Layne W. Cannon - My Funeral Talk

My mother recently died and I just got back from her funeral. I've been thinking about death, family and friends and I've gone back to talks I've given at a number of funerals for family and friends. I thought I'd share the talk I gave at my brother's funeral. Layne W. Cannon died on October 3, 1998, over 25 years ago. This is the talk I gave:

 

I would like to share with you a personal account of my relationship with Layne. My time is brief, but I hope to share with you the essence of what I have distilled from myreflections over the last few days.

 

I am seven years younger than Layne and one of seven other siblings. Therefore, while growing up, I was not an equal or a peer or a big part of his life. He lived in a much bigger, faster and more exciting world than I did. Most of my early memories of Layne are not as a direct participant in the events of his life, but as a wide-eyed spectator. And I was a fan.

 

 I’ll not try to recount his adventures: of his trickdiving exhibitions with Michael Hale; his sneaking out of Church to get donuts with Scott Jensen and Marty Backer;the time he was caught by a policeman in the early morning hours in our car before he had his license; or the time I awoke to find a policeman in our living room because Layne failed to make it home during the night. Those events can better be recalled by my older siblings or parents and the version that was shared with me was probably edited anyway. 

 

The snippets I will share with you are not included on Layne’s or my siblings’ personal highlight reels, but they are my own personal, cherished memories.

My friends and I used to love to torment Layne while he was studying. After all, this is usually the way a younger sibling gets an older sibling’s attention. We would knock on his window and scream taunts at him until his patience broke. He would jump out of his chair and run out of the house after us. I can still feel the adrenaline rush. Layne was much faster than we were and once we were invariably caught, he would mete out some sort of punishment. This game came to be known among my friends as “torture.” 

 

 In particular, I remember Layne sitting on me while I was lying on the ground, punching me on the shoulder in a series of rapid Chinese water-torture-like punches. At other times I recall: being tethered by the wrists to the back of a bicycle while Layne rode down the street; having to hang from the side bar of a swing set while Layne threatened me with even greater punishment if I let go; and some torture that involved the tetherball pole that my mind has probably blotted out because it was so awful. Oh, it was fun.

Layne had a wood ammo box in his closet. The lid was fastened shut with a paddle lock and the words “Bunny Box,” were written on the side in black magic marker. My friends and my imaginations ran wild as we speculated as to the contents. We would sneak into his room while he was gone and shake it and turn it over. We even tried prying it open with a screwdriver, but to no avail. After Layne left on his mission, I found the Bunny Box free of its paddle lock, still in his closet. There was nothing of consequence inside. I was too late, the contents will remain one of life’s unsolved mysteries.

Layne bought a boa constrictor by mail order from Florida. It cost $18.00 and I contributed $1.00. I vaguely remember Mom talking Layne into accepting my contribution. Thereafter, I announced proudly to all the world that Layne and I owned it. In my mind, we were 50/50 partners. Gubentush, as the snake came to be known, was allowed to roam through Layne’s room at-will and on more than one occasion Layne would awake and find Gubentush curled up asleep on his stomach. 

 

After my brother Mike went on his mission, I got his room, which was next to Layne’s. Every night, I went to sleep with the sound of rock music reverberating through my walls. It was very loud. I developed a love for the groups Layne listened to, such as Herman’s Hermits and Paul Revere and the Raiders. 

 

After his mission to France, Layne was much more boring and distance separated us. He moved to Provo to go to school, got married, graduated and moved to Illinois and then moved to Washington. By the time he moved back to Provo to work for WordPerfect, I had married and moved to California to go to school and then to practice law.

With very little contact over the years, I never the less began to feel a greater more equal kinship to Layne as we independently developed many of the same interests. Layne loved the outdoors and he loved going new places and seeing new things. He had numerous adventures with the Boy Scouts tracking through the wilderness of southern Utah, camera in hand. You will notice on the funeral program that there is a picture of Layne, holding a camera, getting ready to take a picture. He fulfilled the personal goal of visiting each of the 50 states and each of the seven continents of the world.

I loved visiting Layne and Mary in Provo, watching the slides of the latest adventure in Africa or Antarctica and always lingered in the downstairs hallway, admiring the collection of Layne’s photos that adorned the walls.

