As I stood at the podium, I began with, “Not to worry, I have a very small piece of paper to share.”
Jean was born on Feb 20, 1950, on our parent’s anniversary. In a way, she was a gift from my mother to my father; and from my father to my mother. She was also the third daughter in three years. So, the three of us did a lot of things together. I remember sitting on Dad’s lap as he read us a story. I remember trips to the beach, which often included a flat tire. Also, my mom taught us a little musical number, to perform at family gatherings. It was about three dancing teddy bears. Jean was little baby bear… To get really basic, we also took baths together. I remember when mom went to the hospital for baby number four. Our aunt came into the bathroom to announce, “It’s a boy!” I thought to my seven-year-old self, “Good! We can’t fit another girl into this tub!
Jean and I also perfected the art of disagreeing, especially when my husband and I lived in my parent’s house for three months between jobs. Jean was also living there with her small son. And invariably, the two little boys would get into fighting. Then Jean and I would fight about what to do with them.
But the most meaningful thing that Jean and I shared was a love of the ocean. I don’t know if it is the rhythm of the waves, the liquid colors of the water, the peace of off-season beaches. But I love the ocean and so did Jean. We inherited this from our mother whose backyard bordered a lake.
But when someone loves the ocean, it also means embracing the storms that come. Jean faced many storms: the death of our mother when we were in our twenties, raising a child as a single mother, and more recently, Tom’s stroke at Christmas time, followed by long months of serious medical issues.
During this time, I would call Jean about once a week to offer encouragement. And I would also convey her report to my husband, who shared the news with his rheumatologist, Dr. Al Ramey, who is a close friend of Tom and Jean, as well as a roommate of Tom’s. This experience taught me how important community is. The more we can support one another, the more likely we will be to survive and thrive.
During this same time, I also realized in a deeper way, that Jean and I were opposites. I am an introvert and she was an extrovert. I enjoy working alone all day and Jean enjoyed being with people. She was the type who would walk into a gathering and at some point, ask herself, “Have I hugged everybody here yet?”
So now, this very difference is what I admire most. Jean’s enthusiasm, her capacity for joy, and her desire to include others. After she moved to Maine about thirty years ago, Jean would say, “Why don’t you come visit? Maine is wonderful. The ocean is great.” And at other times she would say, “You could move to Maine.” Jean said these things so often, that I thought she worked for the Chamber of Commerce.
I believe that the greatest storm at sea, for Jean was coping with Tom’s illness. The experience was painful, because she loved him dearly. And week by week, Jean became more and more exhausted with the tasks involved in Tom’s care, plus caring for their special needs son. In March, she fell on the steps in their home. Then again in May, she had a second fall and broke her hip. Surgery was the next day. Then a day of recovery with her daughter, Moira. Next came her usual kidney dialysis on the fourth day. Then finally, on the fifth day, Jean had a heart attack and was gone by the afternoon, gone off to the biggest ocean of all.
This morning, as I was praying for her, a quote from St. Catherine of Siena came to mind, “God is as close to us as the ocean is to a fish.” This is how close God is to Jean now and to all of us.
I often pray with photos. So, I will finish by lifting high a photo of Jean. “God, we thank you for Jean. We give her back to you. May she swim into the arms of Jesus, as we rejoice in her life. Amen.”
More family Eulogies are here. Harry Fenner, Lillian Fenner Mason, Robert Fenner, Louis Boucher and Andrew Neslusan.