Complications

I've never been the kind of person who writes about personal subjects on the Internet well, especially subjects I would consider Shared Human Experiences.  Lots of people have kids, lots of people gain and lose jobs, lots of people gain and lose loved ones, and I feel excessively narcissistic when I try to express thoughts on those things -- like I'm some kind of authority to whom people should listen when it comes to things we'll all do eventually.

But it occurs to me such writing requires a level of bravery I don't possess.  My cousin has a blog on which she describes her personal triumphs and challenges in an absolutely brilliant manner, and more than once while reading it I've regretted not having that sense of purpose in my writings.

Maybe it's time I got it.  After all, Alan Shore never was shy about sharing his thoughts on matters when he thought it important.  While there's a fine line between educational and overbearing, you'll never find out where it is unless you walk up to (but hopefully not over) it.

It was just about a year ago mom decided to forego further treatment for the metastasized lung cancer in her brain and spinal cord and went into hospice.  The four months that followed were a roller coaster of moments both good (her appearance at my cousin's wedding, probably the last time she left the house in her life) and awful (the final days as she faded away both physically and mentally).  While she's never far from my thoughts, she's even more present now with Mother's Day coming up, and I've been thinking about the ways my life is different now that she's gone.

I was reminded of one of those ways the other day on the train downtown, as I was thumbing through the Trib and happened across the obituary page.  At the very top was a story of an older gentleman who, according to the headline, had succumbed to "complications from prostate cancer".

"Complications".  The usage here is almost meta.  A single word describing so so so many things ... things I have much more of an appreciation for today than I did a year ago.

It's also what George Carlin would deride as a euphemism.  To describe what mom went through as "complications" is an injustice.  For me, the experience was equal parts gratifying and horrifying, swinging more from the former to the latter as time went on.  In the final days, it took everything I had just to walk through the door of 9139, and I envied the strength of my brother (who was living there at ground zero) and my sister (who was in charge of the medical decisions) as they endured something I probably could not have.  As hard as I thought I had it, they had it much much worse.

Reading about "complications of cancer" brings those days back to me in sharp relief, and sometimes I bristle at what I see as the insufficiency of that single word.  But while it's insufficient for me, it's probably sufficient for public consumption, so I resolve to say a little extra prayer for the loved ones and their likely "complicated" lives in the time leading up to the person's passing.  Because sometimes when they say "it's complicated", it really is.

Confessional

I spent yesterday saying goodbye to a great man. I've spent the time since wondering how I can be more like him.

Thomas "Tod" McGrath was my grandmother's brother. As the youngest of six, Tod was the prototypical "fun loving" member of the family. He didn't stand on ceremony or take himself or other people too seriously. His father died when Tod was young, so he learned the value of hard work quickly and developed a self-sufficiency which served him well his whole life. When his brothers also died at relatively young ages, he was an emotional support to their children as well as his own. When his sisters tried to "mother" him, he'd laugh and (very politely and respectfully) wave them off. He had a fullness of spirit that was joyfully infectious, and was someone you just wanted to be around.

The best part of Tod, though, was his leadership. It wasn't the Patton-type of leadership that you'd feel beaten over the head with. It was a quiet, matter-of-fact leadership that seemed much more attainable, even though it was so ingrained in everything he did he made it look effortless. Whether being a dad to his five kids, having employees while running his own truck stop, being an employee working for his nephews' business, or volunteering at his church and in other communities, he was the example you wanted to follow. If he was set a task, you never for a second thought it wouldn't be done and done well. So if he set you a task, you wanted to meet that same standard ... not because of fear of what would happen if you didn't, but because you didn't want to disappoint him. He inspired a loyalty in you that remained strong even if circumstance moved him out of your immediate orbit.

Tod had a great sense of humor perfectly balanced against a zero tolerance for bullshit. His "confessional" in his office at Kean Brothers was a place for people to get much-needed friendly advice and well-deserved calling outs, sometimes within the same minute. But whichever you received, you always knew it was being delivered with your best interest at heart. There was no CYA in Tod's life, personal or professional. He was more interested in others than he was in himself, and it showed every minute you spent with him.

In my 43 years, Tod was a great-uncle, boss, co-worker, and back again, and in that time he taught me a number of lessons about responsibility to self and others, priorities, and faith. Lately, I've been bad at putting those lessons into practice. I've gotten lazy about some things. I've let events influence me rather than the other way around. I've gotten better at using excuses than using what God's given me.

In earlier days, I'd be in the "confessional" getting straightened out. But it's not earlier days, and it's up to me to put what he taught me into practice, just as it is for everyone else whose lives he touched. When you lose someone like Tod, your life is poorer only if you allow the influence he had on you to wane. The "confessional" in his office is closed. The ones in our minds and hearts remain open, and you're a fool if you don't use it.

The last time Tod was at our house, he told me what a wonderful family I had and what a lucky person I was. While I thanked him for saying so, inside, I didn't feel very lucky. But as I see now, I was, and I am, and I need to be a lot better at recognizing it. The only way I'm unlucky is I can't thank him in person today for not only imparting the lessons in the first place but reminding me about the need to put them into practice.

So I'll say it here. Thanks for everything, Uncle T. I'll miss you.