Remembering Eric

Eulogy for Eric

Eric—our son, our fearless explorer, our curious thinker, our tenderhearted, stubborn, hilarious boy—lived his life in the most Eric way possible: headfirst, full throttle, and with a heart that was bigger than he ever realized.

Eric came into this world already styled—born with a full head of perfectly coifed blond hair, as if he’d been grooming in the womb. And as soon as he could walk, he didn’t—he ran. He ran into things, bounced off them, fell down, got back up, and ran in another direction with equal enthusiasm until he hit something else. He was one toddler on whom you’d better not turn your back, for if you did, you might find him halfway up a bookshelf, or standing on the piano, or—unforgettably—sampling his mom mom’s deodorant (yech!).

Eric was diagnosed with Type I diabetes as a toddler, and like many kids and teenagers, he had a complicated relationship with all the routines it required. In his teens, he grudgingly tolerated the pin-prick testing, but as time went on he tested less and less, until he eventually stopped—or so it seemed to us—insisting he could “just tell” if his blood sugar was too high or too low. His passing from diabetic ketoacidosis is a heartrending reminder of how hard it can be to live with chronic disease, especially when you’re young and determined to live life on your own terms.

His curiosity was endless. Eric always wanted to know how things worked and frequently asked if he could “bam them open” to find out. Maybe not the safest method of scientific inquiry, but it sure as heck taught us to hide anything valuable.

At his preschool graduation, the owner had each child stand up one-by-one as she said something about them. When it came to Eric she said, “Eric is a wise soul.” She then related a story from when he was 3 and Miss Carla was substituting for the regular teachers. The class was rambunctious and she said, “My goodness I am just going to have to tell Miss. Renny you children don’t listen.” Eric replied, “Miss Carla, she already knows that.” Then while all the other kids stood obediently singing a song in closing, Eric was jumping up and down waving enthusiastically to his family.

From a very early age, Eric had a wonderfully literal, logical way of seeing the world. In second grade, he once found himself seated between two empty desks. The teacher had moved him there in an effort to keep him from talking during class. Marc asked if he thought there might be some kind of message in that. Eric said, “No. I looked. They were empty.”

He was funny—sometimes unintentionally so. When the boys were little and their room was a mess, Marc would tell them that leaving their clothes and toys all over the floor was ridiculous. One day, I told Eric he was being ridiculous. He asked me if I even knew what that word meant. I told him but he said, that’s not what dad says it means. He said, “it means kids are leaving their clothes and toys all over the place.”

Eric loved fiercely and fought fiercely, especially with his older brother Travis. At home, they could go from wrestling and shouting to sliding notes under each other’s doors when they were put in time out. Nothing unites fighting siblings like parents as a common enemy. Eric never stayed mad for long after they fought. He’d soon forget why he was mad and wanted to play again. And on trips the two of them did everything together. 

Eric loved being with family, especially his cousins. He had a particularly close bond with his cousin Andie, who was born just over a month after him. When they were little, they played dress-up together—Andie choosing what Eric would wear, and Eric happily going along with it every time. We used to call them Pebbles and Bambam, and those names fit them perfectly. 

Eric loved making movies, especially with his sister Becky as his leading lady. One unforgettable production was Cowgirl Off to Buy a Horse, starring our golden retriever Sedona as a horse named Leslie—who was promptly stolen by a villain. Thankfully, the hero saved the day and returned her safely. Eric made other videos too, including a few with his friend Andrew Ball. These weren’t just home movies—they were early glimpses of Eric’s imagination, his humor, and his pleasure he took in creating things. 

Around sixth grade, his talent for math made itself known. Numbers just made sense to him. His AP Calculus teacher became a true inspiration and a model of the kind of educator Eric dreamed of becoming. He lauded the film Stand and Deliver and admired teachers who saw potential in students and helped them believe in themselves. So it was not at all surprising that he pursued a math degree, obtained one, and then looked to spread the word—or rather, the equations and that stuff that most of us don’t much understand.

After high school, Eric was gung-ho for college, quickly deciding on Stony Brook University. He loved the campus, Long Island, and the independence of living away from home for the first time. He started with over a semester’s worth of credits and a partial scholarship. He was a bright kid.

For a while, all went well, but then in his third year, interests outside of academics held sway. It was time to recalibrate. When he was ready to return to college, he transferred to Penn State. He moved in with his Grandma Pat, who lived within walking distance of main campus. When he was little, he called her his “cookie,” and during their years together, she was exactly that—steady, warm, and full of love. With her support, Eric found his way forward and finished what he started, proudly graduating from Penn State with a degree in Computational Math.

Things often came easily to Eric, and because of that, he wasn’t always fond of the hard work that stood between him and his goals. On a hike in Montana with his Uncle John, he grew tired of the endless switchbacks and decided to go straight up the mountain instead. Scrambling over loose rocks, he eventually made his way to the trees, where he finally had something solid to hold onto. Once safe, he wasn’t shaken—just pleased he’d found a “faster” route, even if it nearly sent him back down the mountain.

He carried that same determination into adulthood. When he got a substitute teaching job in the city—one known for its discipline challenges—he took it head-on, despite never having taught before. On his very first day teaching alone, a fight broke out in his classroom. I asked him what the fight was about, Eric said, “A math problem.” When the next class came in and had already heard about it, he told them, “Just so you know, we take math very seriously in this class.” Pure Eric turning chaos into deadpan humor.

Eric loved music with a passion that encompassed every genre I can think of—from classical to rap—with a soft spot for Taylor Swift and a deep connection to Mac Miller. Music spoke to him in a way that was personal and grounding.

Eric could be exasperating, because he loved to argue—for the mere sake of it—to play devil’s advocate until you either laughed or threw in the towel. I’m biased, but I’m pretty sure he’d have made a brilliant attorney. Or teacher. Or filmmaker. Or engineer. There is no disputing that Eric had the mind and heart to excel at many things. Yet sadly that potential had yet to fully gel before his time was gone.

Before we close, we want to thank all of you for being here today. Your presence—your memories, your hugs, your stories, your shared tears—mean more to our family than we can ever express. Knowing how many people loved Eric, laughed with him, learned from him, and cared about him brings us comfort in the middle of a grief that feels impossible. Thank you for standing with us, for honoring him, and for helping us hold his memory close.

And he was ours.
Our son. (together with Marc)
Our brother. (Travis & Becky)
Our bright, complicated, irreplaceable light.

We love him with everything we have, and we always will.

Before we close, we’d like to share something very special. We have created a slideshow that captures Eric as we knew him—through moments, memories, and the life he lived. We invite you to watch and remember him with us.