Category Archives: Adult Children

Eulogy of Willard Nathan Nyman

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(by Linnea Nyman Curington,

read at the funeral by the four brothers, November 7, 2009)

Youth


Willard Nathan Nyman, who we have always called Papa, was born in Galesburg, Illinois, on August 18th, 1945, to Willard and Lois Nyman. Four years later his brother Kenneth entered the family. Their father, a jewelry store owner, and mother, an elementary school teacher, instilled in their boys a strong work ethic and taught them the value of education. Papa loved being a student. In high school he was captain of the debate team and editor of the school newspaper.

From there he went on to Northwestern University, majoring in history with a minor in Russian, graduating in 1967. But Papa didn’t just get his degree. The things he learned became part of his identity. He was called by many friends a “walking encyclopedia”, able to recite historical dates and facts quickly off the top of his head. As for his Russian, he continued to practice the language, going through flashcards in his spare time and often announcing at the dinner table the Russian word for “peas” and “chicken” and anything else on the family menu that night.

Education and Career

After earning his undergraduate degree, my dad entered law school at the University of Illinois. The Vietnam War held America’s attention at that point, and Papa joined the military ROTC, entering officer’s candidate school as well. He also served in the active Army Reserves for eight years.

After graduating from the U of I in 1972, Papa began his career in the trust department at a Chicago bank before moving into a law practice with several other lawyers. He went on to develop his own law firm, which evolved into a real estate investment firm. For the past twenty years, my dad practiced law independently in the Loop, working alongside his brother-in-law Tom and a group of lawyers he came to know and love. He also served as a Police Commissioner in Prospect Heights from 1988 to 2009.

Marriage

Papa loved to work, but his life was so much more than that. He was forever changed the day he met Margaret Johnson during his senior year at Northwestern. From their first meeting (on a blind date!), he knew she was the one he wanted for his wife. They were married at Moody Church on November 29th, 1969, and for the rest of his life our dad was devoted to his Margaret, our mom. Over the years he brought her countless bouquets of flowers, and it was a Nyman family joke that when it was time to buy something for her, he would do it in multiples. Whether it was a camera for Christmas or birthday jewelry, Papa would always give my mom at least two versions. Even when it came to milk from the grocery store, a request for one gallon always meant Papa would arrive home with two or three. He loved providing for her and taught by example that a husband should treasure his wife.

Faith

Our dad was also devoted to God. He became a member of Moody Church in 1969, faithfully attending every week for twenty years until he and my mom decided to attend church in the suburbs where the kids could attend mid-week activities. They became members of the Arlington Heights Evangelical Free Church (now called The Orchard Evangelical Free Church) in 1989. At Moody Church Papa was a high school sponsor and Sunday school teacher, rewarding scripture memorization with dollar bills. He continued teaching Sunday school at The Orchard, also enjoying the men’s retreats and his small group, which he liked to call his “Encouragement Group.” He also went with Josh McDowell on a mission trip to Russia to deliver shoes to children, using his Russian to communicate with the locals.

Fatherhood

Papa’s goal was to be a good example, especially to his children. He worked hard to model integrity and faithfulness to all seven of us. He also wanted us to have fun – a LOT of fun. He was a master at organizing big outings to places like Great America and Chuck E. Cheese. Traditions were very important to him. Every Sunday after church he took our family out for brunch, usually at Granny Annie’s Pancake House. Each year during the holiday season he treated us to lunch at Marshall Fields downtown. Back before restaurants used pagers, he would stand in line for what was usually a two-hour table wait at the Walnut Room, holding everyone’s coats while we ran around and shopped.

Big vacations were another specialty. For years Papa took us to the north woods of Wisconsin every summer, hauling a trailer filled with motorcycles and go-carts behind the family station wagon. A Spring break trip to Sanibel Island, FL, was another favorite family tradition. So many of the photos displayed here today show our dad in his swimming suit, enjoying the water with all of us.

