The expansion begins, haltingly. Then hesitation. As if caught on something, it stops. As the air flows in there’s a point — a specific turning point — when the breath shifts and eases back out. Without that shift you’re uncomfortably stalled mid-breath. Too soon to exhale, you try to bring more air in to get to that point. Not happening. You’re almost there, so close. Now you can’t go either way — in or out. Suspended in between, painfully, for what feels like eternity... crushing, disabling, suffocating.
Hanging out
I watched, helpless, as my 75-year-old uncle labored for breath. Pat was ill with pulmonary fibrosis. Like a python wrapped around its prey, the disease slowly constricted his lungs more and more each day. We sat quietly together — no conversation. Sometimes we’d watch TV. Sometimes we sat outside. We’d exchange smiles, taking in the beauty of nature. I spent as much time as I could with him until his death.
Pat was a barber in the small town where I grew up. It was a tiny one-man barber shop that hummed with a steady flow of customers on Friday and a crush of patrons on Saturday. Closed Sunday and Monday, by Tuesday after school, I’d often find him there alone. I’d get a piece of bubble gum from the jar and plop down in one of the green vinyl waiting chairs. I’d read aloud the names of the board games piled high on the coffee table until he’d sing out “Yes! That one.”
We’d usually play a round of checkers. We’d share stories and jokes while we played. Sometimes we’d be laughing so hard we couldn’t finish our game. He was the kindest, gentlest man I’ve ever known. There was a peacefulness about the way he looked at me, talked to me, made me laugh. He was always glad to see me. And he always let me know that.
Growing up
Pat shared stories about the misadventures of his childhood. More than a few of his stories included the phrase, “spewing blood, I ran home.” Pat was about eight when one of his friends found a bullet on the sidewalk. Of course, the boy played with the bullet. Eventually, he hit it causing the bullet to fire. It hit Pat in the head, entering just above his left temple. The bullet lodged underneath his eyebrow. Spewing blood from the side of his head, Pat ran home to his mother.
The healing
There were two doctors in their small town. One was elderly and, though experienced, didn’t see very well. The other was a middle-aged alcoholic with shaky hands. Luckily, Pat’s treatment didn’t involve a scalpel, but a flax seed poultice. His mother placed a new poultice each day for several days. She watched over her son to ensure the wound stayed clean. One morning, he looked down at his breakfast only to feel something move under the bandage. His mother removed the poultice to find the bullet lying in the gauze. The wound healed without infection.
The stories I most wanted to hear were the ones Pat rarely shared. I wanted to know what serving in the army during World War II was like. When he decided I was old enough, my uncle shared some of what happened to him. There was the time he awoke in a foxhole after a grenade blast had knocked him unconscious. Coming to, he discovered the rest of his company did not survive the blast. Surrounded by enemy troops, he wandered through the French countryside alone.
Night falls
Nothing in his life had prepared him for being so hopelessly lost and in danger. Looking for a hiding place to bed down for the night, he made his way carefully into a corn field. The smell of the soil as the earth cradled him brought to mind all those nights camping with his friends by the creek near his house.
Now, far from everything he knew, he took comfort in being surrounded by the towering corn stalks that, like sentries, watched over him. The evening sky shifted to crimson as a dramatic sunset began to unfold.
Clouds rolled across the sky like a quilt over him, blessing him, reassuring him that everything would be all right. That night, he did not feel alone. He slept peacefully. The next day, to his relief, he stumbled onto a group of U.S. GI’s. They became his new company. Unfortunately, he became their scout — charged with making his way alone, again, constantly vigilant for the enemy.
What happened to the kid?
Now, looking at photos of my uncle in uniform, I see a youth of just 21. That brutal war was his introduction to adulthood. Literally, kill or be killed. He and his comrades underwent the most grueling physical, emotional and psychological challenges any human can face. Yet somehow he returned still himself. The man I knew was playful, funny, optimistic.
Pat never wanted to talk about the long, jagged scar that extended almost the full length of his left arm. On his left hand, one finger was completely gone, a second mostly missing. It was clearly distressing. I sensed a quiet storm rumbling inside him. But it was also definitely private. With maturity, I learned to leave it alone. Even though he went to great pains not to show it, I have no doubt the savagery of his war experiences stayed with him all of his life.
Finding a purpose
My uncle did share with me how he kept perspective during his combat duty. Knowing his life was on the line he needed to come to terms with why he was there. He believed his purpose was in protecting everyone back home — even me, not yet born — from the annihilation of our way of life. Looking back, I think that explains why he didn’t talk about what happened over there. Shielding us from the atrocities he witnessed was just him protecting us still.
A few years ago, as I was leaving a restaurant with a friend, a young man in military dress was entering. My friend stopped to thank him — a stranger — for his service. Her small gesture, so genuinely given and warmly received, opened my eyes. I, too, now offer this recognition. I extend it to peace officers, fire fighters, government employees, and since COVID, to front-line workers. Focusing on their contribution reinforces the power of the care they give. The more service is acknowledged, the more gratitude grows. And as gratitude grows, optimism blooms.
I wish it had occurred to me, while my uncle was alive, to thank him for his service. Though the war was almost always a taboo topic for reasons I didn’t understand, I’ve always understood his love for me.
The dove
One day near the end of his life, Pat found a white-winged dove struggling on the ground. Its wing was injured. He picked it up to keep it safe from neighborhood cats. This act alone required more energy than he could usually muster. Once down, he wasn’t sure how he would get back up. He felt the warmth and fragility of the bird as he held it in his hand. He focused on it, frightened and vulnerable, and slowly rose.
He brought the bird into the back yard and put it on a table. Resting there for a moment, he whispered to it in hushed tones. He reassured it that everything would be okay. He placed a clothes basket upside down over the bird to make an improvised cage. A brick on top held the basket in place.
For several days, Pat patiently nursed the bird back to health. When it recovered, he removed the basket so that it could fly away. The bird wouldn’t leave. Concerned for its safety, he put the basket back. He tried to free the bird again the next day. After removing the basket, he walked over and took a seat in a chair several yards away. The bird flew over to his chair and perched on the arm, content to be with him.
The time has come
Pat tried repeatedly in the days that followed to get the bird to leave. It was determined, though, to stay near him. Finally, with a heavy heart, he removed the basket for good. He was concerned that if the dove didn’t fly this time, a cat would get it. He left the fate of the bird with the bird, and went back inside the house.
The bird stayed for awhile, then flew from place to place around the back yard. Eventually it flew away. It was back the next day, though, and the next. It continued coming back for some time. It perched on the arm of Pat’s chair, quietly sitting with him. Finally, the day came when it did not return.
The last time we spoke, Pat told me he missed having that gentle creature nearby. He admitted he’d catch himself looking for the bird, hopefully, even though he knew it was time for it to go.
Video courtesy of Videvo.net licensed under CC BY 3.0
Build and descend symphony courtesy of camel7695 (https://freesound.org/people/camel7695/sounds/542942/) licensed under CC0 1.0
Comments