The Man That Did Not Flinch
Last week, we laid to rest a great man: my uncle. He had been ailing for quite some time so it was not unexpected; however, no matter how one prepares for pending loss, the reality of the actual moment may look different. For me, I tended to pull away. At the first mention of the word "cancer" something inside me recoiled and stepped back. Selfish? Yes. Necessary for self-preservation? Possibly. Noticed? No. His four kids, all aged somewhere between 45 and 55, stood by to spend the last months of his life together. He himself also withdrew, bowing out of family events, most likely so as not to be seen in his frail state. And again, for selfish reasons, I didn't mind. I wanted to remember him as he was. Watching my grandfather's body weaken as he fought cancer remains to be on the of the hardest memories of my life. To watch his older brother experience a similar waning period was too hard for me. Too hard to revisit the old memories. When the news arrived, it was not a shock; but there was still sadness. When my own grandfather died, I was completely unraveled. It was my first experience with loss and never had I so strongly questioned the goodness of God. The loss came mere weeks after the family had relocated to a state ten hours away from his sick bed, where there was no one. I had never felt so utterly alone. To this day I don't think I've wept as much or as openly as his funeral service. It was into this desolate place of desperate emotions that my memory of my uncle changed. He was no longer just an uncle seen at Christmastime. He was my grandfather's older brother. He was a human experiencing loss. I cannot remember the words that were spoken, but he was there. A bulwark. Solid. Strong. And just there. His mere presence was like a soothing balm; and something unspoken told me it was going to be okay.
Maybe it was because he himself had been through so much. In 1977, my aunt, his wife, went in for a routine heart procedure. She died on the table. He raised their four kids and carried on, though as a now-adult, I wonder how he did it. As a kid, I heard stories about my aunt and the difficulty of her loss and I always felt sad. Sad that I never knew her. Sad that she died. Sad that she was not able to see her kids grow up and have families of their own. My uncle though was stalwart. To look at him, you never saw weakness. To me, he was always solid. And he loved his family. All of us. Even nieces he usually saw just once a year.
I was feeling fine and rather disconnected during the family visitation hours. I felt a bit like an intruder. He was, after all, technically my mom's uncle, which made him my great uncle. I did not know a lot of stories about him, but seeing wedding pictures of him and my aunt made me a little teary-eyed. His kids fluctuated in and out of tears, which is totally understandable. Luckily, we still have a family that laughs. One of the more lighthearted moments of the ordeal was when my cousin arrived in my uncle's beloved old car. He drove it right up to the front of the funeral home, so my uncle's friends would "know he's here." [My uncle always drove his car the two blocks to his favorite bar so people would know he was there.] I kept an eye on my grandmother, sure this was bringing back difficult memories of my grandfather, and chatted with other cousins while we waited to leave for the church. My uncle was a well-connected man and chances were if he hadn't coached you in football, he coached your father, brother, cousin, son or BFF. The procession of cars from the funeral home to the church, and then again from the church to the cemetery, was the longest I've ever seen.
Like my grandfather, my uncle passed in the heat of the summer and as we entered the church, I immediately missed the sporadic breeze outside. The ceiling fans in the medium-sized sanctuary may have been spinning, but if they were, they did nothing to ease the thick humidity that hung in the air. We tucked ourselves in with the family and did our best to follow along with the Mass. The priest, though long-winded, did a wonderful job of honoring my uncle's legacy. He shared personal stories and ended the winding monologue with stating that, along with the priest with whom he shared his first assistant pastoring role, he learned the most in life from my uncle. Whereas the former had taught him how to fix things, my uncle had showed him the importance of fixing people, which is what he did with youth and sport. It was all a bit surprising to me, but heartfelt nonetheless. And as the Mass dragged on, I was still holding strong, though sweating steadily. Another song from the rather operatic organist, and few miscues on the stand up/sit down/kneel and pray pieces, and it was time for the eulogy. My cousin, who is like a hybrid of David Duchovny and Richard Gere stood at the lectern. He confessed that he had long imagined giving this eulogy, usually when he was out mowing the lawn. And the day of reckoning had arrived. In a word, his eulogy was brilliant. It was true. It was authentic. Worthy words honoring my uncle, a "true gentleman." He spoke of a life being measured in miles. The 2.7 miles to the football field. The .2 miles to my uncle's favorite bar. And so on. And then he mentioned 4.3 miles my uncle drove in January 1977 to the rest of his life. A steady stream of tears had started at the mention of my own grandfather, and his relationship with my uncle. But the dam broke at that point and there was no use in holding back. The eulogy honored my aunt as it honored my uncle. My cousin continued without wavering, as the audience fell apart around him. He said that my uncle lived without flinching. An apt pronouncement considering all he had faced in life. Like any other life-shaking news, he took the cancer diagnosis in stride, and continued to do his own thing as much as he was able. He didn't flinch.
