Eulogy for Dad

Eulogy for dad

given by Nathaniel Fernhoff

Thank you for coming and sharing our loss.

When my sister and I were kids, Dad loved to play a game with us.  He’d call us over and say that he had something to tell us.  Now, we had played this game many times before, but he’d persist and say that this time was different and this time he really wanted to tell us an important secret.  We’d come in close and with a totally straight face, he’d lower his voice and say, “A wet bird never flies at night.” It was nonsense for a laugh.

He was a funny man, and his sense of humor was disarming.  There he was, an accomplished doctor, an expert physician of high professional stature, but he was far from stuffy or unapproachable.  When he got braces a few years back, he did not get the invisible kind meant for adults.  He would smile wide to reveal a mouth full of metal braces that were highlighted with bright pink and green rubber bands. He insisted that the kids like it, but I’m pretty sure he liked it too.  Everything about him just put people at ease. He would beam in a fluorescent tie embroidered with giraffes wearing holiday sweaters.  If you asked him, he’d tell you that he just liked them. How could you not love the guy who wears that tie?

As witty and funny he was in conversation, the man could not tell a proper joke, but that never stopped him from trying.  If he was sitting on a particularly good one, he’d start dragging it out, adding totally unnecessary details, and then he’d finally butcher the punch-line.  I was teasing him about it once, I told him “Dad, you know you don’t have to spend so much time setting-up a joke.” He said, “Nathaniel, it’s called building suspense.”

My dad’s parents had a toy store when my dad was a kid.  He actually grew up surrounded by all the toys and candy he could ever want, but you would never know it because as an adult, he was obsessed with work and health food.  His father died when dad was only 19, and that stuck with him and really drove him.  From then on, he buckled down and focused on pursuing a career in medicine.  When I was figuring out my own career, he was adamant that the most important thing is that I find something I truly love to do.  No one has lived those words better than him.  He was committed to helping others and incredibly passionate about it.  He had an unparalleled work ethic, but it wasn’t just a job for him. He would say that his problem was that he couldn’t say no to a new project, but we all knew that it wasn’t a problem and he actually loved being busy with medicine and with helping people.  He worked tirelessly and happily and he accomplished so much.

After his father died, dad grew up in a hurry.  He looked after his mother for the rest of her life and in a lot of ways he had to become a parent as soon as he lost one.  In her last few years, she developed severe dementia.  I know it hurt him deeply to see her degenerate but he never flinched in his commitment.  He could’ve found some excuse to let his visits taper off, and no one would’ve blamed him, but I don’t think he ever entertained the option.  Every single weekend he’d go and see her and sit with her and talk to her no matter how it made him feel to see her fall apart.  He was a good son and he had enormous strength.

My father treated people with kindness and compassion, and that warmth extended to his pets and animals in general, but I’d like to share a story about his nemesis: the squirrel.  You see, he’d always loved birds.  He’d save breadcrumbs for them, and he set up bird feeders for them, and he’d watch them come and eat.  But squirrels would always seem to come and snatch up all the bread, break into the feeder, and scare off all the birds.  So he got clever, he went to the store and bought some garden-variety squirrel-proof bird feeder.  But squirrels are formidable adversaries and of course they found a way to get the birdseed.  This ignited an arms-race where my dad would buy some ridiculous bird-feeder that promised to catapult off any invading squirrels, and the squirrels would find a way to make a more daring leap from a distant tree branch to land on and exploit the one weak spot of his contraption.  This went on for years through countless iterations of different bird feeders and the squirrels always won. They were the hilarious bane of his existence.  One day, he was so excited to bring home a new feeder that was going to solve his squirrel problem once and for all.  He called it the death star.  The machine delivered a powerful but non-lethal shock to squirrels, but it left birds alone. He quickly set it up, powered it on, and waited.  Before long, the squirrels made their first offensive and the shock proved a potent repellent and they stayed away for months leaving the heavily fortressed birdseed intact.  Amazingly, he had finally beaten them.  He was so proud of the death star.  A couple of months later, my sister found a dead squirrel not far from the death star.  She was upset about it and so was my dad. Even though he diagnosed this particular casualty with old age and a pre-existing heart condition, he still had enough respect for his nemeses that he felt they deserved better.  He decided that he wouldn’t abide by the lethal risk to even his sworn enemy.  He was gracious in victory and he took down the death star.

My father was a good man.  He raised us right, he took care of us, he made the world a better place, and I feel so sad without him.