A Eulogy for the Bread-Man

On death, dying, and grief - and some words for my grandfather, the baker, who died on January 20.

Every time I think I have a good grasp of the concept of death, life reminds me that I am but a child in death’s cold and ever-stretching fingers. I will think I understand death, that I am aware there may in fact be no afterlife when we are gone; and yet death never fails to shock me each time another loved one dies. Death comes for us all. I know this. I’m always conscious that the end is creeping up on all of us. Every minute is a minute closer.

Photo by panyawat auitpol on Unsplash

But why do that to yourself – thinking this way? What good does it do, dwelling on death, fearing the end? If anything, it should be comforting to know that we are all in death together, if not in life; for one thing is certain and that is death. It’s all part of the cycle.

These are things I tell myself to get through the days. Because yes, I fear death, and yes, I think about it all the time. The unknowingness of it. The demise of my loved ones. My own end. But I don’t want to be afraid of something that comes for all of us. I’m not saying death should excite us, as if it is something to look forward to, but we certainly can’t let it rule over our lives like a plague.

I speak about death because of my own recent experience with a loved one dying. Up until a few years ago, I had been considerably lucky in this department. I had known so few who had passed. This has changed, of course. The list of names climbs higher and higher, and on the 20th of January, another rung was added to that ladder. Claudio Cavicchia – husband of Adriana, father of six, grandfather to several and great-grandfather to some more – passed away in hospital in Melbourne.

Claudio Cavicchia (13 March 1936 - 20 January 2024)

He barracked for Collingwood in the AFL. He read The Phantom comics. He had a deep love for history and geography. He was always keeping up with geopolitical affairs and natural disasters, and being the worrier that he was, he always advised against travel in case it put our lives in danger.

He was my last surviving grandfather. My Nonno, which is Italian for grandfather. Today was his funeral.

He was born in Sulmona (Abruzzo, Italy) in 1936. By 1960 he had migrated to Australia, his wife later joining him, to start a new life in what many once called ‘the lucky country’. Here he had six children, one of whom was my mother. After working a series of jobs in baking, he opened his own bakery in Lygon Street in 1985 – Abruzzo Quality Hot Bread – which he and my Nonna ran together.

Abruzzo Quality Hot Bread, Lygon Street. Now closed.

Various aunties, uncles & cousins helped around in the shop over thirty-five years. My mother worked there for most of her adult life, and so naturally, I spent a lot of my childhood in that bakery kitchen. Some of my earliest memories are from that bakery. Climbing the flour bags. Making dough. Being a nuisance. I always bragged about my grandparents owning a bakery and my mother working with them because I was proud of this. It felt like another variation of ‘home’ to me.

The bakery closed in late 2020, my Nonno then in his 80s and in need of a rest. That itself felt like a death in the family, an earthquake that changed the way things would operate forever. A hard-working man, Nonno always believed he would die when he closed the bakery. I believe he must have known this in his gut to be true, almost like a prophecy. He was soon after diagnosed with cancer, and it pained him for several years. It spread through his entire body. I saw the energy drain from him, and every time I visited him his condition had worsened.

I think so many of us regret not visiting our grandparents enough. I certainly wish I could have spent more time with my grandfathers, both of whom are now gone.

His death was, to many of us, something of a relief considering the number of years he had suffered, not to mention the numerous scares over the last decade. In 2016, the doctors told us he wasn’t going to make it. We flocked to the hospital to say our goodbyes. Just a few days later he began to make a remarkable recovery. ‘There are bills to pay!’ he declared, and before long he was back at the bakery. Old age caught up with him in the end, as it will all of us, if we are fortunate enough not to die by misadventure or ill-health before we reach elderliness.

He was hospitalised in December, and this time we knew the end was near. He held on for weeks, longer even; and while this went on I tried my best to go on living, knowing there would soon be a funeral. I think it’s one of the worst feelings anyone can have. We live in blissful ignorance of death until it makes itself known. Sometimes it makes itself known well-in-advance of its arrival, and that is perhaps one of life’s cruellest mountains. Knowing that a loved one is on their death-bed is like an itch that won’t go away, or a pillow that won’t unflatten. How, then, must my Nonno have felt, knowing that death was ready to take him? How does anyone with a terminable illness get through their final days, knowing their eyes will soon close for good? I guess I can’t answer that, but I think this must make a person incredibly brave.

Grief affects us in strange ways. The physical anguish is worth mentioning, not to mention the shortness of breath. When I found out my grandfather only had a few hours to live, my body reacted where my tears would not. I used to be a crier, meaning someone who cried often (and justifiably so, might I add?) but something awful happened to me in 2020, and since then, tears have been hard to strike up. I have become an empty shell who does not cry except at funerals now. So when I found out Nonno was dying, I could not cry. But I felt winded, like someone had struck me in the abdomen with a log. Each breath was short and staggered, and I had to fight to inhale and exhale properly. My head felt like it had been split in two by a terrible migraine. I could barely sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night, groaning in total agony, fully convinced my appendix had burst. I called a nurse, who on-the-spot diagnosed me with something I hadn’t expected to hear: grief. It was grief doing this to me.

My Nonna and Nonno

My Nonno did not want to die on my Nonna’s birthday, did not want to ruin her day, he said as much himself. And he held on for the entire day. And fourteen hours past midnight, he breathed his final breath. And then the text message from Mum: ‘It’s over.’

I rarely talk about my family life. I’ve written plenty, but I’ve kept it close to my chest. But today was my Nonno’s funeral, and something tells me he would have wanted his writer-grandson to write about him and share it. And I have done exactly that.

And here, Nonno, is the eulogy I wrote for you at 2am, swimming deep in my emotions and my memories of you, on the eve of your funeral. These are the very words I read in the chapel in front of our family. The family you and Nonna created.

The eulogy I read for my grandfather. Typewritten. 29.1.24

The service was beautiful, Nonno. They played Seasons In The Sun by Terry Jacks. You were handsome in your youth, and lying there in your casket, cold and pale, you were handsome still. I am honoured to have been one of your pallbearers, to have carried you to and from the hearse, to have been part of your journey to whatever comes next.

Te amo, Nonno. Non ti dimenticheremo.

If anyone else is dealing with grief, know that you are not alone. We are united in our grief for our loved ones. And we cannot forget the grief we feel for innocent lives being stolen too soon in occupied countries across the globe. Peace be with all of us.