The other day, Simon and I were down in Phoenix buying a cargo van with the intention of turning it into a camper van (that's for another post...don't worry, it's coming...there's just not much to tell right now). I happened to catch a look at myself in the rearview mirror, and without even thinking about it, I said, "I feel ugly today...and not just today...pretty much everyday." Simon, having known me for as long as he has, knows that I'm not one to fish for compliments, and therefore didn't respond with compliments or arguments or tell me how silly I was. Instead, he told me how sad it made him feel to hear me say things like that about myself. So we chatted about it a bit. I said that I don't like my face. I don't like the way I look in photos, and that I hate having my picture taken, because as the years have gone on, I've developed more lines, more wrinkles, my hair is rapidly turning a (frequently complimented, oddly enough) shade of silver, and when I smile, one of my eyes get squinty, and that wasn't always the case. I told him that there are mornings when I can't bear to even look at myself in the mirror, with the remnants of sleep evident in the bags under my eyes and the wrinkles from the pillows still pressed into my face. To this, he responded with something along the lines of: you're getting older, it's normal, in 10 years you're going to look even older and you'll wish that you looked how you look right now. All of those things are true. And I know this. It's just that some days are harder than others to accept the fact that I'm not a fresh-faced 20-something anymore.
I've loved my 30's (good thing I've still got about 4 more years of them before I have to grapple with my 40's). My 30's have been so much better than my 20's, for various reasons. I'm much more centered than I was in my 20's...I feel like I know myself better, and I don't feel the need to apologize for what I like and what I don't like. Not that I'm callous or uncompromising, but I spend a lot less time worrying about what other people think than I did a decade ago. I do what makes me happy, and I don't feel bad about it. In all reality, making myself happy first makes me a much more pleasant person to be around...you can't make others happy if you're a miserable human being yourself. I learned that...in my 30's. :) I don't feel like there are these big momentous things I've yet to accomplish...I know that things will happen all in good time, and if they don't happen, well, the plan will just change and something else will come along. I don't spend a lot of time thinking about where I think I should be at 36. I'm just here...doing my thing...taking stock of where I was, where I am, and where I might like to be in the coming weeks and months...I get overwhelmed if I think out too much farther than that. I try not to stress too much about it...my life is relatively simple these days.
I work with people who are quite a bit younger than me, and I hear them lament about turning 25, because turning 25 means they've only got 5 more years until they turn 30. It's funny how devastating a number than be, and how that devastating number is different for everyone. I don't know if I have a devastating number. I guess if I had to pick one right now, it would probably be 50...not because it seems old to me, but because I don't know what I'll be like then...what things will be important to me, what things will scare me, what things will no longer matter, what friends I will have lost and gained...those things change so much over the years. I can't imagine 40 will be that much different than 36, but I know that 50 definitely will be, and that's why it's my current scary number. But I know that as I get closer to 50, that scary number will change.
I remember when my parents and their friends all started turning 40, how old they seemed to my junior-high self. Now that I'm closer to 40 than 30, I think about how young they must have felt as they entered their 4th decade of life...because I'm almost there and I still feel relatively young most of the time. It's funny how the parties were decked out in black balloons and tombstones and lamentations about the birthday girl or guy being "over the hill." 40 is nothing. 40 is barely halfway through what would be considered an average lifespan. When I think about it now, I think it's kind of awful to treat any age like you've got one foot in the grave. I know it's done in jest, but there are people who are sensitive about those kinds of things. In a perfect world, growing old is something that would be celebrated, not mourned.
Age is nothing but a number...it's so arbitrary that it can be reduced to nothing but a way of keeping track of how many times a person has gone around the sun. It's kind of fun to think about it that way...I've gone around the sun 36 times so far, and hopefully I'll get to go around a bunch more times before it's time for me to exit this existence. It's funny, my friends in Flagstaff range in age from a 20 year-old with a sweet, old soul, to a shit-talking 70 year-old with a heart of gold. All of these friends have been craftily curated by me based on their willingness to accept me, for me, and by me accepting them, for them. Lawrence might make me gag when he tells me that I'm the same age as his mom, and Thomas might give me crap about trying to make him fat with my cookies, but our interactions are so genuine and real that we can hang out for hours and at the end of the night, it feels like mere minutes have passed...we've traveled just a little father around that sun...together.
So there's that. I don't necessarily attribute my random feelings of being ugly with my age. It's more a disappointment that I don't look like I used to, and really, what a silly thing to be hung up on. It's safe to say that there are 36 year-olds who look younger than me and who look older than me. I don't know what 36 is supposed to look like, I just know what I look like, and there are days when I don't like the face looking back at me. That's just how it is. Most days, I don't think about it much. Truthfully, even on the days that I do think about it, I don't think about it for very long. After Simon and I had that conversation in the car on Tuesday about how I'm not actually ugly, I didn't think about it again for the rest of the day. We bought our van, we had a celebratory beer, we went to Trader Joe's and bought some of our favorite treats, and had an all-around really good day. And my appearance had not one thing to do with any of it.