One of Papa’s favorite trips of all time was to a legendary place he’d been fascinated with for years. We all know how much he loved Elvis, and finally in 2005 he went with a few of us to Graceland. He liked it so much he went back again in 2007, this time taking his brother Ken along for the ride.

As his kids grew older and moved away from home, Papa made more of an effort to communicate with us. Never one to quickly embrace new technology, he instead chose to send each of his kids a weekly note. Every Sunday after church and lunch, he would sit down and write on an index card a brief update on life at the Nyman house. His horrible handwriting made reading the cards a challenge, but it was always worth the effort. The amount of information he included on those tiny index cards was remarkable. Just to prove it, I’ll read you a little sample. This was a card sent to me on August 13, 2006:

“Nels – Weez & Gitta in Covington, Louisiana for Katrina missionary work for a week. Thine mother provided ‘sufficient inspiration’ right up to the closing of the bus door. So left from AHEFC at 9:30pm on a sleeper bus for the 20 hour ride to Dixie. Today Jack the dog gets a shampoo and bath. Then he crawls under the evergreens in a hole he dug. So nice. Hans and Katy come in tomorrow at 1pm per a Saturday morning call. They don’t seem to think any big delays. They fly from Manchester to Chicago. We’ll see about the timing.Next weekend in Shorewood? Love, Papa.

Cancer

Until this year, Papa led a healthy life, but on September 22nd, that changed. In a meeting with a panel of doctors, he and my mom learned that he had cancer, and not just cancer, but stage four, metastasized pancreatic cancer. The doctors were surprised to see him arrive for the meeting in a suit and tie, straight from a full day of work. From what they’d seen on paper, they’d assumed he’d show up in a wheel chair. Despite his pain, he’d been heading to the office faithfully every day, just as he always had. Quiet perseverance was always one of Papa’s defining characteristics.

Over the following 42 days, as Papa’s cancer spread and his pain level increased, he never complained. He accepted the reality of his diagnosis and bravely discussed his limited future and our future without him. Always a careful provider, he wanted to make sure he left everything in order for us. He stoically endured fourteen radiation treatments, each involving a 150-mile round trip from Michigan to Chicago. Family dinners had always been a highlight of his day, and he continued the tradition even when it was too painful for him to sit in a straight chair at the dining room table. Instead we would pull chairs up around his recliner. As the days passed, he ate less and less, but he still welcomed everyone to enjoy their dinner around him.

My mom has said many times over the last six weeks that God’s fingerprints have been all over these difficult circumstances, and Papa’s death proved the truth of her words. Many pancreatic cancer patients die in horrible pain, but our dad slept peacefully for twenty-four hours before simply taking one last quiet breath. All of his children, their spouses, and his grandchildren were in the house when it happened. And his wife, as always, was right by his side as he entered eternity, kissing his face while her tears streamed onto his cheeks. It was an awful, but beautiful moment – a painful goodbye, but another sweet testimony to God’s gentle care for Papa and the genuine love of our parents’ marriage. We are so blessed to have had Papa for our dad and we are grateful that God has promised a happy reunion again someday to all who believe in him.

Precious in God’s Sight

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Papa and cat smaller

Today was a holy day as Nate stepped out of this world and into the next. The members of our family (as well as Mary and several Hospice staff) had kept a vigil around Nate’s bed for three days, not leaving him alone for a minute. The nurses had helped us learn how to manage his pain with helpful drugs. Pancreatic cancer is one of the most painful cancers that exists. We learned to read Nate’s body language carefully, even while he was unconscious, watching for signs of discomfort and anguish. If he paddled his feet, pinched his shoulders together, furrowed his brow or shifted in his sleep we knew he was struggling and needed help.

