Shown is a photo of me and my sweet uncle, for whom I cared in the winter of his life until his peaceful passing at home in September, 2005. This photo was taken just two weeks before he died.
Had my uncle still been living, today would mark his 100th birthday.
I was at his wife’s home this morning, doing my usual things such as paying bills and balancing her checkbook, reviewing her meds and ensuring she had an adequate supply, and just sitting and chatting. It helps older people to have someone to talk to, listen, and share memories and stories. Her memory is failing due to symptoms of Alzheimer’s Disease. She had forgotten that today was her husband’s birthday.
We shared stories, laughed, and remembered the good times. I will never forget how fundamentally my sweet uncle changed my life. You see, in his last year of life on this Earth, his physical health was failing. He had to go to the doctor often. He was frustrated because his mind was still good, but he knew his body was not being cooperative. Man, he hated to have to use a wheelchair to get around.
I had left my previous job and took almost a year to spend time with him. We would visit, laugh, and enjoy what he referred to as his “lasts.” His last dinner at a restaurant. His last visit to a horse race. His last meal with our large family. His last crab feast. His last meal of pasta con sarde. His last visit to our home where he enjoyed strolling and sitting in the gardens, regaling history with my partner. In his last August, on an unusually cool and sunny morning, I got him in his wheelchair and we took a “walk.” We strolled around his retirement community for six hours over four miles. We talked about everything under the sun. We would stop and watch the wildlife, smell the roses, and just smile.
That summer was the most bittersweet of my life. I knew my uncle was preparing to die. He faced his death with dignity and courage. He wanted to remain at home, but his doctors required that he have ongoing care from someone more able-bodied than his wife to provide that care. I was in the fortunate position to do that. In his last few months, I spent most of my days and often many nights with him.
I am not a trained medical care attendant, but I learned from people who taught me how to provide gentle caring attention. How to help him bathe. How to help him use the bathroom. How to help him live comfortably with as little pain as possible.
He had lost his ability to see well enough to read. I would read him the daily newspaper from cover to cover. He would rant and rave about the activities (or lack thereof) by the last President. He would scream about the evil Deputy President. He would express concern about how people were being treated (or mistreated) who suffered a major calamity caused by the wrath of a hurricane for which response actions were exceptionally inadequate. These conversations kept his mind active, and helped me to learn so much.
I miss my uncle very much, but I have no regrets. He died on his own terms, in his own home, with his loving wife of 64 years by his side. I remember as he awoke from his last difficult night, he motioned to me. I held his hand. He seemed to be trying to tell me something. I thought, “a drink of water?” “do you need to go to the bathroom?”
Instead, he pulled me closer, opened his blue eyes wide, and said, “thank you. You have a lot to do so get going.” That was his famous expression to dismiss us when he was tired. In past years, my partner and I would take the signal and leave, so he could rest. In this case, I just continued to hold his hand. He closed his eyes, then stopped breathing. He just quietly passed away, with peace, honor, and his dignity intact.
Happy birthday, my sweet uncle. How much I learned from you. How much you cared for me, for my partner, and for your lovely wife for whom I still provide daily attention.
Life is short: show those you love that you love them.
