Fri, December 1, 2006

Wednesday morning, we lost Uncle Bob after a courageous and remarkably dignified battle with liver cancer. He was 61, by which I mean: far too young. He's asked us not to arrange a ceremony to mark his passing, but I'd like to share a few memories of what he meant to me and our family. (A citywide processional and day of mourning would be a lot more fitting tribute to the measure of man that he was, but a blog post eulogy is the option that's within my grasp.)

You think it will ease the transition when you know what's coming and you have a lot of time to say goodbye and help get things in order. But what we've discovered is that you spend most of that time doing everything you can for him – making him comfortable, visiting with him, sharing all the time you can. And you allow yourself to forget that the conclusion of the journey is a final and terrible one. Then the day comes, and you can no longer occupy yourself with all these other tasks; you have to face the reality. It's the first day of a life you never imagined having to live: one without him.

As this unfortunate day crept nearer, my thoughts often turned to the concept of legacy. Uncle Bob was not a famous man or a particularly wealthy or powerful one, but those things are not required to leave a mark on the world. They'll help get a stadium named after you, maybe, but without them you can still affect many, many lives. It's clichéd to say, "he lives on in all of us," but sayings like that become clichés for a reason. It's 100% true; I'm a completely different person having known him than I would've been having not. Plus, of course, his beautiful family. His wife and daughter – braver people than I will ever be – survive him and carry on a great deal of his personality.

But long before they entered the picture, he was my buddy. When I was four or five, he lived with us for a month or so, and I still remember waking in the mornings to walk with him to 7-Eleven for his newspaper and coffee. In return for my companionship, I would get a prize – the one I remember most vividly whenever I recall my childhood with him was an Incredible Hulk rub-on activity book. I loved that thing, and had so much fun placing the decals on the pages. During that time, he also coined the name "Magic Forest" for a thicket of trees and scrub brush on an undeveloped lot next door to our condo – bestowing a sense of mystery and wonder on an otherwise nondescript place for us to play. We held our easter egg hunt in the Magic Forest that year. He also referred to our cordless phone (a relatively recent innovation) as the Bat-Phone, which I loved, and he nicknamed me Melvin and my sister Louise (which was short for Louise, the Bad Hairdresser).

It was fun to spend time with him because at that age he was just about the only grown-up man I knew aside from my father, and the two are very dissimilar. Dad's not stuffy or boring, but he's generally pretty composed – and in those days, he was more of an authority figure, so we didn't have the sort of friendship we do now. Uncle Bob was the opposite of all that. He despised authority; he was outspoken and spontaneous and never ever treated me like a child. Throughout the many things he shared with me, I am probably most inspired by the way he interacted with my sister and I at a young age – like equals. He didn't get into baby talk, he didn't talk down to us, he just maintained the same conversational tone (and, generally, the same topics) as if he were talking to someone his own age. As friends and relatives have begun to have children, I've strived always to treat these new youngsters the same way. As a child, it made me feel respected, and it gave me something to work for; I wanted to live up to the expectation that I could operate at a grown-up level. I wanted to understand the things he was talking about – if he found them interesting, I wanted to be interested, too. If a joke was over my head, I wanted to learn why it was funny. My parents treated us similarly, but he wasn't called upon to act as disciplinarian, so he could be a lot more consistent about it.

I also learned a lot from him about self-sufficiency, about seeking your own fulfillment and defining success on your own terms. He and I share a lot of personality traits in common: our outspokenness; our generosity; our sentimentality; our irascibility; and our anxiety. This last one always bothered him, because he thought I was much too young to be so worried about everything – it was the one trait we shared which we didn't share with the younger version of him. As recently as this weekend, he was telling me, "Just be happy." The hardest thing I've had to do was trying to convince him that I am. Like him, I can be cantankerous on the outside a lot of the time (which he noticed), but deep down I'm happy (which he refused to take for granted). He taught me how to find and recognize that kind of happiness, and despite my tearful trying, I'm not sure I ever effectively communicated that to him. Without his advice and influence I doubt I'd be as centered as I am – capable of realizing when I'm getting overwhelmed, finding ways to relax, and reminding myself how lucky I am.

When I was eight, I officiated his wedding in our back yard, attended by the immediate family and a couple of friends. He was a private man, and taught me to appreciate the value of a few close friends and family. I love a few friends very strongly and withdraw from large groups; when meeting someone new, I'm reluctant to accept them. It's an approach I share with Uncle Bob, and sure, it sounds misanthropic and lonesome, but it's really not. It's quality over quantity – and when you think about it, what are the chances that some random stranger is going to measure up to your amazing friends? Pretty slim. He was also fiercely protective of those he loved, which I think is a related trait. (I.e., we've got a good thing going here, why risk spoiling it?) It's not that we never meet new people, it's just that those we do befriend have usually gone through a rigorous vetting process. Maybe this is a strange thing to celebrate, but it's worked out remarkably well, and to me it's representative of our world view: embracing a little grumpiness can return a great deal of happiness.

He was a great man: generous, supportive, and thoughtful. He was compassionate and brave. He indeed lives on, because he holds us together; we support each other, based in part on his example, and remind each other of our love and his. My mom is the last surviving member of her family – she suffers this loss in a way none of us can even imagine. But in comforting her and helping her grieve, I feel like I have a way to honor his memory and carry on the things that were most important to him.

He will never be forgotten by the many, many people he touched. Especially me, because he was my buddy and he gave me so much.

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