Eulogy for Dad/Ted Vigeland

Celebration of Life

March 29, 2024

Many of you know that I took what was a probably ill-advised trip to Portugal three weeks after Dad died. And within the first couple of days in Lisbon, I got violently ill and didn’t leave my hotel room for 48 hours. And then, as I was getting better, grief came for me in the middle of the night and I found myself sobbing for more than six hours, unable to stop. I’ve never experienced that before. So I called mom and talked to her for a while. She assured me I’d been a great daughter to Dad. She assured me I’d spent a lot of quality time with him, and that no one would or could have expected more. I hung up and watched a few YouTube videos, hoping to lull myself to sleep. Then I put my head back down on the pillow and kept crying.

At some point I started thinking about how sick I’d been. I’d kept Mom updated on how I was doing. But I realized that what I was missing was reassurance from the doctor who had always been on call for me.

Dad.

It happened throughout my life. I’d always call home when something was going wrong with my body… whether I was in Thailand… India… Boston… California…

I sprained my ankle!

I’m having horrible stomach pain!

I think I’m having a heart attack!

… but even if Mom got the call, the advice would almost always come from Dad. He’d always have input, even if it was to take three Tylenol… not just two. If I was convinced I was having a heart attack, I’d hear the familiar “Ohhhh Tessa” when Dad got on the phone, telling me it was probably acid reflux. Last summer, even as his mind was more deeply betraying him, he pulled up a chair in their kitchen and went about examining my left knee – as he’d done to patients thousands of times -- to see what might be causing me so much pain I could barely walk. (Spoiler alert: I’m old and it’s arthritis.) I’d already had an x-ray and all that, but there was always something about getting the Dad diagnosis that was comforting… not just the medical one, but the one full of emotional wisdom and reassuring words of love and support.

Now, in Lisbon, with a dumb, prosaic virus, I couldn’t have that comfort. And I will never have that comfort. And it’s all I want. I think that’s why I couldn’t stop crying.

Because Dad was always on call. Now, if you’re a child of a physician, you know what that means. It often means that Dad (or Mom, if that’s the case) is gone a lot. The hospital – especially the ER – is an unforgiving taskmaster. Back in the day when the beeper went off, so did Dad. Being on-call was important. He literally saved lives.

But that wasn’t the most important to him. What was most important to him was that he was on-call… for us. For the three of us.

Dad was the polar opposite of just about every doctor depiction I’ve ever seen in modern media. You know that guy – and it’s usually a guy – a doctor with a god complex who thinks his work is why he was put on this earth. Dad loved medicine, but he loved us sooooo much more. Jay and I were talking last night about the dinners he never missed. I also don’t remember him ever missing a piano recital. Or a swim meet. Or a play. Sometimes he’d sneak in the back, straight from the ER, but he was there. (I’m sure he missed some of them, but not enough for me to notice.)

Dad did bring work home every once in a while… in the form of stories from the ER. Grisly stories that stuck in my nine year old brain and have kept me off motorcycles for my entire life.

And Dad brought us to work quite often when we were young kids. We spent many a Saturday morning going on hospital rounds with him– something I’m pretty sure HIPAA rules would ban today. I remember watching him take off a cast one time – I was maybe eight or nine --  thoroughly convinced the saw was going to cut through that person’s arm and blood would spurt everywhere. Dad!!! “Ohhhh Tessa” (I didn’t understand at the time what a brilliant doctor he was and that that would never happen.) I also remember how kind he was with those patients. He was on call for them. But on those mornings, he was on call for us, too.

As we became young… and even old… adults, he was still on call… usually for some piece of career or family advice or help with a decision. And the most remarkable thing about that – and this goes for Mom, too, because they were always a parenting team – was that the advice always, at least in my memory and experience, came with acceptance of whatever our choices ended up being.

I want to stop piano lessons.

"Your mother and I just want you to be happy."

I want to go thousands of miles away for college.

"Your mother and I just want you to be happy."

I don't want to have children.

"Your mother and I just want you to be happy."

I'm getting divorced.

"Your mother and I just want you to be happy."

I'm leaving the country and I'm not sure when I'll come back.

"Your mother and I just want you to be happy."

I adopted a couple of cats.

"Your mo… Why would you do that?"

I kid, but he really did not enjoy cats.

