He breaks into tears and I kiss the top of his head. He can’t speak or move more than his arm very slowly. Around us wheelchairs tentatively carry their crooked loads, occasionally bumping into each other. Workers slog past, manage a smile or wave. My uncle just stares, icy blue cornflowers spilling out of his face.
A visiting wife wearing bright red yells at her husband so he can understand. “How long have we been married?” She repeats the question and he mumbles something.
His back is to us, his wheelchair locked. There is plenty of scalp on display, hunched shoulders. “Fifty-eight years,” she answers.
The guy in the chair next to them repeats her answer with a touch of awe. My uncle looks at them blankly. He never married. We have that in common, along with diabetes. I have never had a stroke. He has had four, which may have contributed to his dementia. Or not.
When I mention another family member’s name, he cries, sometimes coughing up phlegm. I wipe his chin. He stares at me, brows dipping. “He looks angry,” a passing worker says. “Evil eye,” I reply. I smile at him and his face softens. I open a book and read, holding his immobile hand, patting his shoulder, squeezing his biceps.
Periodically he dozes off.
When I take him outside he watches the traffic. He used to be able to recite the alphabet, months, days, numbers. We kept up the drills until the words ended. Swallowing had ceased months before. A feeding tube to keep him alive has worked for six years. Therapy three times a week, keep the TV on, meds to keep him quiet. He used to curse at the nurses. Now all he can manage is a guttural roar. Occasionally I see bruises on him. They have to use a harness to get him in and out of bed, so maybe that’s where they occur. I can only hope.
After over an hour I kiss him goodbye, promise to return next month. When I ask the nurse to buzz me out, she tries to persuade me to stay longer. I have to leave. Lots of errands. Some people to see.
I gun the engine, speed out of the lot, the fear following me clear out onto the highway. I toss away the candy bar I had brought, resolve to exercise more. Stare in the rearview mirror at eyes that I pray will never spill out of my face. – Joe DelPriore
Uncle
