My Father’s Eulogy
Yesterday, my dad’s whole family gathered together here in Beloit, Wisconsin, to celebrate his life. Thanks to everyone who stopped by to extend their sympathies, including many family friends I hadn’t seen in decades. We shared a lot of memories, tears, and even laughter — the good, healing kind.
My stepmother, Nancy, led off the ceremony by greeting everyone and then introducing the three oldest grandchildren — Savannah, Murray, and Jack — who each read a couple stanzas of my dad’s favorite poem, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas.
Next, my Aunt Kathy gave a great and funny eulogy focusing on my dad’s early life. After that, his best friend, Tom Nee, gave another heartfelt eulogy, in which he read my dad’s cutting letter to the hospital that kicked him off their transplant list 11 years ago and told him to go home to die.
Then it was my turn. (See below for more on that.)
We concluded by playing a song that meant a great deal to Nancy and my dad: “It’s Your World Now” by the Eagles.
In the evening, we hosted a family gathering at my house that featured loads of food and drink and trailed into the wee hours of the night. As I heard many times over the course of the day, my dad would have loved every minute of it.
Writing a eulogy for a parent is damn hard, but the support of my entire family helped bear me through it. I admit, I choked up a few times while delivering it, but the love in the room always brought my voice back to me after a moment.
Here’s what I had to say:
Thanks to everyone for joining us today. It’s good to see so many familiar faces.
I’m Matt Forbeck, Ken’s oldest kid.
I want to thank you all for coming here this afternoon to remember my dad. I especially want to express my gratitude to his wife, Nancy, and everyone in our big, blended family: Kim, Mark, Jody, Susie, Dan, Steve, and all our spouses and kids. You all stepped up to help whenever Dad needed you — especially over the past year — and I know he was grateful for that.
My dad always said he didn’t want a big, fancy funeral. The only thing he said we needed for his sendoff was a Hefty bag and a shovel.
Despite that, we wanted to hold this celebration of his life, keeping his wishes for a modest affair in mind.
I have a lot of stories about my dad, some of which I shouldn’t tell in public. As an attorney, he always advised me that, when in doubt, the best option is to keep your mouth shut. As a writer, I sometimes struggle with that, but this is a good day to respect those wishes too.
Dad was one of the hardest-working people I ever knew. As they say in Hamilton — one of his favorite plays — “The man was non-stop.”
He was the first person on either side of his family to go to college — at Marquette University — and he immediately went on to law school after that. My mom once told me he wanted to apply to med school right away as well, but she pointed out that they already had two babies at home, so he took his first job as an attorney here in Beloit instead. That was way back in 1970, and he shot roots fast and stayed here ever since.
He worked as an attorney for decades, giving that up only to become a judge. He helped found nonprofits like the Roy Chapman Andrews Society and the Crossroads Counseling Center, and he spent years on the boards of the Stateline Boys & Girls Clubs and the Beloit Library Foundation. He and Nancy also long volunteered with CASA of Rock County, advocating for young kids in court
Despite that, he always ignored the phones in his law office when it was after 5. He drew a sharp border between his job and his life. As we like to say, “Work hard. Play harder.”
He coached us kids in softball and basketball, went camping and fishing with us, and took us on family trips. He loved us and didn’t mind showing it. Even after my parents split, he was always there. Maybe not in the house, but just a short drive away.
He took us to plays at the American Players Theater. He brought us to countless basketball and baseball games. He watched endless movies with us and taught us to play all kinds of games. He hauled us along on vacations that became the source of epic stories — both good and bad — part of the bonds that hold our family together.
We tubed down the Boardman River near his parents’ place in Buckley, Michigan. We took a houseboat up and down the Mississippi River. There were so many trips to Englewood, Florida.
He didn’t actually leave North America until he and Nancy came to pick me up from England when he was 44, but they ranged broadly after that, visiting Ireland, Scotland, Greece, Austria, Barbados, Toronto, and more, including several trips to see Jody in Italy.
He had a lot of fun, but he had his hard times too. No matter what life threw at him, though, he always found a way to deal with it, mostly through fierce determination, whether that was in work or in life.
He had awful arthritis that caused him terrible pain. He had a hip and both knees replaced, but he always held out until everything became unbearable, even for someone as tough as him.
Before the knee replacements, he was walking around as bowl-legged as a cowboy, but the surgery straightened him right up. I think he got two inches taller that day, and the pain of the surgery was so much less than the pain that he’d been in before that he practically waltzed out of the recovery room.
I was a sickly kid myself, with terrible asthma, and Dad and I spent a lot of time at Beloit Memorial Hospital when I was young. Our family priest even came and gave me Last Rites when I was six.
In the spring of my junior year of high school, I had a concussion and couldn’t make any new memories for a whole day. I kept asking “What time is it?” every five or ten minutes. One of the few things I remember from that day was my dad messing with me and telling me it was Christmas Eve. Somehow that cut through the fog.
He spent countless hours at my side, making sure I was okay.
That turned out to be good training for later in life. Over his 80 years, Dad dodged death a number of times, but those close shaves often involved long stays in a hospital too.
He had a condition called amyloidosis that caused his heart to start failing on him almost twenty years ago. By the time the doctors identified the core problem, he’d already had a triple bypass, and he was on the waiting list for a heart transplant at St. Luke’s.
And the team there gave up on him. They didn’t think he was the ideal patient, and they didn’t want a black mark on their record, so they told him to go home to be with his family and prepare to die.
Of course, he wasn’t going to let that happen. With the help of my sister Kim, Dad got admitted to the amyloidosis department at the Mayo Clinic instead. Knowing this was his last chance, he presented the team there with the most important case of his career, something he called his Final Argument.
He laid out the facts for them. He was only 69, and his parents had both lived to 92. He was working as a judge — a job he loved — and he had a family that he loved even more. Most importantly, he was determined to live, if only they would give him the opportunity to try.
And they did. He waited 144 days in the hospital for that new heart to arrive — for someone else’s tragedy to become his salvation — and it happened just in the nick of time.
We’re forever grateful to the donor’s family and to the Mayo Clinic for that and for the additional time they gave us with him. Nearly eleven extra years of life.
A year after he’d been told to make his peace, Dad walked back into St. Luke’s with Nancy and danced in the lobby. Just to show them how wrong they’d been.
It’s going to be hard carrying on without him. But by way of example, he showed us how: determination and — if you’re lucky enough — dancing.
