Making a connection with a good man who’s gone

I was at my aunt’s house on a recent trip home when I unwittingly made an unnerving… I was at my aunt’s house on a recent trip home when I unwittingly made an unnerving discovery: a journal kept by my uncle, who had been dead for more than twelve years. On a drive home from where he taught music at a high school in Morgantown, W. Va., my uncle had pulled over to offer a ride to a hitchhiker, an example of the random kindness that seemed to characterize my uncle’s days, according to all family accounts. In this instance, his selflessness was met with a gunshot, and my uncle was left for dead alongside a lonely country road, his car and money stolen. Amazingly, he was able to crawl several miles to the first house in sight and was immediately rushed to the hospital.

The next year was a trying one for the family, to put it mildly, as my uncle was kept on dialysis and cared for by my aunt while she simultaneously watched over her elderly mother and teenaged children. My uncle was able to return home from the hospital eventually, but was forced to undergo treatment each day. He was also extremely limited in his actions, as the shooting had left him virtually paralyzed. Despite his incessant treatment, my uncle passed away after several months.

This has all been told to me, of course, my only memories of my uncle being vague ones. Because of my age, my family decided against explaining what exactly happened; my uncle just seemed to have suddenly gotten very sick.

I knew as soon as I found the journal, I wanted to read it. I was hesitant to ask my aunt, not wanting to appear morbid or intrusive, but she didn’t seem offended when I finally asked. The reason became apparent when, on one of the first pages, my uncle established his primary motivation for writing as being able to give his children and “hopefully grandchildren” (he now has two, too young to read) a better perception of who he was in the months following the accident. While I didn’t exactly fit into either of these categories, I now felt sufficiently guilt-free to continue reading.

The fact that he chose to use the word “accident” when describing what had happened to him is very telling about my uncle, a man who didn’t think of himself as unfairly victimized or punished by a cruel world. To my uncle, his misfortune was merely an accident in the plan he had outlined for his life – no reason to remain bitter. This was the last direct reference to the shooting in the journal. No damnation of the culprit or pondering of injustice. Given that the journal was intended to be read by future generations, it’s understandable for a positive outlook to be emphasized. I’m certain that my uncle had to have had some sleepless nights of pondering such questions. He still maintained a facade of strength, the bulk of his entries circling upon the mundane aspects of everyday family life, every entry ending with “Best Wishes.” I don’t mean to suggest that my uncle hid his true feelings – rather, he found solace in focusing on the things he loved in his life that he still had, the pages filled with pride when his son passed his drivers’ exam, anxiety when his daughter called from summer camp homesick, affection for his ever-loyal wife. The fact that I’m only mentioned in passing once, in the guise of the unruly 6-year-old I was, makes me feel robbed of ever getting the chance to know him. Of course, “robbed” is not a word my uncle would have chosen to use. This is but one way I wish to emulate him.

Years of being weaned on “carpe diem” and “make each moment count” have forced me to put far too much emphasis on my current state, and keep me constantly worried that I’m missing out because I’m not doing something more productive – or more fun. Whenever I get the feeling that I am wasting my gift of life, I now try to think of my uncle, who, in the face of imminent death, harbored hope for the future – my heart ached during an entry about attending his high school reunion when he said he was looking forward to attending the next event in 2001 – while remaining content and happy in some of the most unfair circumstances imaginable. Confined to a wheelchair, my uncle was happy to have a view of his garden. Surely, I can weather the storms of bad grades and petty heartache if my uncle could smile through such canyons of potential misery.

My uncle’s spirit brought out the best in a family that came together to care for him – and to protect me. Another humble journal entry contained the entry, “I believe people are basically good,” a sentiment my uncle not only believed, but proved. As Albert Camus might have said, in the depths of his winter, I learned there was in him an invincible summer.

E-mail columnist Daron Christopher at djc14@pitt.edu.