What is just as impressive is the number of students who take the risk of performing their writing in front of the entire school. They read true stories, poetry, tales of tragic high school romance, staments of belief, fiction, fantasy class essays and really anything they have written that they are proud of.
This year our principal took part and nearly every department was represented by a faculty member. I love the way that the event isn't about just the English department, it is a whole school event. Last year I told student who wanted to perform but was afraid that if they would do it, I would too. So true to my word I read the following story. It is the true story of my Uncle Ollie and Aunt Elaine.
The Last Living Act of Oliver Green
It is probably best to start with the fact that Oliver Green is not my uncle. He and I are not related in any way by blood. In fact I only really knew him for the last 14 years of his 91 year life.
Ollie was the best friend of my wife’s grandfather. They had been friends for years. Ollie and his wife Elaine met and married at the same time my wife’s grandparents did. They bought houses next to each other and looked forward to starting families. My wife’s grandparents quickly had 4 children. Elaine and Ollie did not. They came to find out that Elaine could not have children and the family they dreamed about and planned for was not to be.
They were both adopted by my wife’s family and became Uncle Ollie and Aunt Elaine. The two of them watched their adopted nieces and nephews grow up attending every birthday, recital and play. They attended every wedding, baptism and first communion. When those children grew up and had their own children, Uncle Ollie and Aunt Elaine became their aunt and uncle too. When I met my wife they became mine.
I should probably also tell you that by the time I met him, Ollie had begun to experience periods of dementia that turned him from a lively, vibrant man into something much more distant and removed. It was common for Ollie to experience hours long episodes of confusion. For this reason, I listened intensely when he was himself and sharing his stories. His condition gave his words a fleeting quality, as though if you didn’t listen and hold on to each word, it word be lost to the abyss that could be minutes or seconds away. I also listened to Ollie because he spoke to me with such kindness. As a 19 year old interloper at a family Christmas party where I was not yet family, Ollie welcomed me and took me under his wing in a way that took away my stage fright but made me feel that I belonged. This was just one of the many kindnesses that he showed me. On the way home that night my wife explained to me how Ollie was, or more specifically was not related, but also no matter what the genome said, he was her Uncle.
By the time I was really a part of this family, Ollie was gone more than not. He would spend entire days without a period of wakefulness. This was devastating to Elaine who watched the man that she loved and shared so much with just drift away. Though he was always with her, she was very often alone.
I would often sit with him hoping that he might show up and be fully himself. Occasionally I would be rewarded and get a glimpse of the real man that lived in some dark recess of his mind. With time this became less and less common and eventually I just stopped waiting. It would still sit with him, but I had lost the realistic expectation that he would arrive at any moment.
The last time I saw him emerge from the fog was at a family party one summer. He was sitting in the house with others around him when suddenly he engaged in the conversation as if it was a common occurrence. He was warm and glowing and the room quickly filled as people spread the word about what was happening. He shared stories of vacations 60 years past in vivid detail. He filled the room with laughter. He shined. I listened trying to drink it all in. The whole thing lasted for more than half an hour, just long enough for everyone to forget that he would soon be going away. Then the haze fitfully descended and slowly enveloped him again. First he searched for a word, then a name, then he stopped mid sentence and he was gone. It may not have been his last visit, but it was the last for me.
Several years later the phone rang and despite my sorrow, I was not really surprised to find out that Ollie had died. I had been resigned to it. In many ways he was already gone. My goal for the funeral was to tell Elaine just how much I admired Ollie for the simple kindnesses that he had always shown me. The time for that never came. It was never right. So I never did.
Later on as I was sitting talking one of his niece I heard the story of his final moments of life.
Have you ever wondered what your last moments will be like? I have often pondered what I would do with my last breath if it ever came down to it. Would I say something deep and philosophically meaningful? What would I say to my wife? Would I leave a lesson for my kids? Would I be able to tell them the secret to a happy life? Could I say something that would demonstrate how I feel and what they mean to me? Or would I be too overwhelmed and concerned about my own fate to worry about any of that? Regardless, I know that I will not be able to beat what my Uncle Ollie did.
As he lay there in his hospital bed, his family of nieces and nephews came to say their goodbyes. He lay there surrounded by them but as usual, far away. Then as the situation grew more dire. His wife moved in close to say a final goodbye to her friend, husband and partner of 52 years. She leaned over and spoke to him softly and as she finished talking and kissed his forhead, he opened his eyes and smiled a wide smile. His face and eyes had a focus and clarity that said “I am here now, I am with you.” He didn’t say anything, he just looked at her and smiled for a while. Then he beckoned her closer, reached up with his hand, placed it on her side. The was silent as she leaned in to hear the words he was struggling to get out. Finally he said “Tickle, tickle, tickle.” Then Elaine and the room erupted in shocked tear filled laughter. When the laughter subsided he smiled and said, “there, that’s better, much better.” Then he leaned back, and though the smile stayed on his face, his eyes grew gray and he faded away for the last time.
More than just being my Uncle, Ollie is my hero for giving, with his last breath, such a moment of joy to so many people and for giving such an eloquent message to his wife of how he wanted her to go on. He is my hero because in his final moment of life when he was channeling the last energy that was his to give he chose such an elegant act love. I can only hope someday when the time comes that I am strong enough and that my mind is clear enough to give such a gift to those that I love.
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