Charles Sidney Futerman

The history of this “eulogy” in its original form speaks volumes about Dad as a force of nature. I drafted it on the plane on the way to a weekend in New York in January 2023. As I was leaving, Dad became very ill, was admitted to hospital and I thought it might be possible that it would be used as a eulogy, but was so grateful and privileged to read it, as I had hoped, as a speech for his eighty fifth birthday party just a few weeks later.

Charles Superman!

This was a theme. It looked like the end, but it wasn’t, and he’d rally. And whilst this was challenging for all of us to process, for Dad he just continued bravely striving to stay independent, using so much emotional and physical superhuman strength and bravery. I shouldn’t have been surprised, as a child we joked he was superman and then a letter came one day from someone that had taken his name over the phone, mistaken the ‘F’ for an S and the ‘t’ for a ‘p’ and low and behold, a letter really came to Charles Superman!

Over these periods I was able to see and hear from others how he’d charmed them; healthcare professionals, those delivering essential equipment, window cleaners, barbers and in the last months carers. Even when he was self-discharging from hospital and getting me to ‘break him out’, he managed not to burn bridges or create frustration in those working with him. The response was generally of admiration and respect for a very dignified man.

Whilst he quietly fostered a team around him that very much centred around myself and my siblings and our children, it has been so amazing to have our partners by or sides, and the wonderful Yameys.

creativity,magic and adventure

So this is what I managed to say to him at his eighty fifth party just over two years ago:

Dad

I am so thankful for the chance to say how blown away but not surprised by the independence and resilience you have shown throughout your life, but most recently having lost Mum,

You managed to keep your mental health so sound whilst shielding during Covid, and more recently shown warrior-like behaviour with regard to your health.

This shrinkage of your world goes so against your earlier life and vast travels. I often ponder the fact that we are all in England because of your self-belief and leaps of faith and I am so thankful Mum trusted your judgments, gently steered you at times, and created the home life that I loved.

So, eighty five is a lot of years, that fortunately include my childhood which bring to mind three words; creativity, magic and adventure. Magic and creativity were woven into my childhood and bedtime stories with your made up magical character of Moochy Moochy. Then there was the matter of fact belief that our teddies came alive at night when we were asleep. I hadn’t ever fact-checked or discussed this with anyone as it was just a given. I truly think I was already at junior school before I realised that once I was asleep you just moved them. This just added to the enchantment of my childhood. A childhood where our holidays ranged from camping in the South of France, cruising through the Fjord’s in Norway, visiting Shirley in Israel or staying at the shprawnsy Beach Club Monte Carlo, all of which I loved, even when they required the white knuckle drive round the cliff edge of mountains.

An inventor with patents probably still pending. recognised by the Queen when your company won the Queens’ Award, your generosity shone through as you gave your secretarial colleague your place at the palace.

And so I see much of you in my children and the grand children; their moral compasses, ability to relate and empathise with anyone, their generosity, their creativity, but especially their very strong Canasta skills .

Despite my Mum’s ill health no one expected my Dad to outlive my Mum, especially not after ‘the event’ of twenty years ago when he broke medical science and statistical probability to survive the unsurvivable.

No one expected my Dad to outlive my Mum, but he did, and without my Mum there to referee between us it was really hard and a huge struggle to find a way forward together as adults while both struggling with our grief at the loss of my mother, his wife. But while I got to go home to my incredible wife, his was gone. And he carried on living alone in their home until the end. A home in which she was in everything.

My Way

It was not ‘the easy path’ for either of us. But seeing him carry on, cook for himself, shop for himself, maintain their home as a museum of their life together and just keep going was in its way inspirational. It was not the easy path, but in retrospect I’m glad we did have that chance to get to know each other as adults and find our way forward together. And I learned a huge amount from our time together. About him, about me, about people. They often were not easy lessons, but they were important ones.

He loved cooking his stews, he loved going to the big Tesco and revelling in his family. And although it sometimes seemed that he was living a half life, which makes sense because my mother really was his ‘other half’, I’m so glad he got to see his beloved grandchildren grow to adulthood.

And although his last weeks were so uncomfortable and just plain awful and he faced them so bravely, as he always did, I’m so glad that he lived to see his three children working together so well as a team for him. And that the three of us could be together with him at home on that last morning, physically holding him upright that last time. And just to say, the level of care he received in those last weeks thanks to Lucille and Merryl’s advocacy and expertise was incredible.

And now my mother and father are both gone, but are both together again. But they are also not gone, because they live on in all of us that knew them and the two forces of nature that they were.

If my Dad had a theme song it had to be ‘My Way’. And he did. He lived the life he chose. And he died in the home he loved surrounded by love, the night before he was due to be removed from it forever.

My Dad and I didn’t have a great deal of shared interests, but we shared a love of jazz and he was always incredibly supportive about my own music making, much of which happened in this house.

my Dad would sacrifice anything to keep us safe

I wrote this poem on the day of my father’s funeral and when this period of mourning is over I intend to put it to music:

“I see you speeding in your Ford Granada Scorpio, driving home for one last time.

Telling Mum you’re on your way while dealing with the factory and the heavenly production line.

I see you swimming in the sea.

I see you driving down a mountain.

I see you carrying me, head upon your shoulder.

And catching water from a fountain.

It wasn’t very you.

And it wasn’t very me.

It was very understated.

And it wasn’t complicated.”

My father was a kind, generous and fiercely protective father when I was a child. As we grew older our relationship got more complicated, but I always knew that if there was an emergency my Dad would sacrifice anything to keep us safe. And now my Dad and my Mum are gone and we have to be that for each other.