On Saturday, I said good-bye to one of the bravest men I know – my Uncle Marvin. In June, at age 86 and after two bouts with pneumonia, tests revealed that when he swallows, sometimes food goes into his stomach and sometimes into his lungs.
The doctors gave him options. He could have a feeding tube down his nose. Or one could be surgically implanted. Or he could do nothing and let nature take it’s course. Having lived a full, independent and healthy life until this complication arose, he declined treatment and has been in hospice in a small Minnesota town ever since.
So last Saturday, when we were in Minnesota for our annual family reunion, Mom and I stopped to visit. His wife Letha, my mom’s sister was there, along with several of their children and extended families. I watched Marvin, thin but alert, make small talk with his children, his wife, and Mom.
While they talked, I signed his memory quilt. I thought of all the visits to Marvin and Letha’s big, white farmhouse – torn down many years ago – of all the overnight weekend stays with Karen, their daughter, of the summer weeks spent on their farm gathering eggs, climbing in the haymow, eating supper in their crowded kitchen, and watching TV in the dining room.
Most off all, I remembered Marvin going into the living room after supper and sitting down at his electric organ. I remembered him playing tune after tune, with never a piece of sheet music in sight. I remembered how his shoulders relaxed, the corners of his mouth turned up, his body swayed to the music, and his eyes had a far away look the longer he played.
When I looked down to blink away tears, the marker was still in my hand. I turned to put it on the end table beside the couch where I sat. But it wasn’t an end table.
It was an electric organ.
Uncle Marvin’s organ.
I looked at my uncle visiting with those who love him. He was so thin and frail, but his shoulders were relaxed, a smile curved the corners of his mouth, and his eyes wore a far away look. Though I couldn’t hear the music, it was there. The final stanza of my uncle’s life.
Beautiful and brave.
Slow and soft.
Haunting and heart-wrenching.
Thanks for the music, Uncle Marvin. You’re playing it well.