Yesterday morning Nate hit a new low. He was in tremendous pain, which yanked the rest of us into it with him. A nurse guided us by phone on how to escalate the meds, finally arriving in person to help us. Nothing we did seemed to settle him. The combination of drugs had gotten complicated, and we were keeping a desktop record of what we gave him, when we did it and a schedule of next doses, but even with that it was becoming more and more difficult to keep everything straight. When the drugs weren’t “getting” his pain, we were devastated.

Hospice offered to send a nurse who would stay with us through the evening and overnight. Her main function would be to manage the complicated medicine, although she would also be there to help if he passed away on her watch. We gratefully agreed.

By 5:00 pm yesterday, Nate’s pain began to subside. The added pain patches wouldn’t kick in until morning, but the increased morphine worked its magic, and he began to settle. We learned later that the orange-sized tumor in his lung had ruptured during this time, causing tremendous pain he could not tell us about in words. Later that evening fresh blood would flow from his nose, and brown fluid would spill from his mouth. Both seemed mysterious at the time, but later the puzzle pieces fit together, when the rupture was identified. From that point on, he was breathing with one lung.

Nate could no longer talk to us with his voice but spoke volumes with small facial expressions we carefully looked for. All 11 of us squeezed around the bed in his tiny room to express love, each one taking a turn with their father/father-in-law. Tears flowed and great things were accomplished. Gratitude poured from the hearts and mouths of each person. I, too, spoke love and thanks to Nate. We repeated Scripture to him, sure of his hearing. Mary and I sang all three verses of his favorite hymn: Blessed Assurance.

Nurse Sonia arrived at 6:00 pm and made an assessment of his condition, concluding he probably wouldn’t live til midnight. We braced ourselves and spent every minute with him. His makeshift bedroom was filled: the hospital bed, the big oxygen-making machine, extra oxygen tanks, a desk covered with medical supplies and as many chairs and stools as could be wedged around the bed.

At about 10:00 pm it looked like he was slipping away. His breathing became more shallow, each one spaced far from the next. He was in a deep unconscious state but was, at long last, resting without any signs of pain or even discomfort. His hand was relaxed as I held it. I sat on the edge of the bed and put his warm hand on my knee, a gesture very familiar to the two of us. For a flash it was just like old times, before pancreatic cancer.

I began singing quietly again, and Mary joined in. Nate, a non-musical person (except for Elvis Presley songs), had often mentioned his favorite hymns: “Blessed Assurance”, “Fairest Lord Jesus” and “A Mighty Fortress”. We sang them all, and gradually each of the kids drifted back into the room, lit by a dim green lamp. Some of us were softly crying. We quoted Nate’s favorite Scripture passage, Hebrews 12:1-3, about running life’s race. I told him, nose to nose, that his race was almost over, and he was close to the finish line. He was worn out and would soon be able to rest. We told him how proud we were of him in his running and his strong perseverance.

Despite the click-click of an oxygen machine, the little room became a sanctuary of worship. We lovingly spoke to him, caressed him, loved him. I talked right into his ear and said, “The Bible tells us an angel will escort you to Jesus. Do you see the angel yet? Its time to stop running. Just walk into heaven. No more pain. No more work pressures. No more trouble. You can leave us any time now. You’re ready to go, and we are ready to let you go.”

These words were difficult to say, but God kept my voice strong despite tears plopping on his t-shirt. The kids moved forward and said more nourishing things to their dad. Many of them broke into spontaneous prayer. The Holy Spirit was hovering over our little group, working his wonders in every heart and mind.

Finally we were quiet, listening to Nate’s erratic breathing, focusing on his face, waiting for the end. Every so often the nurse would move through our ring of protection to take his blood pressure or listen to his heart. “Not long now,” she’d say, slipping quietly into the background again.

Minutes passed, then an hour. Nate’s breathing didn’t change. Sonia was replaced with Dee at 11:30 pm, and as she stepped into the room to make her own assessment of Nate, our kids began easing out of the room. They stoked the living room fire and settled into chairs, talking quietly, waiting, until they drifted into sleep. No one wanted to move too far away.

