Eulogy for Mario Francesco Giacomantonio, delivered 6th December 2011 by Rhett Talley

I have been asked by Mario’s fiancé, Fiona Courtenay, to speak on her behalf and also to offer my own thoughts on my friend, Mario.

Before I begin, I would like to offer my sincere condolences to Mario’s children: Krystal, Tori, Nicholas and Tyson; and to Barbara, the mother of Mario’s children; and to Mario’s mother, Maria; and to his brothers, Vivio and Tony; and to his sister, Perina. Today, together, we all mourn the loss of Mario.

I should say first that I may not have known Mario quite as well or quite as long as many of you here today. But he was my friend. And what I did know about Mario was important and fundamental: that he was a good man. And these days and indeed for all time that counts perhaps for everything. For what a glorious epitaph to carry like a shield to guard against eternity’s cold and fickle glare: that each time the world pauses to think of you, the world can say, “Mario was a good man”. “Here rests a good man.”

Krystal, Tori, Nicholas, Tyson, you should all know that your father, Mario Francesco Giacomantonio was a good man. And Barbara, the father of your children was a good man. Maria, Vivio, Tony, Perina, your son and brother was a good man; Jess and Jake, your step-father was a good man. Fiona, no one knows perhaps better than you, the man you lived with, the man you loved deeply and honestly, the man you cared for, was a good man. When our time comes, we should all hope to have such an epitaph.

And it enriches us to know someone good. And in this way I can say I was made the richer in spirit for having known Mario. The good are always full of compassion and help us to better understand that we should all be a little more compassionate with each other. We should all reach out to each other a little more often, and reach out a little further. For who knows what tomorrow will bring. We should muster up the good in ourselves and open our eyes to the good in others. If we have amends to make let us be prepared to make the first move and the second and the third if need be. For who knows what tomorrow will bring. I can say that Mario reached out to me and I was made the better man for it.

Mario to me was like a fallen hero, one wounded in battle, a Roman centurion – which he did look very much like, for he was a bear of a man; yes, a fallen hero, who early in the fight had been broken by the wars and misfortunes of this world and, badly wounded, and forced to continue the fight on the sidelines, did the best he could, the best he knew how, to help those he could. Here little Jess and little Jake and little Fiona come to mind. And make no mistake, Fiona, heartbroken, has been made in a way, tiny now, for she was in love with Mario and he was in love with her, and she has lost her better half. What a world. It is said, it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. We know now that is easier said than done.

For the lucky among us there will come those few persons into our lives that will teach us, that will show us, love is its own reward. I believe that this was the lesson that both Fi and Mario were born to teach each other: that love is its own reward; and too often we are greedy to want or expect any more from this world. Love is enough.

And when we think of love, we should consider that there are few roles that a man can play that are nobler and more admirable than the dutiful and selfless act of being a step father to young children. For Mario, perhaps, it was a chance to make things right. We all know this is hard work. He was a good step-father to Jess and Jake. Yes, this as much as brick-laying or roof-making is real man’s work. And I saw that it came easy to Mario for this reason: that he understood he was needed and that he could help and that he wanted to help. And for this, his reward was great, for he was dearly loved by his two step-children. In this regard, Mario, made wise by the years and by the pain that life will visit on us all, understood the great lesson: love is its own reward.

But, alas, Mario was in pain. Most of us, if we are lucky, will never know what is like to experience, for even a few moments, the sort of chronic pain that Mario endured – not for a few moments or even a few days but for ten long years. Chronic pain is utterly debilitating and it overwhelms a person’s whole sense of being and their whole sense of purpose.

Chronic, persistent pain is a fact of life for many people and a condition which is largely not understood outside of the medical profession. It is a complex interaction between nervous, endocrine and immune system process that are not easy to detect or counteract with normal medical procedures. There are no outwards signs of chronic pain. We intuitively believe that because a person appears comfortable they are not in pain. That is a myth. Pain overwhelms the brain and the central nervous system in all its functionality. Pain shoots out a constant flow of complex neurochemistry, continually impacting all aspects of cognitive function, ever commanding our brain to be in Distress; or to be Fearful; or to take Flight; or to Fight.

On the 28th of April 2001, Mario had a freak accident which changed his life and his family’s life for ever. He fell down a flight of stairs awkwardly and split the quadriceps muscle in his right leg nearly in two. Circumstances conspired in the weeks and years that followed to make it worse again. It could have happened to any of us. But it happened to Mario. He did not ask for it, nor did he ask for our sympathy in turn; only our understanding. But the pain was severe and incurable. In his diaries he uses the word agony. He fell down hard and often. And he got back up again. He was prescribed an ever changing cocktail of pain medication and these drugs, like all drugs, play on a person’s mind and misshape their personality. This would make many a lesser man bitter and mean spirited. But if that was in Mario, I never saw it. And even these many years later the pain was still so chronic and so severe that wise doctors felt it prudent and correct to prescribe a drug as dangerous as methadone. We trust doctors, what else can we do and yet here we are saying goodbye to Mario. What a world.

But the difficulty for Mario beyond the pain was his sense of helplessness, that he quietly endured, the frustration that he simply could not do what he physically wanted to do. Mario was a man of action, a man in fact who was born and bred to work with his hands, to be a builder, a maker of rooves that sustain us and protect us . That was the family business. And the ability to do what he was always meant to do was cruelly taken away from him by tragedy and fate. What a world.

And yet how cheerful did he always seem to me! In what dignity did he endure the pain that would have made lesser men whimper. He was quick with a smile and remained ever optimistic. He was gracious in appreciation and generous with kindness. He had the love and support of a good woman who believed in him. And this had made a huge difference in his life. And on good days when he and Fiona were together he was like a teenage boy with a big smile, holding a giant lolly – a lolly named Fiona. Their love ennobled each other. Mario called Fiona his queen. On the 12th of August 2010 Fi walked into Shearer’s Tavern and uttered that immortal line, “Hi Mario.” Innocent enough, one would think. Now, I don’t know what Fiona was wearing that night but Mario’s face suddenly lit up like a two dollar pokies jackpot – which I understand, Fiona, he cashed in later that night – onya, mate - ahh, timing is everything, eh? And that was it for the two of them. Ain’t love a beautiful thing. Mario wanted to marry Fiona. He had ceremoniously asked me to be his best man. I proudly accepted. Mario was putting a plan together. There was still so much he wanted to do. What a world.

In a cosmic sort of irony, Mario and his team put the tiles on the roof of our house in Ormeau. That is to say, his work towers over our heads each day. That was 16 years ago, before his accident. It is a good roof, the tiles are well fitted and it has never leaked. It is roof tiling job a man can take pride in. It is the roof that Mario built. And just as this roof protects us from the elements now, so too did Mario seek to do the same for those he loved.

And that is what we will remember about Mario: that he was a good man, who did good work and who loved and cared deeply for his friends and family. He told me often how much he loved his children. His tragic and unexpected death must mean something to us; it must teach us all something. I know that Mario would want us to take this lesson to heart: that love is its own reward; that we should all be more compassionate with each other; that we should move closer to each other, not farther away. That we should love each other. For who knows what tomorrow will bring. God bless you, Mario. Fare thee well. Rest in peace.


(c) Rhett Talley