Saying Goodbye to My Father: A Eulogy of Love, Humor, and Memories

Below is the eulogy I gave at my father’s funeral on Friday, December 20, 2024.

The year is 1987, and Michael I. Bornstein, Certified Public Accountant, has been appointed by the United States Bankruptcy Court in New Hampshire as an expert witness.

The debtors’ counsel presents Mr. Bornstein with financial data.

“Mr. Bornstein, in your expert opinion, is this financial information accurate?”

 “I can’t say that,” Mr. Bornstein replies.

“But Mr. Bornstein, the figures are all here. Surely, as an expert, you can assess their accuracy.”

“Once again, Counsel, based only on this, I cannot speak to the accuracy of this data.”

The attorney, now very agitated, retorts aggressively.

“Mr. Bornstein, this is a very simple question! Any expert in your field should be able to provide an answer!”

Not intimidated, Mr. Bornstein, my father, responds professionally but firmly:

“Sir, you have given no citations. I have no idea where these numbers come from…and, by the way, you spelled ‘principal’ wrong.”

Giggles are heard around the courtroom.

An embarrassed attorney mutters, “No further questions.”

I loved it when my father told that story.

My father was modest and rarely spoke about his accomplishments, so when he did, I simply loved hearing snippets of the mastery he had of his field.

It filled me with such pride. I couldn’t imagine knowing so much about one area. I still can’t.

I also loved hearing him field questions about tax law; watching him cite specific legal details, implications, contingencies, and, like any great CPA, the perfectly legal loopholes! Always, though, noting which were widely accepted as in-bounds and which were regarded as nefarious gamesmanship.

I also love the expert testimony story because it encapsulates so much about his character: his self-confidence, resilience, his convictions, his complete disdain for arrogance and disingenuousness, and, of course, his playful sense of humor.

Humor also played a role this past year, albeit a very different one.

Eliana, my 17-year-old daughter, often came with me to visit my father, her Papa, in a memory care facility in Nashua, NH. As his situation deteriorated, he eventually lost the ability to speak, which made it very hard to assess his state of mind.

Was he following what we were saying to him?

During one visit, though, we noticed that he reacted to something funny. Briefly, his otherwise emotionless face lit up with a slight grin, and his eyes brightened.

At that moment, Eliana and I knew he was still there. His body was broken, and he was often confused, but we could tell that, when alert, the essence of who he was remained intact.

Encouraged, Eliana and I would playfully fire one corny joke after another, chasing those brief moments of interactive joy.

Here are two of the jokes that made him smile:

What type of pants does a psychic wear?
A paranormal pants. (My wife, Carrie, gets credit for finding that one.)

What do you call a Frenchman wearing sandals?
Philippe Philoppe

For months, eulogy ideas have floated around in my mind, but now, I find myself mostly reflecting on little snippets of our interactions throughout life.

Like the time I came home on college break after cutting off my ponytail. I was just two steps into the house when he looked up over his glasses from the TV and flatly welcomed me home with the words, “I liked it better long.”  

Or the times when we were outside and he would, without saying a word, toss my baseball glove to me and start walking out into our quiet street. It was time to play catch. Nothing needed to be said.

His phone calls frequently began mid-conversation, a tendency I’m pretty sure he picked up from my Uncle Bill—zichrono lvracha—his brother-in-law and one of his closest friends who, sadly, also passed away from Parkinson’s in August.

Me: Hello?
Dad: It’s 82 degrees, there’s a nice breeze, and I’m sitting on the beach with Uncle Bill.

Sometimes I’d pick up the phone, and the first thing he would say was something like, “Did you see that!?”, “that” usually being some exciting sports event. Among the most memorable flurry of such calls occurred when the Red Sox hit four consecutive homeruns against the Yankees in 2007.  

Like many fathers and sons, we were not very emotive with each other, and I understood these calls as small ways of expressing affection.

And I loved getting those calls.

[This next section was not delivered because it overlapped with my mother’s remarks.]

That being said, his true human love was of course my mom, for whom he was fiercely loyal and protective.

About a year ago, sitting in a wheelchair in rehab after a fall and scary hospitalization, he said to me, “Your mother got a raw deal. Her parents died very young…and now she’s got me…”

He rarely complained about his illness, rather, he worried about how his illness impacted my mom and her future.

And she has been loyal and protective of him as well.

She’s been on the front lines, turning her life upside down to manage his care. The intensity of such care is hard to understand unless you’ve lived it.

Mom, I am so grateful for everything you put into this awful experience.

While I’m devastated that Dad is no longer with us, I am happy that he’s been relieved of his suffering.

Likewise, I’m happy that you are relieved of the burden you’ve been carrying.

And Heidi, I’m in awe of everything you’ve taken on over the past several years despite the various challenges you’ve faced.

At times when you should have been the one being taken care of, you were a source of endless help to Mom and Dad and to me as well.

Especially in Dad’s final days and hours…I could not have made it through that without you.

A special thank you to Carrie, who took on a much larger parenting role because of my weekend trips to Nashua, and who has been mission control for funeral arrangements, shiva, and more.

Carrie, as you let me know quite clearly the other day, I married up.

Eliana, Dovi, Jonah, and Eli: grandchildren should not have to witness a grandparent suffer from a disease like Parkinson’s. You’ve been so brave and loving, each in your own way. Papa loved you tremendously.

Thank you to my dear friend Rabbi Ron Fish, who, when I asked him to officiate, didn’t hesitate for even a moment. We are so thankful for your guidance and your heart, which you put into everything you do.

Thank you to Rabbi Joseph Meszler, the wonderful Rabbi here at Temple Sinai of Sharon, for giving us access to your beautiful sanctuary on such short notice.

Thank you as well to everyone who came to honor my father today. It means so much to us. Thank you for helping us carry this heavy weight.

Finally, thank you, Dad, for…well…everything. Words can’t describe how much I already miss you.

And, Dad, I want to assure you that, in typing this eulogy, I spelled ‘principal’ correctly.