The Gentle Soul
My Uncle Harry Spellman breathed his last early this morning, surrendering to a battle with Alzheimer’s that lasted the better part of a decade.
I’m not sure how to sum up my Uncle, other than the fact that he truly was that rarest of birds in this day and age: a gentle soul. Not “he knew when gentleness was appropriate” or “he was easy going” or even “he was good at curbing his anger”. All those things were certainly true of him, but it was more than that. He didn’t “act” gentle. He was gentle, and that’s something you don’t often see.
Uncle Harry had Downs Syndrome. It’s easy to look at someone with a disability and see only that disability and I have no doubt that’s what my uncle faced each day of his life. Downs meant that he’d never have the sorts of experiences that most of us take for granted: getting married. Filling out a tax form. Having a letter printed in the newspaper. Watching his daughter play Wicked Step-Sister #2 in the school play.
But if Downs Syndrome is all you saw when you met my Uncle Harry, I’d say that you’ve never really met my Uncle Harry. Here was a man that loved and hurt, succeeded and failed, and absolutely did the very best he could every day of his life.
I’m proud to have known him.
My Uncle Harry loved… loved monster movies. It was not a passing interest or occasional hobby. He talked about monster movies the way other men talk about their wedding day. In fact, it was impossible to have a conversation with him that lasted more than 60 seconds that didn’t eventually steer itself toward monsters. I’m not talking about these freak-circus films they have today – Uncle Harry liked the old stuff. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi… Dracula, The Wolfman, The Mummy. No special effects, just grainy black and white, lit like a nightmare. He’d seen them all. I have to confess I have no idea what’s written on his gravestone, but if it were up to me, it would say:
Harry Dale Spellman Jr.
Boo!
The guy was a stitch, he really was. He was my weird, funny little uncle and I didn’t mind showing him off.
A few weeks ago, I had a dream:
I was at a party, or some sort of gathering. Some people I knew, others I didn’t… laughing, drinking, trading phone numbers. A short guy burst into the room, with an entourage behind him. Most parties have a Star of the Show and this guy was definitely it. He was muscular and shirtless, with a leather jacket. He had long, Hollywood hair like an underwear model. He lifted his arms up with rock star magnetism and announced to the room that, now that he’d arrived, this party could officially begin.
It was Uncle Harry.
As he approached me, I was dumbstruck. “Uncle Harry?” I said. “I heard you weren’t doing well. Apparently I heard wrong!”
“Me?” he said. “I’m fantastic! Come over here and give your uncle a hug!”
So I did. At the end of the hug, though, he took my face in his hands and, before I could protest, he kissed me full on the mouth. I jumped back.
“You okay?” he said.
“Yeah… that’s… fine…” I said.
He nodded. “Yeah, I understand. People have their hang-ups. Don’t worry about it.”
And, as often happens in dream-logic, I knew exactly what he meant. This was my Uncle Harry as he truly was all along: confident, warm, articulate. For the first time in my 29 years of knowing him, I didn’t have to reach through the fog of Downs Syndrome to talk, really talk, to him. I thought, this is how everyone should be. This is how everyone should relate. At that moment, there was nothing in the world more important than the connection I had with my Uncle Harry.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was my sister, Lauren, holding a Polaroid photo. “Have you seen this?” she asked.
It was a photo of Uncle Harry as he was in real-life: aged, gray, suffering from Alzheimer’s, his head resting against a white pillow.
“Uncle Harry died last night,” Lauren said.
I turned around and Rock Star Harry had gone. All that was really left to do was spend time consoling my family and allow them to console me.
Later the following day, I told my Mom about my dream. She assured me that Uncle Harry was still with us, but it wouldn’t be long. I told her how difficult it was for me, living in Southern California, so far away from the people I love the most at a time like this.
Mom said, “I know, Sweetheart. Lately, though, everyone that’s close to Uncle Harry has had the feeling that, one by one, he’s saying goodbye to each of us. I know you’d be here if you could. Maybe that dream was his goodbye to you.”
And now he’s gone.
I know… scratch that, I don’t know anything… but I believe I’ll meet up with him again in the by and by. After I’m dead and gone, I think I’d like Uncle Harry to show me around the place, give me the grand tour, hand me my harp and halo.
Most of all, I can’t wait to talk to him… really talk.
My weird, funny little uncle.
The guy with the monster movies.