It's not that he agreed with every decision I made, or that he wasn't afraid it was the wrong one. But he let me make it, gave advice when it was asked for, and always, always made it clear that no matter what I did, he loved me and thought I was the most amazing person in the world (along with Mom and Jay). That's the kind of fatherly love that gives a daughter strength. That's the kind of fatherly love that lets you live life on your own terms, and not on his. I’m sure it’s a delicate balance to find as a parent – but they found that balance… hmmmm… 96 percent of the time.

Dad was not only on-call, but he always wanted to be on the call. As with many a mother-daughter relationship, she’s usually the one who gets the phone call. There have been a lot of them over my adult life, in part because I lived far away for so many years. So I’d call her with whatever news I had or piece of advice I was seeking. And inevitably at some point in the conversation, she’d either say “I’m going to put you on speaker because your father wants to be in on this.” Or she’d hand the phone to him. Heyyyyy Tessa! (He’s the only one who called me that, by the way.) But it was always heyyyyy Tessa! I miss that so much. He wanted to be part of it – wanted to hear about whatever was going on straight from me. He wanted to be… present.

Dad was always on call for a hug… he freely gave out I love you’s and I’m proud of you’s throughout my life and I gave them back… all the way to the end. He wasn’t shy with affection. He loved being a part of the things I did… over the last couple of years, he’d go out with me for a photography shoot and carry my tripod… we went to see wildflowers in the gorge last year, and fall color in the valley… he really liked to be there to witness the end of the day, especially at the ocean. It reminded me of all the evenings he’d come home and sit in the living room reading the paper while I practiced piano as a kid. He was all in for the beauty that surrounded him, especially sunsets and Chopin.

And Julie. He was all in for the beauty that is Mom, and their marriage. I’ve talked mostly today about my relationship with him, but as a close observer, I can also say that I was formed… my relationships, including friendships, were informed… by what I saw in the way he treated her… the way they interacted with one another with love and respect and admiration. For more than 58 years, he was always on call for her.

Before I wrap up, I want to thank all of you, on behalf of Mom and Jay and the grandkids, for being here. It is remarkable to see all the different parts of Dad’s life gathered in this one room. To those who over the last few months have offered unwavering support as we made the most difficult decisions of our lives during Dad’s decline – thank you.

Alzheimer’s is called the long goodbye… dementia steals people from you not once, but over and over in ways both obvious and subtle. For some of you this may not have seemed like a long goodbye, but it was for those of us closest to it. Part of it is because he didn’t want you to know. He was ashamed of what was happening to that brilliant mind inside his head and insisted on keeping it a secret instead of allowing all of you to share in it and be there for him. I wish we could have convinced him otherwise – we tried – but we also had to respect his wishes. So again, thank you to all of you for your words of support, your actions of support, and your love and kindness.

I’ve been reading a bit about grief over the last few weeks, and I came across something that was unfamiliar to me, although it builds on the well-known five stages of grief… denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. The co-author of that original book, David Kessler, has since proposed that there is a sixth stage of grief: finding meaning. He said in an interview a few years ago “I wanted meaning in those darkest hours and I do believe we find light in those times.”

So I was kind of turning that over in my mind and although I don’t think I’ve gone through all five of those stages… denial was impossible, and bargaining is kind of tough when you don’t subscribe to a higher power… I do find this sixth stage useful. A friend said recently that it’s hard to lose a parent and navigate the grief, but the love never ends. So I’m using that never-ending love to find meaning. And I don’t see it as finding meaning in what happened to Dad. There is no explanation. It was the randomness of the human condition, which is rarely fair. So I don’t find meaning in his death.

But what I do want to, and will try to, find meaning in, is where we are right now: the aftermath. His legacy, really. Can I find meaning beyond what he brought to this life while he was here?

And I’ve decided that I can. I can find that meaning. And what I am going to do… is I am going to be on call. I am going to be on call for you (look at Mom). I am going to be on call for you (look at Jay). I am going to be on call for all of you (look at grandkids). And for all of you here. Just like he was… I will try to always be on call for those I love and who love me.

Oh fine, I’ll be on call for you even if you don’t love me!

But I can think of no better legacy for Dad… brother, husband, father, friend… than to emulate  -- and celebrate – his willingness to always just be there. Heyyyy Tessa! And what I want to leave you all with is a charge to do the same. Go out and be…

ON CALL.

All of us… when you think of Dad… get yourself a mental beeper, and be on call.

Because he was for us.

Dr. Theodore John Vigeland — April 13, 1943-January 31, 2024 — seen here operating the slopes in Germany.