August 19, 1987 - January 6, 1999

Lucas, you were always such a good friend. Your big brown eyes expressed so much tenderness and affection. I enjoyed poking your little pug nose with my fingertip, and gently caressing your ears, because they felt so velvety soft against my skin. When I petted you, you purred just like a kitten. When I talked to you, it seemed like you could understand me. No matter what I was doing, you were always at my side.

Jim and I tried so hard to save you from the cancer that ravaged your tiny body, but it was all in vain. God made the decision to ease your suffering and now you are with Him. I pray that one day we will be reunited in Heaven.

I think of you every day, my little baby. And I miss you—I always will. The house seems very empty without the pitter-patter of your tiny feet…But I can feel your presence.

You will always hold a special place in my heart, Lucas. Losing you was like losing my child. My heart is broken and will take an eternity to mend.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Lucas's portrait was painted by my sister's friend, Corky.

Copyright © 1999 Joanne Glasspoole. All rights reserved. www.glasspoole.com

This eulogy was written in honor of my father for his memorial service Dec. 4, 1999 at St. Patrick Church in Centuria, Wisconsin.

Dad, although it’s only been a few days, it feels like forever. When I look at your picture, I am filled with so much grief. It is unbearable knowing that you are only here in spirit now.

You gave us all so much encouragement and support. We learned how to think like you, to act like you, to be like you. Making you proud was so important to me. You were respected. And we loved you.

The loss we feel for you is too great for words. It is difficult to imagine life without you, Dad. You were a wonderful father and a tender and loving husband to Mom. You taught us how to be strong and your strength lives on. We need your strong support so much right now.

You will be greatly missed my dear father. There is an incredible emptiness without your presence. The only thing that keeps me going in this time of sorrow is my faith in God and the hope that one day I will see you again in heaven.

Copyright © 1999 Joanne Glasspoole. All rights reserved.

My dearest husband,

I love you, and God how I miss you. I saw a television show the other night and they talked about how you should write a letter to someone who has died to help deal with unresolved emotions. I know all that stuff but when it became a reality for me, I just didn’t know what to do. I have these thoughts that go on in my head day and night and I should put them down somewhere. I feel that if I write them, I will lose you. I know that is not true but my heart hurts so.

I don't know exactly what to say. But I'll begin here…

I am 17-years-old, and a week ago, a classmate passed away. She was driving home after school and got in a car accident. She died an hour later in the hospital.

A tribute to Becky Zidon who died on April 1, 1994.

So young, this girl, unknown to me. So very young. Yet wise beyond her years. Sixteen-years old. The world at her doorstep, full of opportunities, challenges, treasures. All of that taken away, instantaneously. The scope of her future narrowed swiftly. Like a shade on a window darkening the room. A crack of light remains during what becomes her last week of life.

I realise I am frightened of writing this article about the death of my twenty-two year old grandson, Keita Craig. I’m frightened for two reasons. The first is because he was diagnosed last summer as a “paranoid schizophrenic” and the image of schizophrenia is that of a knife-wielding maniac. In the end, Keita did indeed conform to this media stereotype. He attempted to snatch a handbag from a perfectly innocent woman and then punch a man who tried to stop him. Keita was very gentle, and we think it was a cry for help; a failed attempt as it turned out, to get somebody in the huge phalanx of “experts” that invaded his life to pay him some kind of concrete attention. What the poor woman must have seen was a six-foot man of mixed race attempting to mug her. If she’d had time to look at him, she would have seen that he rocked uncontrollably from side to side. This was one of the many unwelcome side effects of the bi-monthly injections. Secondly, how does anyone explain the crippling and unpredictable effects of mental illness—not only for the sufferer but also for the family?

Recently, two of my closest friends died. The first friend fell off a windmill; the other killed himself. Both of these deaths left me feeling devastated, yet, a common response I received from friends was: “It happens in threes.”

This memoir is written in memory of a young girl I knew. Names have been changed to protect the identity of her family.

Mom is gone. Where are you, Mommy? Can you hear me? I was only twelve-years-old when Mom died. She was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 34. That was eight years ago. Of course, I didn’t know what was wrong with Mom or how really sick she was. All I knew was that she would go to the doctor, come home, and have to go to sleep. My brother and I were not allowed to bother Mommy when she was sleeping. I was just a little kid who wanted Mommy to spend all her time with me and not sleep so much. I really didn’t know I would have to watch my mother suffer and die before I was really old enough to understand.

The most vivid memory I have of my grandmother is picking raspberries with her early in the morning in my backyard. I am 10-years-old. The raspberry bushes—more like thickets—are abundant with beautiful, ripe berries. I love picking raspberries, and this morning is extra special. I carefully pick the fragile berries off their vines to fill my bowl, but I’m eating berries too.

Grand-Maman is about 70-years-old. She is petite—just barely 5 feet tall—and pleasantly plump. She has thinning, light brown hair, and I know if it weren’t for the dye my mother put in yesterday, her hair would be white as snow. She wears the most delicate wire rim glasses, and even though she’s old, her face is smooth as silk. Grand-Maman is gathering berries in the belly of her apron, and I can see she is like me and takes berry picking very seriously. I watch her nibble a berry and smile to myself. It is wonderful picking raspberries with Grand-Maman!