Mary and I settled into our sleeping chairs on either end of Nate’s bed for the third night of watching over him. Dee stayed close, too, and we grew to love her tender care of him through the night. Once I opened my bleary eyes and saw her reading my Bible in the dim green light, sitting in the corner on an 18” stool.

When morning came, Nate’s blood pressure was 63 over 38, unchanged from the evening before, but his heart had weakened significantly, beating irregularly and “far away” as Nurse Dee put it. We continued to wait. Dawn came. Coffee was made. The little ones began their chatter, and life moved forward one more step. Dee shook her head in amazement as she listened to Nate’s heart.

“I can barely hear it at all,” she said. “He’s keeping himself alive by sheer will power.”

“He has a special heart for those whose husband/father has abandoned them,” I told her, “and he’s trying not to abandon us.”

“Better release him again,” she said.

Nate has always been a list-maker, so I made an audio list for him, coming close to his face. “Your taxes are paid. You have provided for me with life insurance. You have put my name on your bank account. You have completed your cards for the kids. Your children and your two brothers-in-law are going to take care of me. Your clients all send their love. Your business is being cared for.”

I listed every specific detail I could think of and then said, “And now its time for you to leave these things behind and go. I’m going to say goodbye now, and I’ll see you later. You’re so blessed to be going to heaven now. You’ll actually get to meet and talk to Jesus! I’ll be right behind you, and when I get there, I know you’ll welcome me.”

I kept one hand on his chest which was moving up and down ever so slightly with an occasional deeper breath. But he chose not to “go”. By 6:00 pm, although he had no pulse, he was still breathing. In the rest of the house, life kept happening. Two people left to pick up Chinese food. Two more walked Jack. Someone else took the little ones to the playground. Animated conversations were in progress.

Mary and I based at Nate’s bedside, marveling at how he continued to cling to life. Dee had used the word “rare” in reference to him being a pancreatic cancer patient able to hang on so long. She also told us it was unusual for pancreatic cases to die without intense pain, yet Nate’s face was peaceful and smooth. Dee said, “As I studied him during the night, it looked like he was getting younger and younger.”

We told her of all the prayer that was going up to God on this specific issue, a peaceful passing. She nodded like a woman who knew all about it.

At 7:20 pm, Dee was long gone, and we were wondering if we should call for another night nurse to help us. Mary said, “Well, go get your plate of food. I’ll watch.” But I hadn’t been in the kitchen 20 seconds when she came running. “You better come. It’s happening,” she said,” and I dropped my plate and ran. The kids set their plates aside and followed.

Putting one hand on his chest and one on his face, I felt him take three more slow breaths as I spoke my goodbyes and I-love-you’s into his ear, and he died. Our beloved husband and dad had finished his race. And he was healed of pancreatic cancer.

Passing the box of tissue back and forth across the bed, we all wept freely. I continued to hold onto Nate, caressing the arm, hand and face of the person I loved so much. But he began to cool off immediately. His face and lips turned ashen beneath the yellowed skin of liver failure. Within minutes his body was stiff and cold. The real man had departed, and it was obvious to all of us.

We stayed in our little womb-room and talked of how Nate had not so much died as been born to eternal life. The kids surmised about what he was doing “right now.” Through tears we smiled. And we prayed together, trusting God’s Word to be true and claiming every promise about heaven.

Nelson quickly stepped into his father’s shoes, calling Hospice and then the funeral home. Within a few minutes a nurse arrived with her stethoscope, listening to Nate’s heart for the full legal 60 seconds before pronouncing him dead. But one look at his body could have made that pronouncement.

The funeral director and his assistant arrived and wrapped his body in the sheets from the bed and simply carried him out of the house. I told all the kids not to look as they walked by, but I had to see. One man held him at the shoulders, one at the hips. His legs stuck straight out as if he was still lying in the bed. How quickly our “shells” become useless baggage once the God of life and death removes the real us.

