The following, I wrote for my dad. On September 5th, at 10:54pm, at the young age of 56, he passed away from his battle with lung cancer, 5 months after diagnosis. I read it at his funeral...which was difficult...but important to me to do for him.
For those that don’t know me, I am Steve
Butler’s absolute favourite (and, to be totally transparent, his only)
daughter, Kathy Pettit. This is my
husband Peter.
On behalf of my stepmom, Judy, and my
brother, Jeff and his wife Angela, and our children we’d like to thank you for
coming to celebrate Steve’s life. Please
join us after the service for a reception, where we will be serving some of our
dad’s favourite food, so we encourage you to mingle, laugh, eat pizza and share
memories with us. A special shout-out to
the Kraus Crew for wearing their funky vests in honour of my dad. You should all know – no animals were harmed
in the making of those vests!
The “Best
Ever” Eulogy
Listening to this is going to be very
difficult for my dad. He was a man who hardly
ever stopped talking –-- and thought he always had the last word –-- unless it
was another Butler in the conversation – and then it became more of a contest
of who ran out of hot air first. It was
like his hand was custom built to hold that cordless phone and yak for hours on
end.
Like any story worth telling, his included
a strong, likeable main character and an interesting cast of misfits who kept him
company along the way. The plot
thickened and thinned, not unlike
his midsection, though the theme has remained constant throughout.
I’m going to start at the end, because
we all know how it ended.
Cancer came from that place called left
field. Not being very sports-savvy, I
assume this “left-field” just randomly throws balls, surprises – or even the
occasional baby “Kathy” – at unsuspecting individuals. Like a
sudden summer storm, it caught us off guard, and drenched us in tears instead
of rain. The news was grim. The catscan
even bleaker. He did interrupt to ask if
they could arrange his treatment schedule around his work as he really didn’t
want the cancer to affect his role at Kraus Flooring. The poor doctor looked quite puzzled, as most normal people would be relieved to be
off work while they fought this ugly disease.
Not dad. He loved his job and the
people at Kraus – and he was a really loyal guy to the end.
Because my dad did such a good job
looking after me for all those years, it was now my chance to return the
favour. Dad made it simple because his relationship with my husband was such an
easy-going and friendly one; Peter
readily agreed to make room for he and Judy in our family home. They were excited at the prospect – though it
was difficult for them to give up their home and most of their possessions. When dad referred to their new home as “living
in our garage” – I repeatedly corrected him with the word “suite.” I was worried that when he described his new
home to people they would think he and Judy were tucked in at night on a
workbench, next to winter tires and toboggans. If you’ve been to our home, you know that’s
not the case.
In some ways, it was just like old times
– except this time around I didn’t need to borrow his Geo Metro OR persuade him
to grant me permission to stay out later than usual! Peter has often said, if you’re going to have
anyone move in with you – Steve would be the guy. He was so laid back, and unassuming – but you
guys already know all of that. And when
Jeff and his family stopped by, it really got silly, like we were all kids
again.
Having grandma and grandpa in the house
has also been a whole new adventure for our kids. Like me, they adored my dad’s sense of humour
and silliness. And I get it – and seeing
him through their eyes reminded me of my own time with him as a kid.
Growing up, dad was the one I leaned on,
cried to, hugged, laughed at - and with, the one I vented to, nagged at,
lectured, and occasionally even listened to. In a time when men weren’t the primary
caregivers of their children – he was there.
Solid, warm and reliable (except for that one time he didn’t make it
home – and living in the same apartment complex as many other family members, I
ran upstairs and told my grandma on him – and boy did he get into big trouble
from his mama!). I remember with great fondness the days of Dad,
Jeff and I just sitting around watching old re-runs of Star Trek and debating
loudly if The Next Generation was a better rendition of the series, or whether
Captain Kirk or Jean-Luc Picard made a better leader – we
always enjoyed being around each other and I will miss that hilarious banter. Although
we didn’t have much growing up in terms of things, we had him – and that was
enough.
Steve Butler set the bar incredibly high
on what it means to be a good parent.
