Those Who Make Us

And those who keep us

Gerry, with Mom and Bob on their wedding day.

My maternal uncle was both a beloved family physician and a brilliant businessman. When he first opened his practice in my Indiana hometown, he hired my mom to manage his practice. Then he hired two nurses, Gerry and Jan, and the four of them began caring for Greenfield’s residents.

Uncle J was an incredibly hard worker and a demanding boss. Beloved by his patients, he worked long hours tending to their illnesses and delivering their babies. Eventually, he delivered those babies’ babies as well. He was an icon in our small town.

As time passed, his office grew, and he welcomed new employees to the fold. My mom was in charge of hiring, and she chose eager, young people who were passionate about caring for others. Mom and Uncle J taught them everything they needed to know about healthcare while Gerry and Jan administered flu shots and childhood vaccinations.

In the summer months, many of us kids who were connected to the practice in some way were hired to file and answer phones. It was one of my first jobs, and I loved it—as long as I didn’t do anything wrong. Uncle J ran a tight ship, and the summer workers were not immune to his frustrated corrections if we didn’t get all the information he needed from a phone message.

The practice—which is still alive years after my Uncle J left this earthly existence—was busy and thriving. New physicians were hired so more patients could be seen.

The remarkable thing about my uncle’s practice was that many people spent their entire careers working for him. From ages 18 until retirement—those he took under his wing were loyal and steadfast.

Last week, I drove to Indiana to attend Gerry’s funeral. Gerry, who was one of my mom’s dearest friends, was extended family to me. She baked birthday cakes for my kids, and her daughter made all my bridesmaids dresses. Mom and my stepdad, Bob, were married in her home.

At the funeral home, multiple generations of people who worked for my uncle gathered to say their goodbyes to Gerry. Huddled together, sharing memories and laughter through tears, they recalled stories from the office, from parties, from vacations taken together.

Gerry was the last of the original four to go: First Uncle J, then Mom, then Jan, and finally, Gerry. Her passing marked the end of an era—the full circle moment when what had begun so many years ago completed its course.

My cousins—Uncle J’s daughters—and I hugged and cried and recollected. We all now have the same grays in our hair that our parents once had. Our own children are all grown. It is, quite simply, how life goes, this passage of time and of people.

But to witness it is nothing short of remarkable… and somewhat terrifying. To understand that I am now the same age my mom was when my belly was swollen with my firstborn son, Sam. To think about her sitting on the floor of Sam’s nursery, helping me paint Paddington Bear on the wall. To understand that it was about this time that she was finally diagnosed with MS, her pain and suffering identified at last. To make the connection that she’d been married to Bob for 11 years already.

She, of course, seemed so much older to me then than I feel now.

There are times I can hardly believe that I’ve been on this planet for 55 years when I still feel like I could be in my 20s. My kids—who actually are in their 20s—laugh at me when I say these things. Of course they do. They cannot yet grasp this lightning-fast passage of time. They cannot see themselves in 20 or 30 more years wondering how life slipped by so quickly.

I could not imagine it, either.

But in that funeral home, surrounded by the legacy my uncle created, I felt it—the gorgeous, complicated layers of life and love that made me. These people who were a part of my young life, of my upbringing, of my making. Some stooped with old age, some facing horrendous health issues, all still beloved and cherished.

Their children were there, too. And their grandchildren. And on and on it goes, this endless cycle. The birthing and the living and the dying. All of us heading toward the same final end, learning to love and be loved along the way if we’re lucky.

And I’ve been so very lucky.