 

However, the Layne I will cherish the most and spend the most time reminiscing about, is the Layne I got to know the last eight months of his life, as he battled with terminal cancer.

 

Many of you have probably read the best selling book, Tuesdays With Morrie, an account of the sportswriter Mitch Albom getting reacquainted with his old college professor, Morrie Schwartz, during the last weeks of Morrie’s life-ending struggle with a terminal illness. Mitch spent 14 Tuesdays with Morrie before he died and got the greatest education of his life. 

 

Similar to the way that Mitch was educated by Morrie, Layne educated me on my visits to Provo during the last eight months of his life. 

 

One day Morrie said to Mitch, “Everyone knows they’re going to die, but nobody believes it. If we did, we would do things differently.” Morrie went on, “The truth is, once you learn how to die, you learn how to live…Most of us all walk around as if we’re sleepwalking. We really don’t experience the world fully, because we’re half-asleep, doing things we automatically think we have to do.” Mitch responded, “And facing death changes all that?” Morrie replied, “Oh yes. You strip away all that stuff and you focus on the essentials. When you realize you are going to die, you see everything much differently.”

 

One day last February, I asked Layne how he was able to keep such a positive mental attitude in the face of such difficult circumstances. He related to me that this was his third time battling cancer. The first battle was with thyroid cancer, the most mild and the least life threatening of his cancers, but the most difficult for him. It forced him to seriously face his own mortality. The second battle, with esophageal cancer, was more life threatening, but less difficult for him to deal with because he had faced his own mortality previously. This third battle, a recurrence of the esophageal cancer, was the most life threatening, but the easiest for Layne to deal with. He was not afraid to die. Death was merely a change in circumstance, a new venue to continue on with his life. He feared the pain of impending surgery much more than the thought of his death.

 

Morrie related to Mitch how our culture worships the healthy and tells us we should be ashamed if we are unable to do things for ourselves, such as dress or bathe. Then Morrie told Mitch that he had learned to enjoy his dependency, it was like being a child again and having someone show you unconditional love and attention. Morrie related that the real satisfaction in life did not come from the latest sports car or the biggest house, but came from offering to others what you had to give, your time and your concern. 

 

My single greatest memory of Layne will come from the night I spent with him several months ago at University Hospital. I watched helplessly as he struggled with nausea and then had the privilege of doing some small acts of service, such as emptying his soiled bedpan, giving him a sponge bathe and massaging his aching back. He shared with me the sequence of events leading to his personal realization that it was now alright for him to die and he spoke of the “blessings and joy” that came from his cancer.
I appreciate those words more fully now as I look back and realize that my greatest joy came while administering to his needs in his darkest hour and his sharing with me some of the deepest feelings of his heart.

Finally, Mitch dealt with what I personally found to be the most difficult issue. Mitch said to Morrie, “I don’t know how to say goodbye.” Morrie patted Mitch’s hand weakly, “This is how we say good bye…Love you,” he rasped. 

 

A number of months ago as I was preparing to leave Provo at the conclusion of a short visit, I was placing my suitcase in the trunk of my car at 4:00 a.m. in the morning, having made great effort not to waken anyone. In the dark I could hear the front door open and Layne’s voice rang out, “I love you, Bob.” I quickly ran back to the door and threw my arms around my brother and struggled to hold back the tears.

Last week, a day or two before he died, while he was on oxygen and barely able to breathe, let alone talk, I had what turned out to be my last conversation with Layne. I struggled over the telephone to share with him my feelings for him and indicated, after several minutes, that this was hard, I didn’t know what to say. His raspy voice penetrated the oxygen mask that covered his face and I heard him say his last words to me, “I love you Bob.”

Thursday evening, as my daughter Rachael and I traveled toward Boundary Peak, in southeastern Nevada, we reflected upon what Layne must be doing following his release from his mortal body. I suggested that he was involved in orientation meetings, in preparation for his mission there, and wondered if spirits got bored and slept through meetings in the spirit world like we do here on earth. Rachael was decidedly more upbeat. She felt sure that Tutu, Layne’s grandmother, was throwing a big party for Layne and inviting all of his loved ones to be there. Either way, we both knew that Layne had found a new continent to explore, and we look forward to the day that we can sit down with him and have him share with us this latest adventure.

This is how you say goodbye. I Love You Layne