For My Dad

On August 9, 2023 I lost my dad, my best friend. Since then, nothing has felt real and I don’t know that anything will again. When we’re kids, our parents are larger than life. They’re immortal, eternal. As we get older, we logically understand that to not be the case. We see them age and their bodies begin to break down. We see them not getting around the way that they used to. In the case of my dad, he went from being an independent, fit, active man to being bedridden overnight thanks to Parkinson’s Disease. Despite all of that, there was still a part of my brain that thought he would always be here.

And then suddenly he was gone.

I am left adrift in a sea of turbulent waters without a compass. Nothing really prepares you for this. I will navigate it because I have to, but it’s going to take me a while.

What follows is the eulogy I read at my dad’s funeral followed by his favorite poem. He loved my blog and, to be perfectly honest, I mostly wrote it for his entertainment. I hope this eulogy did him justice and made him smile. And I hope you learn a little about the man I was fortunate enough to call my father for nearly 50 years. He was a good man and he mattered. That’s not a bad legacy.

Michael William Brennan, my dad, was 82-years-old when he passed. 82. Reading it in print or hearing it aloud, you may think he had a good run. Lived a long, full life. And he did. But the truth of the matter is, 82 years isn’t that long. And in the case of my dad, really wasn’t enough.

I don’t even know where to begin to talk about and celebrate the life of my dad. He was a good man and my best friend. Among other things, he was kind, compassionate, caring, witty, and wise; a devoted husband, an amazing father, and a loyal friend. Everyone loved him. He had a presence. When he walked in a room, all eyes were on him. People gravitated to him.

My dad was an athlete. He used to swim competitively and actually won a national swimming competition in his 40s. He was a runner long before that was a thing that anyone did for fun. He lifted weights and worked out for years at the YMCA. He told me many stories of how he used to work out alongside the old Baltimore Colts, guys like Johnny Unitas, Gino Marchetti, Ray Berry, and Artie Donovan… well, maybe not Artie Donovan. As a lifelong Colts fan, that was a real thrill to him. It broke his heart when they left, but he did eventually embrace the Ravens. I will miss watching the games with him and recapping them on Monday mornings. Of course, he was an Orioles fan too and the success they’ve had this season really made him happy.

My dad was a public servant. He worked many years for the Maryland Disability Determination Service before eventually moving to the federal government in that same capacity. He was an advocate for the disabled and did everything in his power to see that they were treated fairly and got the benefits they were due. In his role in the federal government, he met on multiple occasions with Senators to discuss these issues. Eventually, he developed and established an online disability system that made it easy for disability examiners to make determinations and pay people faster. You would never know any of these things talking to my dad because he was not a self-promoter. He treated everyone fairly, cared only about helping people, not shining a spotlight on himself for doing so.

My dad was a devoted husband to my mother for just shy of 57 years. Their love was special and timeless. I got to witness it firsthand and it was truly beautiful. Sure, I saw them argue from time to time, but never saw them be cruel, disrespectful, or vindictive to each other. Mostly what I saw was love and laughter. They genuinely enjoyed each other’s company and never ran out of things to talk about. I am so glad they found each other and got to spend so many wonderful years together. Truly they were soulmates.

My dad was an amazing father and grandfather. My dad always made my sister and I feel special. I remember as a kid he would often come home from work with little gifts he picked up for us just because. Sometimes, the gifts were bigger like Michael Jackson’s Thriller album or Ms. Pac-Man for the Atari 2600. He and my mom always made sure we felt special on Christmas and birthdays and we got some truly great presents for those times. But it wasn’t all stuff. Some of my fondest memories are of him taking me to the creek and teaching me how to skip rocks. Or the time he took us to an amusement park in Pennsylvania to spend the day. Trips to Indiana to visit relatives where he taught me how to play croquet. All the times he took me to the arcade to dump quarters into Pac-Man and Donkey Kong. And the movies. My dad instilled a love of the movies in me at a very early age. He took me to see Star Wars when I was three-years-old. I’m sure the people in the audience weren’t happy about that, but they needn’t have worried: my eyes were glued to the screen the whole time, just as my dad knew they would be. I always loved going to the movies with him or renting them and watching them at home. That was our thing right up until the end. No matter what, we always had that.

My niece, Alexis, was born on the same day as him. He always called that the best birthday present he ever received. He loved her, Hunter, and Vince with all his heart and loved spending time with them. When he was no longer able to drive, he gave his car to Hunter for his birthday. His love and kindness for his grandchildren was limitless.

My dad was a marine. In October 1962, he was on a boat, part of a blockade of a small island: Cuba. He and the other marines were waiting for the order to storm the beaches. Had that order come, we wouldn’t be sitting here today. The Cuban Missile Crisis is the closest we have ever come to a full-on nuclear conflict. He told me that story with the appropriate gravitas, realizing that he was a small part of a significant historical event. And though he left the corps a couple years after, the corps never left him. He remained a marine through and through, even reading Leatherneck magazine cover to cover to the very end. 

I can’t express everything I want to say about my dad in a handful of words. It simultaneously feels like I’m saying too much and not even close to being enough. It is hard for me to wrap my head around what happened to him. The cruelty of it. For someone so active and independent to suddenly have that all taken away literally overnight. No more trips to the gym, the library, the movies, restaurants, or anywhere else. And even then, though his body failed him, his mind stayed young and spry: the paradox of aging. You would never see my dad without a book in his hands. He was a voracious reader going through two or three books a week. And then the disease gradually took that away too. The last three years had to be hell on my dad, but, again, you would never have known it by talking to him. Not once did he complain even though it had to be killing him inside. To the end, he remained happy to see me and was always upbeat when we talked. 

People tell you at a time like this not to be sad. To remember the good times and smile. While that advice is well meaning I’m sure, it’s hard to take right now. I’m sad and I’m going to continue to be sad for a while. And I think that’s okay. I think it’s important to embrace the sadness, to accept the grief into your heart and try to make some kind of peace with it. And even then, once time has buried it in its vast, endless ocean, the pain will no doubt surface often, forcing us to navigate through. And we will, for we must. In those moments, I will remember my dad taking us to see Raiders of the Lost Ark when I was 7, or to King’s Dominion Amusement Park when I was 13. I will remember our trip to Disneyworld when I was but 5, and I will remember all the annual trips to Ocean City, MD. The parties where we would drink, put on good music, and sing (he had a great voice). Mostly, I will remember the laughter. How my dad was always able to find the funny in any situation and often laughed at himself. Even in the end, when his body and mind were failing him, he would remember something that happened to him years ago, he’d share it, and we would laugh. When I remember all those things and the immense happiness and joy he brought to us all, I will still be sad, but I promise I will smile. He would want me to.

If I am someone you love and value for the man that I am, I owe every bit of that to my dad. He made me the man that you see standing before you. I admired him so much. He represented everything I ever wanted to be. He still does. I will continue to try to emulate the example he set. Maybe someday I’ll be able to say I’m half the man he was.

We are sad now and likely will be for quite some time. But that’s the price of love, the burden of grief. And I would say it’s worth it. I would pay that price over and over again.

Godspeed, dad. You fought hard and you fought valiantly for such a long time: a marine to the very end. The fight is over now and you can rest. May you have fair winds and following seas on your journey to the next life. I love you, we love you more than any words could ever say. Until we meet again, rest easy, marine. Semper Fidelis.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.