Ageless Love

If you didn't read bestselling author Lauretta Hannon's story about my uncle Howard titled "," now is the time. The following story is also about my uncle.

“You reckon they’d let two people get married?” he asked me over his Brunswick stew. I started, both at the question and the fact that he’d spoken.

For much of his birthday lunch, he was quiet, taking in the sounds of his favorite restaurant, in Powder Springs. 

“Sure,” I said thinking fast. I mean, would they? I could get Pastor Glen Pittman to come and perform the ceremony right there, I was sure. 

“Do you want to marry her?” I asked.

I am talking about the lady in the room next to his at the assisted living facility and the “ he” I refer to is my uncle, Howard, 81 years young today.

Weeks ago I’d promised a birthday lunch here, along with a trip to Walmart to pick up any essentials, which usually meant the three bags of Beechnut chewing tobacco he always wanted. 

He smiles in response to my question and I think he mutters, “maybe." Not much else is said about it as we enjoy the barbecue.

In the car, I help him into his seatbelt and off we go to Walmart. 

When I picked him up, he wasn’t in his room. The gal in the hall with the cleaning cart thumbs to the door next to his and whispers, “In there." I knock and Howard opens the door to a room identical to his, save the placement of the furnishings. 

A tiny, white-haired lady sits on the bed going through photos. Immediately, she begins to tell me about each one, as if we’ve known each other for years. 

I learn much about her life in those few narratives over the pictures. I tell Howard we are going to Johnny’s, something that perks him up immediately, and he tells his friend, “Come with us."

The gal in the hall looks at me and mutely shakes her head, so I tell him we better not take her this time. He doesn’t say much until we get in the car, and then he keeps saying how wrong it is that she can’t come with us.

I try to explain the liabilities, but his dementia-fogged brain doesn’t make out the logic of my argument. To him, they are both as right as rain and as capable as anyone. 

I almost believe him myself until he looks in the backseat and asks me who this person is. It’s my 14-year-old daughter, who accompanied me on a trip to the home not 2 weeks ago. 

He doesn’t know her. Then he swears he has not seen her since she was “this high,” his hand a couple of feet from the floor. A few minutes later we have the same conversation. We’ll have it three more times today before we’re done.

At Walmart, I have to watch him like a toddler. He tends to see things and want to wander off from me. Luckily the jewelry counter is just inside the door, and I guide him there first. 

He looks at many rings, all well under $100 and declares he can’t afford any of them. He’s probably right. It takes all he has to pay the home where he lives, but it’s worth every penny as he is safe, well fed and receives necessary medical attention.

“I’ll pay," I say, “you pick a ring and I’ll buy it.” It’s his birthday, but he wants to buy her something. How sweet can it get? How could I not help him out?

He settles on a simple band set with her birthstone, blue topaz. It’s all of $24, and he still thinks that is too much for me to spend as I tell the lady behind the counter to ring it up. 

We get his tobacco and head back. It’s 2:10 p.m. and bingo started at 2. He’s anxious to go play with his friends. 

When we return, the poignancy of him giving her the ring is punctuated by the humor of neither of them hearing very well. She says, “Do you want to put it on me?” and he says, “Yeah, go ahead and put it on."  

It doesn’t matter. She puts it on and it fits. She declares it's beautiful and goes on and on about what a wonderful man Howard is and how he wakes her every morning to go to breakfast, spends most of his days with her and keeps her from being lonely. 

As she talks, I feel the layers of burden lift off me. In the last year, the toll of having him evaluated, working to get additional compensation and the guilt of putting him in here has made me leave him after visits with a thousand questions swimming in my head. 

Often I call my brother, Mark, for assurance that we did the right thing bringing him here. We always end the phone call realizing he might not be alive now had we left him home alone. 

But it has been little consolation because he always wants to go back home and I know that can’t happen.

Today, as I pull out, a torrential downpour has just moved out. The world looks shiny and clean. Leaves are bright green and flowers are vibrant.

Billowing, white clouds part to let the hot July sun through, and for once, I leave him with his sweet friend, in perfect peace, all questions answered.