I'm not sure how it got started, but ever since I was a very little girl, my Uncle Roy and I have had our special way of closing a conversation. Certainly, it would seem odd to anyone else. We point at each other, making a circular motion with our index fingers and say, "Toy-ta-toy-toy."
Yeah, I know...it doesn't mean anything, and it's ridiculous. Except that for us, it is infused with rich meaning. "You'd better behave yourself," or "So long, it was nice to see you," or something else that isn't easily defined, but we both understand.
I am 66 and my uncle is 91, and we still continue this foolishness. Today I talked to him on the phone. He is in a nursing home, has cancer, has been told he cannot tolerate any more chemo and is refusing any other interventions. His voice was weak today. He could barely hear me, although I was shouting as loudly as I could.
He said that he was tired. I told him that I didn't want to keep him talking too long, that I just wanted to let him know I was thinking of him.
My uncle: "I'm thinking of you too, sweetie."
Me: "I want you to know I love you."
My uncle: "I love you too, sweetie."
Me: "Good-bye"
My uncle in barely a whisper: "Toy-ta-toy-toy."
I burst out laughing. I couldn't believe he remembered to say it given his condition. In recent years, it has become a bit of a competition to see who remembers to say it at the close of the conversation. He won, leaving me to add: "Same to you."
My uncle: "Thanks, sweetie."
Each time I talk with him now, I wonder if it will be the last time that I hear "Toy-ta-toy-toy." A silly, silly phrase conveys the warmth of more than six decades of family relationship, mutual admiration and concern for each other.
No other words will do.
Showing posts with label family love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family love. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The Record of a Life
My dear uncle is 91 years old and the last person in my family in the generation before me. He recently moved from an independent apartment to the nursing home of the senior residence in which he lives. He skipped over "assisted living," because he stayed in his apartment until he could no longer make it to the kitchen to fix meals or even crawl to the bathroom. He has no children....just four nephews and one niece, and that would be me.
I spent the last six days sorting, packing, giving things to charity, throwing things out, and getting his apartment cleared out. I could have never done this on my own, as the task was gargantuan. I think he saved every piece of paper he ever wrote anything on. Fortunately, my two cousins and the wife of one of them, one of my brothers and his wife, and my long-suffering husband helped.
Although we were focused on the task, we were all cognizant that we were pawing through the record of a life-time. We found pictures of him as a baby, grade school report cards, his high school diploma, college notes, and letters written to him during World War II when he served on a hospital ship in the Pacific Ocean. He has no children and our generation was unaware of him ever dating or bringing a young lady to family events, but we found a picture of him with a young woman wearing a corsage definitely looking like they were going on a date.
We found sketches from his days as an engineer on cooling systems, pay stubs going back decades, old resumes, and photos of him taken when he was sent to Aruba on business back in the 1950s when most people in New York had probably not heard of Aruba.
One entire cupboard in the kitchen was filled with empty jars. Why he was saving them is anybody's guess. He apparently purchased paper towels in large quantities. The number we found would have lasted him years. The refrigerator was full of unopened canned goods. Why he kept unopened cans there is also a mystery.
We didn't have time to read all of them, but there were notes everywhere. All of his paid bills were returned to the envelopes and had notes on the outside....his commentary on the economy or a description of the phone call he had had with a customer service rep regarding the bill. Mixed in with the bills and bank statements were scraps of paper on which he had written notes about books he read or TV programs he watched. I discovered several sheets of paper clipped together on which he had rated each of his nephews and his niece (yours truly) based on our willingness to help our parents, dedication to family, and community service. I think I'd better burn that one. After rambling on and pondering leaving us percentages of his assets based on our "scores," in the end he decided to treat us equally in his will.
I expect he doesn't have much longer to live. He has been battling cancer for about 7 years and cannot tolerate any more chemo. Last week he turned down a blood transfusion and asked that Hospice be called. He told me that he sees no point in being pulled back from the brink any more. Yesterday he refused to get out of bed, saying he was too weak.
He has lived a long life....but, I'm not sure it has been a happy one. He claims he was a "loner," but he does love to talk to others. And yet, very few people in the independent living area knew him. He kept to himself. But I wonder, for whom did he write all of those notes? There were certainly some that he never intended anyone to see, but others that he may have hoped someone would appreciate.
He is and was an enigma. But, we...his nephews and niece...all have fond memories of times spent with him, and when he is gone, I will miss him.
I spent the last six days sorting, packing, giving things to charity, throwing things out, and getting his apartment cleared out. I could have never done this on my own, as the task was gargantuan. I think he saved every piece of paper he ever wrote anything on. Fortunately, my two cousins and the wife of one of them, one of my brothers and his wife, and my long-suffering husband helped.
Although we were focused on the task, we were all cognizant that we were pawing through the record of a life-time. We found pictures of him as a baby, grade school report cards, his high school diploma, college notes, and letters written to him during World War II when he served on a hospital ship in the Pacific Ocean. He has no children and our generation was unaware of him ever dating or bringing a young lady to family events, but we found a picture of him with a young woman wearing a corsage definitely looking like they were going on a date.
We found sketches from his days as an engineer on cooling systems, pay stubs going back decades, old resumes, and photos of him taken when he was sent to Aruba on business back in the 1950s when most people in New York had probably not heard of Aruba.
One entire cupboard in the kitchen was filled with empty jars. Why he was saving them is anybody's guess. He apparently purchased paper towels in large quantities. The number we found would have lasted him years. The refrigerator was full of unopened canned goods. Why he kept unopened cans there is also a mystery.