The gentle soul.
Right now, though… I just really, really miss him.
I’m not sure how to sum up my Uncle, other than the fact that he truly was that rarest of birds in this day and age: a gentle soul. Not “he knew when gentleness was appropriate” or “he was easy going” or even “he was good at curbing his anger”. All those things were certainly true of him, but it was more than that. He didn’t “act” gentle. He was gentle, and that’s something you don’t often see.
Uncle Harry had Downs Syndrome. It’s easy to look at someone with a disability and see only that disability and I have no doubt that’s what my uncle faced each day of his life. Downs meant that he’d never have the sorts of experiences that most of us take for granted: getting married. Filling out a tax form. Having a letter printed in the newspaper. Watching his daughter play Wicked Step-Sister #2 in the school play.
But if Downs Syndrome is all you saw when you met my Uncle Harry, I’d say that you’ve never really met my Uncle Harry. Here was a man that loved and hurt, succeeded and failed, and absolutely did the very best he could every day of his life.
I’m proud to have known him.
My Uncle Harry loved… loved monster movies. It was not a passing interest or occasional hobby. He talked about monster movies the way other men talk about their wedding day. In fact, it was impossible to have a conversation with him that lasted more than 60 seconds that didn’t eventually steer itself toward monsters. I’m not talking about these freak-circus films they have today – Uncle Harry liked the old stuff. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi… Dracula, The Wolfman, The Mummy. No special effects, just grainy black and white, lit like a nightmare. He’d seen them all. I have to confess I have no idea what’s written on his gravestone, but if it were up to me, it would say:
Boo!
The guy was a stitch, he really was. He was my weird, funny little uncle and I didn’t mind showing him off.
A few weeks ago, I had a dream:
I was at a party, or some sort of gathering. Some people I knew, others I didn’t… laughing, drinking, trading phone numbers. A short guy burst into the room, with an entourage behind him. Most parties have a Star of the Show and this guy was definitely it. He was muscular and shirtless, with a leather jacket. He had long, Hollywood hair like an underwear model. He lifted his arms up with rock star magnetism and announced to the room that, now that he’d arrived, this party could officially begin.
It was Uncle Harry.
As he approached me, I was dumbstruck. “Uncle Harry?” I said. “I heard you weren’t doing well. Apparently I heard wrong!”
“Me?” he said. “I’m fantastic! Come over here and give your uncle a hug!”
So I did. At the end of the hug, though, he took my face in his hands and, before I could protest, he kissed me full on the mouth. I jumped back.
“You okay?” he said.
“Yeah… that’s… fine…” I said.
He nodded. “Yeah, I understand. People have their hang-ups. Don’t worry about it.”
And, as often happens in dream-logic, I knew exactly what he meant. This was my Uncle Harry as he truly was all along: confident, warm, articulate. For the first time in my 29 years of knowing him, I didn’t have to reach through the fog of Downs Syndrome to talk, really talk, to him. I thought, this is how everyone should be. This is how everyone should relate. At that moment, there was nothing in the world more important than the connection I had with my Uncle Harry.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was my sister, Lauren, holding a Polaroid photo. “Have you seen this?” she asked.
It was a photo of Uncle Harry as he was in real-life: aged, gray, suffering from Alzheimer’s, his head resting against a white pillow.
“Uncle Harry died last night,” Lauren said.
I turned around and Rock Star Harry had gone. All that was really left to do was spend time consoling my family and allow them to console me.
Later the following day, I told my Mom about my dream. She assured me that Uncle Harry was still with us, but it wouldn’t be long. I told her how difficult it was for me, living in Southern California, so far away from the people I love the most at a time like this.
Mom said, “I know, Sweetheart. Lately, though, everyone that’s close to Uncle Harry has had the feeling that, one by one, he’s saying goodbye to each of us. I know you’d be here if you could. Maybe that dream was his goodbye to you.”
And now he’s gone.
I know… scratch that, I don’t know anything… but I believe I’ll meet up with him again in the by and by. After I’m dead and gone, I think I’d like Uncle Harry to show me around the place, give me the grand tour, hand me my harp and halo.
Most of all, I can’t wait to talk to him… really talk.
My weird, funny little uncle.
The guy with the monster movies.
The gentle soul.
Right now, though… I just really, really miss him.
posted by Jeremy Bear at
4:14 PM
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