Stubborn, self-centered and incontrovertible assholes. But even through the gruff exterior, a riptide of selflessness has always flown just beneath the time-worn skin.

When I was home last month, my dad asked me to pen his eulogy.  As in, do it right here and now. While 79 ½ years old and bustling away on Cape Cod building caskets and cornhole boards for other people.

Of course I took his request seriously, and I even gave myself a month to let the idea marinate in my skull. In the end, as of this morning, I have decided that to do such a thing would be a reductive undertaking. You can’t write a eulogy when you’re not in mourning. At least not for someone who is still up and about fashioning other people’s terminal sleeping boxes of freshly cut pine.

Instead of Dad’s postscript, I’m currently thinking about Mary, his little sister. You can call her Maya (but if you’re from Boston, you know that it actually is spelled ‘Mare’). She’s the one who is currently “asleep” on a morphine drip, her last words probably sounding something like, “I don’t want anyone to come and see me.” Like my dad, she is fiercely independent—not one to be trifled with. And while she is deeply entrenched in her ways, at the same time she has balanced life out with decades of service as an anesthetist. Not to mention also caring so tenderly for us, five kids living just down the in our Mashpee neighborhood.

As I write this, Falmouth Hospital is upping Maya’s morphine dosage every 15 minutes. She’s in Room 415 and rounding out her earthly existence as a less than 100-pound lump under sheets whose color now matches her skin tone. Those who can be at her side: my sisters, my father, my mother, my other aunt Julie— they are doing so. Even if she didn’t want anyone there at all. Their words and updates provide me comfort, here on the other side of the Atlantic.

And this is where thoughts of a eulogy come back into my head.

Maya has lived most of her life, from what I can tell, as a true-blue introvert. Unpalatable people, who number most of the population, drove her nuts—even though she carried on our family tradition in the field of medicine. She cared for others with extreme attention to detail. In these last years, when cancer almost took her down for good, she spent most hours holed up in the bedroom of her sister’s house, not venturing out at all, as best I can tell. Like now, my aunt Julie often told us that she didn’t want to see anyone at all as life brought her closer to the end.

But us, her nieces and nephews, always knew when to say, “Fuck it.” We’d drive to Mashpee and knock on her door anyway. Because like those six siblings (with my father is the oldest), we too are stubborn, self-centered assholes. We kids do what we want, and we call each other out on our shit. We know when it is appropriate to mow down another’s crazy wishes, and the end result of this disregard usually  resembles something positive. In my experience, Maya was never unhappy when we showed up and forced her to put in her teeth for an hour to catch up.  And I would be remiss, of course, if I didn’t mention that it was great to spend time with Julie too.

I’m not going to eulogize Maya, my dad or anyone else who might be occupying the top of God’s “Who’s Next?” list.  Maya has lived her life exactly how she wanted, and there wasn’t anyone else’s judgment or commentary that make her think twice about her life choices. And as the next generation of Hallinan kids, I recognize that we are how we are because she and Julie lived just up the hill. Maya was single, but she filled her home with cats, dogs and even a goose that was one day shot and killed by an angry uncle of mine. See, I’ve got all kinds of crazy, wonderful and fascinating stories that I could share—but I’m not here to craft a biography. The only point to make is that Maya has been a powerful presence in our lives.

When the ambulance was coming to take her to the hospital, Julie told me that Maya would not let the EMTs come into her bedroom. Ever a stubborn and self-interested aunt, even while writhing in pain. But she did allow Dad and Julie to come in, and between the two of them they got her across the threshold. Before long she was loaded into the ambulance and instructing the first responders on what medicine she would and not accept on the way to Falmouth Hospital. Remember, she’s a nurse. And a Hallinan.

I just spoke with my father, and he told me that last night he went back to the hospital. When he got to Room 415, Julie was still there, bent over the hospital bed with her head resting up against Maya’s. Dad came in quietly, stood behind Julie, and put his hand on her back. Hallinan support with Hallinan rules.

So Dad, here’s your eulogy. I know it’s not what you were expecting. But even though I know that you can be an obstinate Bostonian who grew up on  Calmar Street in Brockton, I know that deep down you would want this to be about so much more than just yourself. You and your siblings—not just Mary—are one of a kind. You’ve all set loose a whole new herd of Hallinans that, I can be sure, will one day be tormenting whoever it is that will be carting us off to the afterlife.

You guys really are the best assholes ever.