After they’d gone, I said, “Now. What would Papa want us to do next?”

Several of the kids answered in unison, “Eat our Chinese dinner.”

And so we did.

“We grow weary in our present bodies, and we long to put on our heavenly bodies like new clothing. Yes, we are fully confident, and we would rather be away from these earthly bodies, for then we will be at home with the Lord.” (2 Corinthians 5:2 & 8 )

“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.” (Psalm 116:15)

Faithful Provider

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Nate has always been a good provider. By that I mean every dollar he’s earned, he’s shared. He’s forfeited fancy cars, custom suits and exotic vacations to give to others. I’ve been blessed to be a stay-at-home mom since Nelson was born in 1973, which necessitated receiving money from Nate in the form of a household allowance each week. The amounts have varied over the years with family changes and inflation, but the system has worked well.

I’ve heard of husbands who’ve made their non-working wives plead and beg for each ten dollar bill. “Why do you need it? What are you planning to buy? I don’t think you have to have any of that. You can wait.” Nate has been the opposite, giving and giving again.

When I’ve commented on his shirt pockets being ink stained, encouraging him to buy a few new ones, he’s always turned it back on me saying, “You take the money. I’m sure you need something more than I need new shirts.”

Since he’s been sick, he hasn’t been able to follow our usual routine in money matters, although again and again during these last weeks he’s asked me, “Have you got enough money?”

Little by little Nate has lost track of where we stand on our bills, what the due dates are and how much is in which bank account. Even as he’s been losing interest in the things of this world, something deep inside of him still wants to take care of me.

Since he’s been sick, part of getting him ready for the day has always been handing him a folded wad of bills to slip into his pocket. He’s never been a wallet man. Since several important things have ended up in the trash or even the toilet recently, I’ve “stacked” his wad of bills with singles, except for one twenty wrapped on the outside. While folded, it looks like quite a fortune.

Yesterday afternoon Nate motioned for me to come into a corner of his tiny room. He was trying to count out his bills, putting them into denominational categories, but of course there were no fives or tens. “I can’t figure this out,” he whispered, fumbling with the money. “I guess I can’t give you as much as I thought.”

He handed me the twenty and folded the singles to go back into his pocket, shaking his head. Immediately I ran to my purse and took out the four twenties there, bringing them back to him and feeling guilty for my deception scheme.

“These are actually yours,” I said, handing him the bills.

“Ok,” he said, taking them and then handing them right back to me. “Here. This isn’t much, but you’ll have to make do.”

“It’s plenty,” I said. “You’re a wonderful provider for all of us, and you always have been. Thank you.”

“I feel bad that I can’t do more,” he said, patting me on the back.

Today there are new signs that we are coming close to the end. Nate desperately wanted to get out of bed and walk yet could no longer support his own weight and refused the wheelchair. The only answer was for the boys to pair up on either side and support his weight 100%. After he was standing on his noodle-legs, two of the boys holding strong, we all gathered in a semi-circle in front of him.

He pointed to me and said, in an almost unintelligible whisper, “Forty years. Forty years.” Then he puckered up and leaned toward me, hoping I’d lean in for a kiss, which I did. He followed that with, “Forty-one years. Forty-one years.” I’m not sure if it was longing or sadness or just the sting of impossibility, but it ended well with another pucker and another kiss.

When a man feels his greatest responsibility is to provide for his wife and all he can give her is “this isn’t much” and “I can’t be here for forty-one,” his emotional pain must be nearly too great to bear. Never have I been more thankful for his faithful provision for me than I am now.

“As the Scriptures say, ‘A man leaves his father and mother and is joined to his wife, and the two are united into one.’ This is a great mystery, but it is an illustration of the way Christ and the church are one. So again I say, each man must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must respect her husband.” (Ephesians 5:31-33)