Public speaking and funerals

Twenty years ago, in 2001, I graduated high school. As part of the graduation ceremony I had to give a speech. Believe me, I was far from thrilled to be given this assignment. I strongly disliked, and in fact had a dreadful fear of, public speaking when I was younger. I still vividly remember the heightened pulse and sweatiness of the morning before I had to give an oral presentation on the novel 1984 in freshman English class. A few years later, I had made little progress against this fear.

Despite this fear, by all reports I did a respectable job with the graduation speech. I've thought back to that speech from time to time over the years. It's struck me that the subject matter of the speech was, in retrospect, eerie.

On May 11, 2001, a few weeks before I graduated high school, Douglas Adams, the author of classic sci-fi farce The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, suddenly and unexpectedly passed away from a heart attack at the age of 49. I adored Hitchhiker's Guide and its sequels and was shocked and saddened by this news. Not having much idea what to talk about in my speech, I eventually keyed in on Adams's life and tragic death as a theme.

This is eerie, in retrospect, because by giving a speech about someone who had recently died, I was in a way previewing my future life.

When I graduated high school, I had never experienced the death of someone close to me. The subject of my speech, the transitory nature of life and how we should therefore make the most of it, was thus something of an abstract concept. I reread the speech for the first time in many years before writing this post, and although at some points clumsily written, parts of it certainly resonate with me to this day.

"Although this could not compare to losing a close personal friend, I was deeply saddened when I heard the news.  I soon realized, however, that this event reinforces a valuable lesson.  Adams may have died at just 49, but I would wager that he did more of worth in his years on this Earth than many an octogenarian.  He touched millions with his special talents.  And this is the lesson I would like to take from him, one that is very important on this graduation day: we should all strive to make the most of our lives, however long or short they might last," I spoke to the audience in the auditorium. I went on:

"I do not suggest that we must all become famous.  There are many ways that one can make the most of his life.  Earning a high school diploma is a significant part of doing just that.  Work toward goals, to better yourselves and those around you.  Nourish your talents, whether they are in writing, music, science, athletics, or any other area.  Never dwell too long on the negative aspects of life.  Most importantly, enjoy yourselves, and try to bring happiness to others.

"With these things in mind, we can go out into the world and leave a positive mark on it.  Make the most of our brief stays on this planet, and whenever our time comes we will, perhaps, be able to have the “tremendous feeling of peace” that Arthur Dent, protagonist of the Hitchhiker’s series, does at his own end.  This feeling can only come from the knowledge that our lives have been worthwhile."

I mean, it's really quite eerie in retrospect, because as I said, these were abstract concepts to me at the time, but have since become defining themes of my life in a way that I think is not very common for someone my age. Although I did suffer a few personal losses in years to come, most notably one of my grandmothers during my senior year of college, to be honest there was never a death that really hit me on a deep personal level... until at the age of just 31, I lost the very closest person to me in the whole world, my wife Cara, to lung cancer.

By that point in time, thanks to my very lengthy experience obtaining a PhD, I had become far more experienced and confident about public speaking than I was as a high school, or even undergrad, student. I know some people, upon losing a spouse, find it too difficult to speak themselves at the funeral, which I find very understandable, but for me there was no question that I should eulogize my beloved wife.

It was a strange thing. Because I could still remember very well my younger days of being terrified of public speaking. And here I was, giving a speech about the death of my wife, the most painful loss imaginable, and after finishing I had the realization, Wow, I've gotten pretty good at this whole public speaking thing. And that realization felt pretty good! In spite of the horrific circumstances. So it was a strange thing to feel.

The funeral officiant, and my parents, and I, spoke heartfelt and meaningful words about Cara. And then the officiant asked if anyone else among those gathered for the ceremony would like to share their memories or thoughts about Cara.

No one did.

I understood how awkward and difficult it could be to get up in front of a roomful of people and give a speech. And plenty of people had shared beautiful tributes to Cara online, or to me in person. So I knew very well how much Cara had meant to people. And I wasn't mad at people for not volunteering to speak. But honestly, it did make me sad. I did wish that someone else would have gotten up and spoken a few words about what an amazing person she was. And if one person had broken the ice, more might have followed.

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a huge deal. But it was something I always remembered. And I think it was because of that memory that ever since, when there has been a funeral for someone about whom I've had any meaningful thoughts to share, I've taken the opportunity to do so.

In the first 31 years of my life I spoke at zero funerals. In the last 7 years, by my count, I've spoken at six. Sometimes as part of the program, sometimes at that "if anyone else would like to share their memories" moment. Either way, it's just... felt like the right thing to do? Because I know how much it can mean, as someone who has lost a loved one, to hear someone else talk about what that person meant.

Most recently, my Aunt Ellen passed away unexpectedly earlier this year. My dad, probably having noticed that speaking at funerals had kind of become my "thing," asked if I would deliver some words during the memorial service, and of course I did, along with my dad, some of my other aunts, and one of Ellen's coworkers. It was a beautiful ceremony. I spoke about all the things Ellen (an ER pediatrician) had done for me, for her other nieces and nephews, and for all the children who entered her life.

Sometimes when someone close to you dies, you already know they were an amazing person, but the things that people say about them after they die make you realize that they were even more amazing than you ever knew. The two people I've known for whom that was most true were Cara and Ellen.

After the memorial service, one of my aunts who spoke, who is about 70 years in age, told me that it was the first time she had ever done public speaking in her life, and that she had been incredibly nervous about it. I thought she had done a great job! And I was so struck by her words about feeling nervous. Because I could remember very well that feeling myself, from when I was a teenager. When you're a teenager, it's hard to imagine that someone who has lived so many more years on this Earth might be similarly nervous about public speaking. But thinking about it now, somewhat older and wiser - why not? It makes perfect sense that people of any age could be that nervous. It's interesting that speaking in public is one of those things that so commonly inspires such fear, and I wonder why that is. Like any skill, though, public speaking is one that improves and becomes more comfortable with practice. And that's something that can happen at any age.

Losing someone really close to you is one of the hardest things in the world, and hearing other people who knew that person speak about the impact they had is a good salve for the wound. It helps give, as I alluded to in my high school graduation speech, the knowledge that their lives have been worthwhile - an important thing. So I hope people can overcome their fears, and get up there, and speak those vital words. Take it from me, it's a very worthwhile thing to do.

And there are people like Ellen and Cara, who are so amazing and impact so many other people's lives, who probably never realize just what a tremendous impact they have on all the people around them. So in addition to speaking about them after they've passed - when someone has a big impact you, don't wait; let them know about it while they're still here.