Eulogy For Charles Gordon

We left independence rock and are heading for the south pass we have traveled have the way and are stopping to rest and eat. A terrible thing has happened norm cline had shot himself while he was cleaning his gun, mary flag had found him when she had heard the noise , and larry mingo our doctor had said he was dead when he got there straight through the head, he had said it looked like an accident as if he hit the trigger while cleaning the barrel. The men had spent the day digging his grave while our wife's comforted norms family. We are back on track nobody wanted to beg the clines but they almost refused to

One of my recovery goals is to write my book about 50 years of medical disasters and yet hold on to one’s enthusiasm for life.” In his time of need he asked for help from the only people he has left to call ‘family’, people he’s helped and loved immensely for over a decade. They don’t offer help even though they have the means to do so. When asked for some compassion and assistance, they say they will pray for him and not much else. “This crisis has shown me that once I can heal up and work again, some big changes are going to be necessary.”

Anthony was a very close childhood friend. His sudden and unexpected loss affected me significantly. I knew I needed to do more. I made a promise to him, my grandfather, and myself to dedicate my life to helping individuals struggling with mental illness.

To begin, in A Separate Peace, a young boy with the name of Finny passed due to a piece of bone from his leg traveling to his heart. His dear friend Gene appeared to be unphased from Finny’s death. “I did not cry then or ever about Finny. I did not cry even when I stood watching him being lowered into his family’s strait-laced burial ground outside of Boston. I could not escape a feeling that this was my own funeral” (194). Gene was not emotionally damaged and hurt because of Finny. Instead, Gene was relieved. A figure he always tried to do better than and wanted to always be better than was finally gone. Gene’s battle that Finny never even

I have spent most of my career in EMS learning, teaching or directly trying to combat death. During my time as an Instructor I wanted my EMT students to have an understanding of grief, death and the importance of what happens when calls don't have a positive outcome. I reached out to dozens of Coroners in the bay area asking them to come in and guest lecture with no response. By chance at a company party I met a man by the name of Charles Newman retired senior coroner with SF and SC county. I asked Charles if he would come and teach and he agreed. Charles recanted stories from his 30 thousand death investigations, some with gallows humor and some nothing short of horrible and after an hour or so of lecture Charles looked at the room and said

Yesterday, my father took me to the flat of Irene Williams. It was a beautiful little place, with big windows looking out upon the busy street. She had lace curtains, a small pink couch made of velvet, and a birch coffee table. On the table was a jar full of biscuits and a cup of tea, still hot. She had pictures of friends, family, and relatives hung up on her walls. It’s a shame I never got to meet Irene, she seems like such a lovely person to talk to. But Irene Williams is dead, and let’s face it, dead people are boring to talk to. They never listen.

Death is conceptually understood by few, yet experienced by many. Having a multitude of causes, death has devastated many families in various ways. Accidental deaths could be prevented, but sadly are not. In James Hurst’s short story “The Scarlet Ibis,” the narrator was responsible of Doodle’s, his younger brother's, death in the following ways: he pushed Doodle too hard to function normally, he didn't follow the doctor’s clear orders, and he left Doodle in his most desperate time of need. The narrator strove to make Doodle be a normal boy, and this was a massive factor that surrounded his death.

Tuesday, September 12th wasn’t any normal day, it was a day of remembrance and sadness. Everyone in the family met at the church at 10 a.m., we then sat there and socialized until eleven o'clock. The preacher, pianist, and singer then walked out into the chapel where we all sat, with emptiness in our hearts. The pianist then started playing a church tune, and the singer, a lady from the church, started singing. Some of the people in the family then glanced at each other and tried not to laugh at the horrid sound of the lady. After she finally stopped singing, the pastor walked up to the casket. He then said, “Bow your heads, We stand here today to honor Robert F. “Bob” Williams.”

I was volunteering at the Career Closet that day, when a woman came in with 24 trash bags overfull with clothing, shoes, and prescription medication. As I was unloading the bags from her minivan and bringing them down to the back room of the Closet, she followed me around, telling me the story of her friend’s death. She had had a series of heart attacks and strokes, and lay dying in bed for over a year before her heart finally gave out. Her husband refused to move any of her belongings, but when he got a new girlfriend, she wanted space in their wardrobe, so she finally packed up all of the clothes and handed them off to the woman to whom I was now patiently listening ramble on and on, so she could find a place to donate them.

I could hear muted sobs as friends and family members began lashing out in tears. Yet, I stood still as ever as memories with my best friend began flashing in my head. I was best friends with a girl who lived right next door to me since birth. We told secrets and laughed with one another since the day I can recall my earliest memory as a child. It was unfortunate to see it all come to an end now that she was gone. All I saw was her lifeless body slowly turning pale on a stretcher stationed on her living room floor. This was one of those moments that makes you question how quickly life can take an unexpected turn. I wasn't willing to accept that

I had lived in angst my whole life, wondering how it would be different if he were around, if I had remembered to say goodbye to him that morning he left for work, what would happen if I could just hear his voice one last time. I have been searching for almost 26 years to meet this man, see what he looked like, know the type of person he is, breathe the same air as the man who killed someone I never truly got to know. I know it wasn't intentional, but I’ve been living a surly life. Hating the world, hating the situations I’ve been put in, but now I just hope that when their cars collided and my

When that day came where my Uncle died I couldn’t help myself but to honor him by telling his stories at his funeral. These stories were not for the people who were there but for me and for him. Although I knew what might happen and how terrified the people might become, it had to happened. So I had decided to start with the telling of my Uncle's tales.

“Hello, and good evening,” Gregg began, “I would like to thank everyone for taking time to come here, and celebrate the life of my father, Patrick Norman.” Gregg paused as he looked down to see what he would move onto next, “My father was the busiest person I ever knew. He spent hours on end working for the company that he started and was fortunate enough to have it take off. It was his dream to live with class and to not have to worry about food or disease.” Gregg paused once more letting the tension build. He looked away from his paper, not needing it anymore and deciding to instead speak from the heart, “However, not everything worked out. My mother died an early age, and my father soon realized with her gone, he not only had to work the company, but had to take care of three boys by himself. But that didn’t stop him. My father was able to manage taking care of us and the company. He sacrificed time from work to help us with school work and made sure we were always doing our best.” Gregg began to tear up from all the emotion, “He did everything he could to make sure I would be ready to take his place when the time came,” he looked down to Steve and Richard and

After two months of construction, the new community centre was already almost complete. My good friend Wyatt had passed away, and I am anxious for anything else to pass- especially time. There was one month left for I will die on Winston Street. I decided a drink wasn’t a bad idea, but right as I took a sip, a co-worker yelled, “Why are you stressed out?” I told them about my death, and they got worried for me. I think they believe me. One of the workers took me to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist asked, “What’s

As I stared into the window, I no longer saw the joyful spirit within me, but instead an emotionless corpse with no direction. Alone and scared, I waited and waited for Roger to return, but sadly I still sat there waiting. Roger’s was my older brother, about one week ago he left to find a job that could support the both of us. After the death of my father, just over a month ago, we struggled to get by and found ourselves fighting for survival. Ever since the disease started infesting the town, people were been dropping dead day by day. Dead corpses, broken bottles, and smoke filled the streets of London. I was afraid to leave the house because I could not bare to see shrunken pupils and hollowed out souls of people I once knew.