For Uncle John - Part V

"Living From Home" was my wife's idea. A pseudo-reality show approach that combined day to day footage with insight into both our personal and professional lives. A video project to keep momentum. We were back in studio working with our family of musicians while navigating our way through parenthood. As edits came in, I would open my laptop to show Uncle John our progress. He was fascinated with the idea of streaming and how we could broadcast our creation for those who purchased an online ticket. As scenes divulged the recording process, live performance or simply making coffee on the stove his pride in our work was evident. He was privy to our latest cut and anticipated the coming weekend for our online premiere.

Melanie and I had put our son to sleep as we sat in the kitchen, tired, and ready for bed ourselves; dishes dripping dry and the discussion of a quick game of cribbage. Casually keeping an eye on ticket sales continuing to come in for our broadcast, my Aunt called as I looked at my phone. Almost 9:00 PM, I hesitated to answer knowing her uncanny ability to keep conversation. A couple more rings and I picked up.

"Blake, come quick, your Uncle John is down...I called the ambulance," her voice shaking.

I fought off panic as I hung up but already sick with the thought of his recovery. Would it be weeks or months? As I drove up College Avenue I could see the repetitive cycle of emergency lights off the trees. Fire trucks and an ambulance, the silhouettes of the workers in chaos through the front window. I hardly stopped my van before out of the driver seat, running past their garage and through the back door.

A dozen emergency workers congregated in the living room, machines being brought in from outside, dirt caked to a freshly shampooed carpet, red and blue strobes of light ricocheting across the artwork. Uncle John was on the ground, his shirt ripped off his body. The glimpse was enough. Aunt Jean stood beyond the response team, I pulled her in close and held her in the dining room.

With a collective count among the workers, Uncle John was lifted. We stepped back as he floated past us, down the hall and out the door. Spilling emotion, we collected ourselves with a glass of water and followed.

We sat privately at the far end of Emergency; boxes of tissues, vinyl furniture and a looming residual grief. Healthcare workers and councillors checking in, a grace among them all. Assurance in their efforts and an empathy in their presence. As midnight passed we were finally moved.

Uncle John lay peaceful. His chest rising and falling with assistance, unresponsive to the humming grind of the machines. I pulled two weighty chairs bedside and sat in the silence with my aunt, new to the space I was holding. He had gone into full cardiac arrest. They had shared a meal and a glass of wine before he retired to his chair in the living room to read.

Over the course of the next few hours we were given insight into his condition. Miracles of medicine could assure his heart would continue to beat and lungs fill with air, however he would not return home. The brilliance of his mind in peril. With each check in, a doctor would insist we take our time. Of all my uncle gave, never would I have thought it would be this decision. The strength to honour him came as we kissed his face and ran our fingers through his hair. A technician joined us in the room and let him go.

Breaths still came. We waited for the next.

Death was considerate. It moved over his face as blemishes disappeared and wrinkles smoothed. His lips relaxed and eyelids fluttered. The oils from our hands gave his hair a sheen, flowing back off his forehead with a thickness I had only seen in photos.

He released his age as his skin filled with colour and he opened his eyes. They were newborn. His softness moved between my aunt and I. Decades of love distilled. Then he left.

With a broken heart I rubbed his feet.