We didn't have time to read all of them, but there were notes everywhere. All of his paid bills were returned to the envelopes and had notes on the outside....his commentary on the economy or a description of the phone call he had had with a customer service rep regarding the bill. Mixed in with the bills and bank statements were scraps of paper on which he had written notes about books he read or TV programs he watched. I discovered several sheets of paper clipped together on which he had rated each of his nephews and his niece (yours truly) based on our willingness to help our parents, dedication to family, and community service. I think I'd better burn that one. After rambling on and pondering leaving us percentages of his assets based on our "scores," in the end he decided to treat us equally in his will.
I expect he doesn't have much longer to live. He has been battling cancer for about 7 years and cannot tolerate any more chemo. Last week he turned down a blood transfusion and asked that Hospice be called. He told me that he sees no point in being pulled back from the brink any more. Yesterday he refused to get out of bed, saying he was too weak.
He has lived a long life....but, I'm not sure it has been a happy one. He claims he was a "loner," but he does love to talk to others. And yet, very few people in the independent living area knew him. He kept to himself. But I wonder, for whom did he write all of those notes? There were certainly some that he never intended anyone to see, but others that he may have hoped someone would appreciate.
He is and was an enigma. But, we...his nephews and niece...all have fond memories of times spent with him, and when he is gone, I will miss him.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
I wonder where my ring is...
My grandfather was one of my favorite people in the entire world. I adored him. He adored me and called me "Stink Cheese." Shortly before my tenth birthday (at least, I think it was my tenth), I confided something in him.
I suppose I had just recently learned about birthstones and figured out that mine was the diamond. So, I said to my grandfather, "You know, I am never going to have my birthstone until I am all grown up."
"Why?" he asked.
"Well, my birthstone is a diamond, and I don't suppose I'll have one until I'm a grown lady and get engaged."
I honestly wasn't fishing. I was just sharing a thought that was rattling about in my little girl brain. I had no idea that my grandfather would ever consider buying me a diamond. I assumed they were super-expensive.
On my birthday as Grandpa handed me a small wrapped package, Grandma declared that this was all his doing. I opened the box and found another box inside....and another inside of that. I don't remember how many boxes I opened before I came to a very, very small box. Inside was a ring with a yellow gold band and a tiny diamond in the center of a square white gold setting. It was nothing more than a diamond chip, but it might as well have been 10 carats.
I can't begin to describe how precious that ring was to me, especially when my grandfather died just before my twelfth birthday. I only wore it for special occasions. As I grew, I had to begin wearing it on my pinkie finger. I never put it on without thinking of him and the special bond he and I had shared during my early years.
When I was about eighteen and living in the dormitory of a nursing school in the Chicago area, a woman came into the dorm and went from room to room stealing items of value. Many of the students lost money. From me she took my dearest personal possession....my tiny diamond ring. She apparently was expert at scanning a jewelry box and picking out items of value. She also took a locket that had special family meaning, but it was the loss of the ring that broke my heart.
After my mother passed away, and I was given her ring, my loss came back to me. I thought how incredible it would have been to be able to wear my own engagement ring, my mother's ring, and my grandfather's gift. It would have been a visual reminder of the continuity of family love.
I have no idea why I thought about the ring this morning, but I am wondering where it is. I hope it hasn't been lost between floor boards or accidentally discarded. I hope some young girl is actually wearing it and enjoying it. I hope that it means more to her than the monetary value, and that when she looks at it, she thinks of the person who gave it to her with great love.
I suppose I had just recently learned about birthstones and figured out that mine was the diamond. So, I said to my grandfather, "You know, I am never going to have my birthstone until I am all grown up."
"Why?" he asked.
"Well, my birthstone is a diamond, and I don't suppose I'll have one until I'm a grown lady and get engaged."
I honestly wasn't fishing. I was just sharing a thought that was rattling about in my little girl brain. I had no idea that my grandfather would ever consider buying me a diamond. I assumed they were super-expensive.
On my birthday as Grandpa handed me a small wrapped package, Grandma declared that this was all his doing. I opened the box and found another box inside....and another inside of that. I don't remember how many boxes I opened before I came to a very, very small box. Inside was a ring with a yellow gold band and a tiny diamond in the center of a square white gold setting. It was nothing more than a diamond chip, but it might as well have been 10 carats.
I can't begin to describe how precious that ring was to me, especially when my grandfather died just before my twelfth birthday. I only wore it for special occasions. As I grew, I had to begin wearing it on my pinkie finger. I never put it on without thinking of him and the special bond he and I had shared during my early years.
When I was about eighteen and living in the dormitory of a nursing school in the Chicago area, a woman came into the dorm and went from room to room stealing items of value. Many of the students lost money. From me she took my dearest personal possession....my tiny diamond ring. She apparently was expert at scanning a jewelry box and picking out items of value. She also took a locket that had special family meaning, but it was the loss of the ring that broke my heart.
After my mother passed away, and I was given her ring, my loss came back to me. I thought how incredible it would have been to be able to wear my own engagement ring, my mother's ring, and my grandfather's gift. It would have been a visual reminder of the continuity of family love.
I have no idea why I thought about the ring this morning, but I am wondering where it is. I hope it hasn't been lost between floor boards or accidentally discarded. I hope some young girl is actually wearing it and enjoying it. I hope that it means more to her than the monetary value, and that when she looks at it, she thinks of the person who gave it to her with great love.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
