For Uncle John - Part IV
In the fall of 2019, as I was wrapping up a tour of Western Canada with my wife, Uncle John lost his balance on the three steps out his back door, grabbed for the railing and swung himself backwards into the neighbours' fence. The abrupt force broke his hip and shoulder, his body blackened. The cycle of falling and recovery, each event robbing him of his previous self. The last one resulted in a cracked sternum and collapsed vertebrae. He remained at Regina's General Hospital fighting the threat of pneumonia and bed-sores for three miserable months.
I was there daily. Swapping out books, keeping conversation and physically assisting however I could. There was always a good day to come. Between them was difficult. A decline in spirit raised intimacy in topics of discussion. Uncle John vocalized the suffering. A brilliant mind and a failed body both accepting their run. He wanted to be in his home. We all spoke affirmatively about a his return to his chair, his vinyl, his artwork - I didn't believe it would happen. His dependency on my Aunt had been substantial, she too was tired. His lungs needed a nudge as well. If he were to return home, he would be tethered to a portable oxygen concentrator and housebound. Following a few grim nights I was preparing myself for despairing news but by sheer desire Uncle John willed his health well enough to be discharged. Healing, his return home was triumphant.
Then within a couple months, COVID-19 was unleashed upon us and the great mind scramble had begun. Afraid to breathe on my beloved Uncle, I stayed away. The loneliness of his hospital room crept home. Our phone calls were politically heavy. He was unforgiving of those in charge. The assault on education and healthcare and the lying from ministers eroded away hope. His seclusion worsened. In a desperate act to lift spirits and an excuse to begin visits again, I took their house on as a project; dusting bookshelves, organizing clutter, waxing floors, building a deck, painting walls, and refinishing trim. The walls still felt high but at least they were clean. Uncle John sitting in the corner in a mask and an oxygen machine.
Finding my own way through a pandemic and the effects on my livelihood, I had to focus on creation. Songwriting had always remained a discipline and as songs would grow into fully produced tracks I would bring my latest mixes to my Uncle and play them through his living room stereo. Lyrics typed for him to follow along.
"Would you call this country music?" he would ask.
"It all comes from the same place," I would answer.
If it wasn't input on songs, I would drop off a manuscript or essay draft that I had been working on with hopes of an edit. He would brighten as the weight of stapled papers would land on his lap. I would request him at his most strict, from fixing grammar to amending sentence structure. His youth coming through in the task, one that defined decades of his life. With rapid turn-around, heavy lines crossed out entire paragraphs, bold question marks filled margins, and words were underlined with approval. The more red ink to appear, the more excited we became. I assured him of his role, he needed not worry about my feelings or fragility or an angry parent challenging his expectations. His job was to crush me and he found pleasure in it.
His depression was balanced as we continued to counter life's aches. Highs followed speedy drives to Lumsden, egg salad sandwiches while overlooking the valley, classical music cranked through the vehicle's stereo, dill pickle soft serve with peanut butter, jars of olives. These would be the times he spoke of life and his wishes. A despair replaced with peace and acceptance. I couldn't help but cry knowing the role and trust he gave me. His orders, direct and filled with strength.
The day had been good. I followed him to his bedroom as he was fatigued. Still standing we parted with a hug. I bawled into his shoulder as he called me his son.
