certain…complications. Us boys could’ve helped, but I’d moved to LA long before that and Abel was at university.

Gracie was 20 when she lost the love of her life.

With all the odds stacked against her, Gracie managed to graduate with honors, alongside this kid named James. They both studied education in college and fell in love somewhere along the way. They planned to get married afterward, too. James knew all the difficulties in front of them, but there was no changing his mind. Abel called James a saint. So, James jumped on a train to pick up the ring, but the Express pulled up short of Braddock. The engineer was texting, at least that’s what the news said. Otherwise, how do you blow through two red signals to find yourself face to face with a freight train?

Gracie was 26 when she was diagnosed with cancer.

Leukemia is an old man’s disease, so there’s no rationalization for the question that haunts us still. Why her? Chemotherapy didn’t work. Radiation didn’t work. Her only chance was a transplant. I cursed her odds…why would this tragedy be any different than the others? But I was wrong! They found a match in the marrow registry! A miracle! Salvation! Except that one month before the transplant procedure, the would-be donor pulled out. With the chance to save a life at his/her fingertips, the donor retracted. Gracie died three months after that.

I’m sick about it. Not only that Gracie’s gone – and that’s reason enough to be sick – but that when Abel called to tell me, I felt…relieved. There’ll be a funeral tomorrow and a million sullen faces sharing their condolences. All I’ll be thinking? At least her torture’s been ended. At least her luck has finally improved. At least she’s finally been granted mercy.

I love you, sis, and I’m sorry that life was so cruel.

You didn’t deserve a bit of it.

* * * * *

A journal entry by Abel Callahan, dated 2/15/19:

Dearest Gracie,

Remember when I held your hand the last night you fell asleep? Remember when I asked how you dealt with tragedy after tragedy? Remember when you told me there was a reason for all this – you, the one in the hospital bed, comforting your suffering family in the midst of your own mess?

Sis, I think you were right.

Suffering Grace.

Have you heard that phrase before? I hadn’t until the funeral yesterday. One of your nurses said you suffered gracefully. I didn’t know that was possible. She said she asked you if you hated your donor. “There’s someone out there who needs her marrow more than I do.”

Did you really say that? HOW could you say that? Mom, Dad, and I were fuming when the donor turned her back. You were on the brink of a life-saving procedure! That person effectively killed you! You would’ve been forgiven for hating them. But no, what do you do? Defend this perfect stranger with the benefit of a doubt. The nurse said she was inspired by your answer, inspired to forgive her own sister…I guess they a falling out 20 years ago.

That story gave me pause.

I wonder if I owe it to you to square things with Zane. You found a way to share a huge piece of your heart with this stranger who could’ve saved you. Why can’t I find an ounce of courage to do the same…with our brother no less?

Oh, but you’re chock full of surprises, aren’t you?

James’ mom was at your service, too. “Suffered in a way true to her namesake,” she said. She told me what you did for the widow’s ministry at Kindred Church. I don’t get it. Your almost-fiancé is taken from you in a freak accident…I mean, days before he was going to propose. You would’ve been forgiven for exploding in anger, for shutting the world out, for turning your back on love. But no, you turn around and use your pain to pour into others. Did you know that James’ mom established a scholarship in your name at that church? Of course, you knew. Mom and Dad had no idea. When did you learn to be so sneaky?!

This got me thinking about your accident, too. It took me all day today, but I found out what happened to the drunk driver. Nick Thompson is sober now – 15 years too late if you ask me. But it turns out that he sustained some brain damage in the crash. Even with the massive speech impediment, he uses his handicap to show high school students the dangers of substance abuse. He’s a motivational speaker at high school rallies. I could’ve killed him when I found out what he did you to you. But you wouldn’t have. You would have pointed to the trail of breadcrumbs leading to the fruits produced by your suffering.

I had to look up the meaning of your name after the funeral. Grace: an undeserved gift. This world is selfish and crass and fast-paced and cold. How did you find the energy to shine a light on all that despite being given lemons over and over? You’re a superhero, kid, the baby constantly teaching folks supposedly wiser than you.

Grace, indeed.

Now, you’re gone.

I could write those words a million times, and it’ll never be easy to accept their permanence. But, there’s this idea that makes it a little less bleak. One idea like a ray of sunshine on a dreary afternoon. How many lives were touched because you lived? How many lives improved because you suffered gracefully? I don’t know about heaven and hell, but I hope to discuss the answers next time I see you.

I love you, sis. Until we meet again.