I am, however, currently one of those people who have a pet as my Facebook profile picture. I always found it a little odd when people would have profile pictures of things other than themselves. The reasoning for the pet profile pic is multi-factorial. One, I took the picture of Cooper with a Christmas bow on his head back in December when I was wrapping presents...it was super cute (as is he), and it was appropriate at the time. Unlike me, he just gets cuter as he ages...he went from a cute little puppy to a cute little dog to a cute little old man. Photos of him are far cuter photos of me...although maybe a little less interesting, as he never goes anywhere very fun...most of his photos are taken from the comfort of the couch. Fact of the matter is, I've just been too lazy to change my profile picture. That and I don't have very many pictures of myself. I'm not into selfies...at all. I hate that the word 'selfie' is even in my vocabulary. Perhaps I'm just bitter that my arms aren't long enough to take a decent selfie. Even if my arms were long enough, there's still that squinty eye to contend with...hahaha! Honestly, I think most of us look best with a little distance between us and the camera...close up pictures of faces are just kind of awkward...unless you have really long arms (or a small head), then they're less so, I guess.
I didn't write this with the intention of my readers to come back with comments about how I look...good, bad, or otherwise. In truth, how others feel about my appearance doesn't really change the way I feel about my appearance. I know there are days when I look a little worse for the wear, and there are days that I look acceptable, and the few times a year when I actually do something with myself, I look pretty darn good. I think regardless of age, we all have ugly days...some (thankfully few) are just a little more ugly than others. I've kind of gotten to the point where I don't spend a whole lot of time fussing with my appearance, since I'm not the one who's going to be looking at me all day. But...due to that, there are days when I think maybe I should care a little more...maybe then I won't be so disgusted when I catch my eye in the mirror, a large window, or the silver paper towel holder in a public restroom.
I hope I get the opportunity to age gracefully, that I will be able to chalk these ugly days up to nothing but fleeting insecurity. I have a good life. I have great friends, I live in a great town, I have a little dog who thinks the world of me, I have a partner who is a much better companion than I ever could have hoped for, I have the means to live comfortably and to make plans for the future. My life is good, and that person in the mirror? The one with the wrinkles and the grey hair and the squinty eye and the armpit chub? That's just a facade for what's inside, because that's truly all that should matter in life.
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Saying Goodbye to Bob
My uncle Bob passed away today. He was 73 years old, and was recently diagnosed with Stage 4 metastatic pancreatic cancer. I'm still processing his passing. In true Stefanie fashion, I process best with a keyboard, so I'm going to tell you a little bit about my uncle Bob. It's hard for me to think of him in the past tense, so excuse my grammar in the following post. It's still hard to believe he's gone.
Bob was born in 1942, around the time that my Grandpa Ellringer was shipped to the South Pacific to fight in World War 2. Bob was the first of 11 Ellringer siblings...not the smallest family of that era, but certainly not the biggest either. Bob and his siblings grew up in the tiny town of Eyota, Minnesota, where a smattering of his siblings, nieces, and nephews still live to this day. Bob joined the military after high school and made a career out of it. He was a Captain in the Air Force and traveled all over the world with the military, but ultimately spent most of his time stateside. He married my aunt Carol and they had two children, Clint and Tiffany. Clint followed in his father's footsteps and became a career military man, but he chose the Navy instead.
Up until a few years ago, I didn't know my uncle Bob all that well. As far back as I can remember, he lived in Texas, and so I only saw him about once a year, if that. There were a few years there in the late 90's when my family and I road-tripped south around the holidays to see my uncles and aunts who lived in Oklahoma and Texas. I remember the 5 of us in my family, plus Grandma, all piling into the minivan together and driving for what felt like days. Having criss-crossed the country multiple times in the last decade, I realize that it's a lot shorter trip than it felt like back then. Anyway, uncle Bob and his family lived in West Texas, which is about what you would expect when you think about West Texas. Dry, desert climate, the ground peppered with mesquite trees and prickly pear cactus, oil derricks in the middle of vast open fields lazily moving up and down, sunshine and short sleeves in December...in other words, not at all like Minnesota. It was like being transported to another world. I was just a kid then...probably 15 or 16 years old, and even at that young age I realized what an opportunity it was to be able to go to a different place in the country with my family...to have family to visit who lived somewhere other than Minnesota.
