ON HEARTACHE: WRITING MY DAD'S EULOGY

Papa hugging my husband at our wedding two months before he passed away. He loved Andy so much.

Photo By: Laura Ivanova

I lost my father and very best buddy after a short, severe battle with a stage four glioblastoma brain tumor. He gave me everything in this life: love, family, values, education, and the best hugs on the planet. When he slipped away from us in the cold, early morning hours of January 21, 2017, all I could focus on was what I could possibly give him. So, I wrote. I wrote his obituary for the papers. Then, I wrote and delivered one of three eulogies at his funeral. No one thought I would be able to do it, and no one thought I should do it, but what they didn’t understand was that I had to. Writing was simply all I had to give him: the only thing I could offer. Here is what I said…

This is both the hardest and the easiest thing I've ever written. The hardest for obvious reasons, and the easiest because I could spend the rest of my life writing about my dad's kindness, warmth, and genuine essence, and it would never ever be enough. As a writer, I am fiercely aware of the limitations of my craft, and as a daughter, I'm fiercely aware of my father's greatness. His character was too honest for words, his warmth too abundant to describe, and his passion for health and humanity too colorful for paper. I hold my father on a very high pedestal, one he would humbly claim he does not deserve, but one I can assure you he has built for himself over the years - pieced together with memories of bedtime reading, marathon running, and pancake cooking. All things of which he could not get enough. It is that notion of enough that comforts me today - because I know I could spend five hundred years with papa, and it still wouldn't feel like enough. And that's when God intervenes. Enough, he says. Time to come home to me. 

I was born during the second half of my dad's life. By the time I came into the world, he had been fully educated, served as a flight surgeon in the United States Navy, had been married with three wonderful, beautiful, and successful children I completely idolized, had a plethora of career achievements, and had married again, to my mother. I didn't know the man who existed before 1987 - I know he was born an ordinary person, just like everyone else - but by the time I met him, George had become extraordinary.

My dad played a lot of roles. He was Papa, Dad, George, and Dr. Gura. He had the truly unique ability to foster special relationships with everyone he knew - no matter how you met him or how long or how little you knew him. He valued everyone individually and in their own light. I recognize that everyone in this room had a special, one of a kind bond with him that will always and forever stay between you and him. I know that's a sacred gift we all have, and because I can never pretend to truly understand the scope of his love, friendship, and healing powers, I'm going to tell you about the Dr. George Gura I knew. 

He was my human pony when I was little. He preferred raspberry jam to strawberry - sometimes apricot, but never grape. He left my mom cards under her pillow. He loved peanut butter, but not with his chocolate. He was grumpy if he didn't go for a run. He was a helicopter father. He loved history, and was deeply connected to his Irish roots. He left his briefcase everywhere and misplaced his pager a lot. He blew me kisses from the side of the tennis court, and when I lost a match, he told me it's more important to lose gracefully than to win. I lost - a lot. He was so proud of his children - we have always felt so treasured. He made scrambled eggs in the microwave. He took me into Mayo on the weekends to practice my tae kwon-do in an empty room. He taught me how to study. He taught me to read an echo. He once got on a plane to Bombay when he meant to go to Boston. Sometimes he ran marathons under the name Flying Cloud Kolowski and we will never know why. He blushed when he was complimented. When I began working in the film industry, he took notes during our phone calls so he could remember studios, networks, actors and directors I would talk about. He believed reading was the best way to learn. He had 6 grandchildren he called "his chickens" and his smile was radiant when he saw them. He made the best hamburger. When I came home from college, he would ride in the car with me on random errands, saying he didn't want to miss any time with me. This was something, at the time, I thought he did for himself, but now of course, I know he did that for me. So I didn't miss any time.

My dad was a man of the heart. He loved the human heart. He loved caring for it, he loved using it, he loved teaching about it, he loved fixing it, and he accepted when he couldn't. Through diligent, and often times aggressive cardio, he respected the heart inside his own body and encouraged others to do the same. His heart was unfathomably strong and he loved his friends and family with every ounce of it. Everything he did, he did for others without hesitation and with his heart leading the way. Your heart is a muscle, he would say. You have to exercise it at every available opportunity. 