I miss the man. I regret not finding answers to questions I never asked. The stories I never heard about my grandfather. I miss the steadfast aura he arrayed. I miss that I never brought a boy home for Christmas. I can only imagine. The older I get, the more I realize I need a bookish fellow--a guy equal parts smart and adventure--one that glories in a vast vocabulary and enjoys things like reading, art, sunsets and things that take your breath away. My uncle wouldn't have known what to do with him, but would have loved him all the same. Because his family was first. In this neverending hunt that is my life, he would have told me, as he always did, to chase the dream. He never saw the obstacles that always seemed to make me stall. He just saw what you wanted and told you to go get it--and if he knew someone who could help you out, then he'd make it happen. If I wanted to write, he'd remind me that I had every right in the world to do it. And then he'd tell me to just go write a book. Or submit a piece to whatever publisher I wanted. Any obstruction, real or perceived, was to be viewed as a catalyst, never an obstacle.
He was an amazing man who lived a full life. He was an inspiration to countless former players, a handful of whom ascended to the professional ranks. Devil dog. Beloved husband, father, uncle. A man that did not flinch. A man dearly missed.
Maybe it was because he himself had been through so much. In 1977, my aunt, his wife, went in for a routine heart procedure. She died on the table. He raised their four kids and carried on, though as a now-adult, I wonder how he did it. As a kid, I heard stories about my aunt and the difficulty of her loss and I always felt sad. Sad that I never knew her. Sad that she died. Sad that she was not able to see her kids grow up and have families of their own. My uncle though was stalwart. To look at him, you never saw weakness. To me, he was always solid. And he loved his family. All of us. Even nieces he usually saw just once a year.
I was feeling fine and rather disconnected during the family visitation hours. I felt a bit like an intruder. He was, after all, technically my mom's uncle, which made him my great uncle. I did not know a lot of stories about him, but seeing wedding pictures of him and my aunt made me a little teary-eyed. His kids fluctuated in and out of tears, which is totally understandable. Luckily, we still have a family that laughs. One of the more lighthearted moments of the ordeal was when my cousin arrived in my uncle's beloved old car. He drove it right up to the front of the funeral home, so my uncle's friends would "know he's here." [My uncle always drove his car the two blocks to his favorite bar so people would know he was there.] I kept an eye on my grandmother, sure this was bringing back difficult memories of my grandfather, and chatted with other cousins while we waited to leave for the church. My uncle was a well-connected man and chances were if he hadn't coached you in football, he coached your father, brother, cousin, son or BFF. The procession of cars from the funeral home to the church, and then again from the church to the cemetery, was the longest I've ever seen.
Like my grandfather, my uncle passed in the heat of the summer and as we entered the church, I immediately missed the sporadic breeze outside. The ceiling fans in the medium-sized sanctuary may have been spinning, but if they were, they did nothing to ease the thick humidity that hung in the air. We tucked ourselves in with the family and did our best to follow along with the Mass. The priest, though long-winded, did a wonderful job of honoring my uncle's legacy. He shared personal stories and ended the winding monologue with stating that, along with the priest with whom he shared his first assistant pastoring role, he learned the most in life from my uncle. Whereas the former had taught him how to fix things, my uncle had showed him the importance of fixing people, which is what he did with youth and sport. It was all a bit surprising to me, but heartfelt nonetheless. And as the Mass dragged on, I was still holding strong, though sweating steadily. Another song from the rather operatic organist, and few miscues on the stand up/sit down/kneel and pray pieces, and it was time for the eulogy. My cousin, who is like a hybrid of David Duchovny and Richard Gere stood at the lectern. He confessed that he had long imagined giving this eulogy, usually when he was out mowing the lawn. And the day of reckoning had arrived. In a word, his eulogy was brilliant. It was true. It was authentic. Worthy words honoring my uncle, a "true gentleman." He spoke of a life being measured in miles. The 2.7 miles to the football field. The .2 miles to my uncle's favorite bar. And so on. And then he mentioned 4.3 miles my uncle drove in January 1977 to the rest of his life. A steady stream of tears had started at the mention of my own grandfather, and his relationship with my uncle. But the dam broke at that point and there was no use in holding back. The eulogy honored my aunt as it honored my uncle. My cousin continued without wavering, as the audience fell apart around him. He said that my uncle lived without flinching. An apt pronouncement considering all he had faced in life. Like any other life-shaking news, he took the cancer diagnosis in stride, and continued to do his own thing as much as he was able. He didn't flinch.
I miss the man. I regret not finding answers to questions I never asked. The stories I never heard about my grandfather. I miss the steadfast aura he arrayed. I miss that I never brought a boy home for Christmas. I can only imagine. The older I get, the more I realize I need a bookish fellow--a guy equal parts smart and adventure--one that glories in a vast vocabulary and enjoys things like reading, art, sunsets and things that take your breath away. My uncle wouldn't have known what to do with him, but would have loved him all the same. Because his family was first. In this neverending hunt that is my life, he would have told me, as he always did, to chase the dream. He never saw the obstacles that always seemed to make me stall. He just saw what you wanted and told you to go get it--and if he knew someone who could help you out, then he'd make it happen. If I wanted to write, he'd remind me that I had every right in the world to do it. And then he'd tell me to just go write a book. Or submit a piece to whatever publisher I wanted. Any obstruction, real or perceived, was to be viewed as a catalyst, never an obstacle.
He was an amazing man who lived a full life. He was an inspiration to countless former players, a handful of whom ascended to the professional ranks. Devil dog. Beloved husband, father, uncle. A man that did not flinch. A man dearly missed.
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