My dad taught me how to stay positive in
difficult situations and how to always make the best of things, and I have yet
to meet a more optimistic individual. It
is this attitude that I probably admire the most. From the moment he was diagnosed, he almost
seemed ok with it. He wasn’t interested
in listening to numbers or bad news or statistics. Dad just chose to live like he normally did,
eating the same, cold Chef Boyardee out of the can for breakfast (I’m going to
insert here that I would not recommend this for the feint-hearted). Peter and I
would often wake up to the smell of bean and beef burritos at 6 am, part of his
typical Hungryman frozen dinner breakfast (sorry Dad, you couldn’t convince us
that they were a suitable substitute for toast and jam). But they were the
“best he’s ever had” he would tell us, a claim that Dad kindly made about
pretty much any food item that was placed on a plate in front of him. He’d give that look, and rave about it being
the best ever. Dad would have been the
PERFECT inspiration for a Seinfeld character – “The Best Ever Guy.”
And his positive attitude continued even
through treatments. Dad would literally
go out shopping right after chemotherapy, or take the kids for a walk on his
scooter. I was forever nagging him to
stay home so he wouldn’t get sick – to which he would reply “I’m dying – I’m ok
– stop worrying.” His treatments were
just a pause in his day. He would often
announce to us he didn’t feel like he had cancer. And because of that, he didn’t act like he
had it.
Unless it was convenient, of course.
On a warm Saturday morning, he and I
took the kids garage-saling in the neighbourhood, he on his scooter, the kids
and I walking. Along the way, we decided
to stop by a friend’s house. Into the backyard we went, at 9am, and Jeremy, who
had kindly adopted my dad as a friend, offered him a beer. To which I pointed out, “Dad can’t drink -
he’s on too many meds and it’s 9am.” Dad
looked at me squarely and said, “I’ve got cancer. What’s a beer gonna do – kill me?”
Rarely did we hear my dad complain about
treatments or symptoms. He didn’t feel
sorry for himself, he didn’t mope; he simply lived while he could. I don’t know if I would have that same
strength given the circumstances.
My dad actually said to me, and I’m
quoting, “I think in some ways the cancer is a blessing.” I remember looking at him with some
annoyance, my brow furrowed, and asked, “How could cancer possibly be a
blessing dad?!” His answer, which was SO
my dad, made me realize how silver-lining-dwelling he really was, “Because I
get to move in with my daughter and spend time with her family and my
grandkids, retire, and also see my son and his family more often.” I had no response. What do you say to that? What do you say to a man who is able to find a
blessing, even in his dying? For once, I
was speechless (and Peter can attest that this is a rare and note-worthy event
– again – because I am a Butler).
On Friday, my aching heart was quieted
by the number of visitors who came to see my dad, or offered their support
through phone calls, texts or hugs, meals, flowers or prayers. The outpouring is
truly humbling. I KNOW I am blessed,
even admidst the sadness. I have no shouldas, wouldas, or couldas when it comes
to my dad. Only dids. There was nothing left unsaid between us and
that is such a comfort that not everyone is fortunate to have. And so Jeff, Judy and I walked him as far
into his journey into Heaven as we could go, letting go of his hand when we
could go no further.
What has reinforced his inherent
goodness and likeable nature was the number of calls and visits where I have
consoled the individuals offering sympathy.
That was just the kind of guy he was – and what I love most about my
dad. You had to have loved him in order
to lose him, and in losing him you realize just how much you loved him.
A.A. Milne once wrote, “How lucky I am
to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” To all of us here who are
full of tears and sorrow, please remember that it is BECAUSE of how much my dad
meant us, and for all the JOY that he brought into our hearts --- that we weep.
For this we must be thankful.
The people we love never truly leave us. Dad is just at a different vantage point,
now. And I have to smile, thinking that
his grandkids have the goofiest guardian angel watching over them.
I encourage you to smile when you
remember Steve, my dad, your husband, your brother, your uncle, your grampa, your friend –
because when he was with us that was what HE did BEST. Make us smile…
I can't believe it but...my dad made me so proud of his strength...and attitude...and I didn't think it was possible to love him anymore. But I do.
Tell your family you love them,
Kathy Pettit