My dad was dedicated to his patients. He practiced a type of medicine that expanded well beyond physical care, beyond patient advocacy, and beyond good bedside manner. He was compassionate, he was gentle, he was humble, and he felt genuinely honored that people would put their lives in his hands - to him, it was the highest level of trust. He worshiped the trust and treated it delicately. He used to tell me the best compliment you can pay a person, is to listen to them. "If you listen to the patient long enough, they'll tell you what's wrong with them, and they will tell you what they need and sometimes all they need is someone to listen." My dad was a good listener. 

My dad admired the Mayo Clinic. He treated and loved the clinic like a fifth child. As George's fourth child, I can very sincerely tell you - there is no greater love.

My dad was a man of science, but even more so a man of faith. He was raised in and believed deeply in the Catholic Church, but he respected all the religions of the world, and when he was unexpectedly diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumor, that respect came back to us in a myriad of different ways. There was an outpouring of support from his Muslim brothers and sisters. Officials from the United Arab Emirates said, "Our country stands with Dr. Gura during this difficult time." Our UAE family was not the only group. He had Jewish friends, Hindu friends, Morman friends, and Buddhist friends all praying for him. "I should be pretty covered with God," he said. He was just one man, but he did something the entire world has been trying to do for centuries - he united people of all different faiths with love and peace.

My dad was madly in love with my mother. In the movie business, the highest form of love is often depicted through elaborate grand gestures or poetic voiceovers. But I guarantee you, I witnessed the highest form of love these past seven months, watching my mother care for my father. Like most great doctors, my dad was not a terrific patient. It was so hard to go from such an active lifestyle to surgery recovery, radiation, and chemo. My mother held everything together. She was his patient advocate, she managed his medicine, she talked him through hard times, she knew how far to push him, she knew when to stop. She became so sensitive to his nonverbal cues that he very rarely had to ask for anything because she could tell what he needed before he asked for it. She was fully devoted to him, and near the end, in his times of clarity, he reached for her, kissed her hand, and said, "Mommy is doing everything," and she said, "It's an honor to take care of you, George." My husband and I hope to model our own marriage after their devotion to one another.

The only way this loss makes any sense, the only way I can cope, is if two things come from it: reflection and action. 

Reflect on your life so far: What kind of impact will you leave on the world? What kind of influence do you have on your friends and colleagues? Do you inspire people? Are you kind? If you got sick, would your secretary bring you an apple pie weekly? Would the nurses and doctors you work with come to your home and talk medicine just to give you a sense of normalcy? Would your children drop everything to visit you whenever they could? Would your brother call you with all the football game times when you couldn't look them up yourself? Would your best friend tell your family, "I would take his place if I could.”

Of course, reflection like this means nothing if it does not encourage action. 

A few months before he got sick, I went on what I thought was a very long and a very fast run, and when I called my dad to tell him about it, he said, "What percent of your full capacity do you think you were operating at?" I said probably 85%. He laughed and said, "Maybe 30%." We all have room to be better and to try harder. If you think you are a good doctor... Be a better one. If you think you're a good nurse... Be a better one. If you think you're a good teacher... Be a better one. A good father, mother, daughter, son, sister, brother? Be better. Listen a little more, offer more kind words, ask someone how they are - and mean it. Run faster. Fight harder. And love with everything you have because that is the best way to honor a man who tried every day to be better than he was the day before. 

We are all feeling a tremendous sense of loss today - a hole in our heart that feels absolutely irreparable - and I'm sure its not going to go away any time soon. I will miss the sound of his feet hitting the treadmill early in the morning. I will miss the way he looked at my mother. I will miss his butterfly kisses. But it is worth noting, the last thing my dad would ever want is to make people feel sadness. So I encourage you, as hard as it may be, throughout the rest of the day - smile. Take photos with one another. Be happy. 

Papa, Dad, George, Dr. Gura: It has been a privilege. We are all better for knowing you. Papa, I miss you desperately, but I am profoundly honored to forever be your little girl.

This is how my father signed his letters to me - in his handwriting. In honor of him, this will be my signature on all my blog posts.