We’ve all seen people die on television, and it rarely feels real. It’s fiction, and you’re removed from it. You’re not actually there. But when death happens right in front of you, the difference between fiction and reality is profound.
My mother-in-law passed away in August of 2017. I had never experienced anything like it. She was a beautiful person who left this world far too early. Cancer took her from her family far too quickly, as it so often does.
My father died of cancer nine years ago, but his illness, lung cancer, was the result of many years of excessive smoking. In my mother-in-law’s case, Vanda’s illness felt like pure misfortune. Born into a family where cancer was prevalent, the disease had already claimed other lives, including her older sister.
Cancer is a cruel disease. It eats away at both body and soul, often without giving the patient or their loved ones the time or space to process what is happening or figure out how to help. It is fast, merciless, and certain. It has no regard for whether you are rich or poor, kind or unkind, it simply tears through the body without reason or mercy.
In the last few days before her passing, Vanda became pale and withdrawn. Although heavily sedated to manage the pain, her ability to process information slowly faded. On her final day, most of her senses were gone. That evening, her breathing became erratic and her eyes remained wide open. It felt as though she was fighting to stay just a little longer. Three of her four children had not yet arrived from out of town, and I often wonder if that was why she was holding on.
She spent much of that night gasping for air, and just before 4 a.m. the following morning, she passed away.
I will never forget the sight of her, the whiteness of her complexion, her blue eyes dull as she passed with them open, her hands cold as a winter’s day. My husband, her son, held her hand until the very end.
The funeral home arrived shortly after the hospice nurse declared her deceased. We did not stay to watch her be taken away. I will never forget the feeling in that room as she lay there. Even as people spoke, there was a comforting silence, one that seemed to confirm she was finally at peace.
Below is the eulogy I wrote in her memory. I will miss sharing wine with her while she joyfully cooked for her family. That was her way of showing love.
Vanda Kaufman — Eulogy
We are gathered here today to honor the memory of our beloved wife, mother, grandmother, sister, aunt, and friend, Vanda Kaufman, to acknowledge the joy she brought to those fortunate enough to have known her. This eulogy is only a small reflection of her legacy of love, perseverance, and grace.
Vanda’s parents, Bhror and Val Lind, immigrated to the United States from Sweden and settled in the Chicago area in the early 1920s. They had four children, with Vanda being the youngest. She grew up in North Lake, Illinois, and graduated from Leyden High School in 1957. After graduation, she attended Ravenswood Hospital in Chicago, becoming a certified radiological technologist, a career she pursued until the birth of her first child, Linda.
Two years later, her second child, Glen, was born on Christmas Eve after her water broke just as they were preparing to attend the family’s traditional Swedish smorgasbord.
Two years after Glen’s birth, Wayne and Vanda welcomed their third and largest child, Mark, weighing in at 9 pounds, 8 ounces. Two years later, determined to beat the U.S. tax system, their fourth child, Michael, was born on April 15. Vanda soon settled fully into her role as wife and mother, quickly mastering the art of juggling the needs of a family of six.
Vanda remained home until Michael entered kindergarten. During that time, she supplemented the family’s income by working as a special education teacher’s assistant at a local school, a job she enjoyed before returning to the radiology field she had left years earlier. She approached the challenge with determination, thriving in a profession that had evolved significantly during her absence.
Working the 3:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. shift gave Vanda the opportunity to teach her children independence, especially since her beloved husband, Wayne, spent his days laboring in sheet metal work. It was her way of preparing her children for life.
Despite her demanding schedule, Vanda, ever the socialite, always made time for friends. Between attending her children’s sports and school activities, breaking up sibling disputes, or rushing to the hospital to tend to a broken bone or two, she still found joy in gardening, canning, and sewing.
Vanda strove to be the best at whatever she set her mind to, and she became remarkably skilled at all she did. Weekends were often spent camping. Nearly every other weekend, the family packed up the camper and headed to Green River Oaks for time filled with laughter, friendship, and togetherness.
After years devoted to family and career, Wayne and Vanda were able to enjoy time together, traveling to California so Wayne could reconnect with his father. Camping once again became central to their lives, opening the door to lasting friendships. They remained in California for five years before settling in Cherokee Village, Arkansas, for another five.
During this chapter, Vanda discovered new passions, square dancing, quilting, and attending the Methodist church in Hardy, Arkansas, where she rekindled her relationship with the Lord.
In 2000, Wayne and Vanda put down roots in West Plains, Missouri. Vanda spent many happy years there, volunteering at the local hospital, participating wholeheartedly in church activities, and sharing her warmth, generosity, and captivating smile with all she met.
We will remember Vanda for her compassion, steadfast spirit, zest for life, unwavering dedication to family and friends and, her Swedish meatballs.
Though it is difficult to say goodbye, we take comfort in knowing she is now with the Lord, dancing in the streets of heaven alongside her sisters Greta and June, her parents Bhror and Val—and perhaps even blessing the angels with the culinary talents we so dearly loved here on earth.
She will be deeply missed, but never forgotten.