Sunday, February 10, 2008

On Clean Underwear.

My father's older brother Ted had a massive stroke in 1980. I remember very little about that time except that many people at the hospital did not expect him to survive and our (very large) family rallied around and, when all was said and done he was in a wheel chair, half-paralyzed but as big a smart-ass as ever.

My family has a somewhat odd sense of humor. I never knew my dad's father, but my grandmother lived until I was twelve, and my strongest memories of her involve cigarettes and cuss words, and the kind of threats that would bring DFACS running if you were to make them publicly now. It's not that we're a particularly violent people, mind you. We simply enjoy a colorful vernacular.

Uncle Ted has had a very rough several months, and after being in and out of the hospital several times, he entered hospice care a short time ago. Last week my dad told me things were pretty dire, and it seemed that his death was imminent. His wife and children were with him round the clock, and when people would come to visit my aunt would tell my uncle (who had lost consciousness days ago) who had come, and encouraged everyone to address him directly, since he seemed responsive to voices even though he didn't wake up.

Two days ago, my aunt was going to run home for a bit. She told my cousins that she would be back very soon, and then leaned over my uncle's bed.

"Ted, I have been wearing the same underwear for three days. I have got to go home and take a shower."

She said (and is very happy to have had my two cousins there to confirm this, or she would have thought she'd gone crazy) that my uncle's eyes fluttered, and his mouth moved just a little.

He mouthed the words "Me too" and breathed his final breath.

I only hope that I go out with a wise crack. Nothing else would seem appropriate.

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