Bob was always a presence. If you've ever met him, you know what I'm talking about. He was an imposing man, largely built with thick hands, a big head, and small feet...like most of the Ellringers. They come from farming stock...one look at any of them, and you'll believe it. They have the look of people who put their whole bodies to work, and they work hard. Bob's most distinguishing characteristic was his thick head of hair, and his burly beard that went down to his chest. Above that beard were his round cheeks and his distinctively dark-brown Ellringer eyes. All the Ellringer kids have those dark brown eyes; not a single one of them inherited my grandma's piercing baby blues. We see her blues in some of us grandkids though. Most often Bob could be spotted wearing his favorite bib overalls, with or without a shirt underneath, depending on what time of the year it was. The Ellringer men seemingly run hot, so Bob's typical attire was sans shirt. Not a single one of us bats an eye at a little familial partial nudity. It's common for 10+ Ellringers to pile into one house and stay there for days on end together...you're bound to see someone naked at some point, there's just no avoiding it. Most of the Ellringers are exorbitantly loud, and out of all of them, I'd say that Bob was one of the most quiet...which isn't to say that he didn't make himself heard...he had a very commanding voice. When Bob barked out an order, we all turned at attention. He'd raise his voice every now and again if he felt like someone was cheating at poker (Tom), or if someone was "leading crooked" during Sheep, their favorite card game (Sy), or if someone started to get on his case about his Republican loyalty (Dave). Truth be told, all the Ellringers are loud, so to say that one of them is more quiet than the others probably just means that they operate at normal volume for everyone else. It's a wonder that we're not all deaf, given all the yelling we have to do just to be heard during family gatherings, especially during card games.
The Ellringers are big card players, and there are a few games that they like to play. It can almost be guaranteed that at any given Ellringer outing, poker will be played at some point. Everyone gets out their money pots, which vary in description from leather pouches to prescription pill bottles. They are as varying in size and shape as they are in the currency contained within. My container (a prescription pill bottle...fitting, for someone in the healthcare profession) is usually mostly empty, a testament to my poker playing ability. The Ellringers are typically conservative poker players, betting mostly nickels and dimes, and it's considered a big bet when someone throws in a quarter. When the quarters start flying, the players start dropping. You'd be surprised at some of the fights that have almost broken out over a pile of nickels, dimes, and quarters. I suppose it's not so much the currency, but the principle of the thing.
The traditional Ellringer game, and the one that I still can't quite seem to play correctly, is a game called Sheep, or Schafskopf, as it's known in Germany. It's a trump game, and it's also a partner game. One of the things that makes it complicated is that your partner changes with each hand, based on what cards you and your opponents happen to have. There are also a lot of goofy rules, and the order of the trump makes no sense to me. Many an Ellringer will scoff at this as they read it, as the order of trump makes perfect sense to people who have been playing this game for 50-60 years or so. Truth be told, I came across a card game book some years ago and I found the official rules for Schafskopf, and let's just say that the Ellringers have their own version...hahaha! Not that the official rules of Schafskopf made any more sense to me than the Ellringer rules anyway. Bob could almost always be counted on to be the one to get the cards started; usually his cue that he was ready to be done with the pleasantries and get down to card playing was the appearance of his money pouch in front of him. He'd get to work organizing his quarters, dimes, and nickels and wait for the rest of us to catch on. He rarely, if ever, missed a card game at a family gathering. I remember waking up in the wee hours of the morning, hearing their whiskey-fueled banter as they gave each other crap about their cards. They really do have fun together.
A few years back, Bob and his wife Carol started coming to Minnesota in the spring to stay with my parents. They typically would stay for almost the entire summer. Simon and I were still travel nursing at that time, and given that we spent most of our winters on assignments, we were frequently home in the summers. It was then that I really got to know my uncle Bob. I learned that he was a God-fearing gun-toting right-wing Republican Veteran with a fierce love of America and an overall appreciation for a good cup of coffee, a home-cooked meal, a rousing card game, a loyal dog, and time spent with family. He would get choked up when talking about his mom or his dad, who had passed on some years ago. He gave the biggest, tightest, rib-crushingest bear hugs. When you got right down to it, his gruff persona was just a facade for the tender-hearted man hiding beneath the surface. He also liked to go for walks, do puzzles, play horseshoes, and watch movies. He did not, however, enjoy Team America: World Police. It was fun for the rest of us to watch him watch it, particularly the puppet sex scene. I'm honestly surprised that he watched the whole thing...but that was kind of Bob's thing...once you start something, you finish it. He didn't talk much about his military service, and I found out later that that was probably due to the fact that he simply couldn't. Apparently uncle Bob was involved in some highly classified operations. My mom recalls him coming home one time with a briefcase shackled to his wrist, with orders not to discuss it with anyone. So he didn't. Perhaps he was a secret agent of some kind. It's kind of fun to think of my uncle Bob as a secret agent.
I'll never forget the first time my buddy Franko met Uncle Bob...it's truly one of my favorite stories. Franko and I were elbows deep in a Shafskopf lesson with Uncle John, Tom, my mom, Paul, and probably Dave. A good majority of the Ellringers were in Minnesota staying at Grandma's house for some reason or another, so it's safe to say that we were crammed in there like sardines, that the windows were fogged up from all the breathing, and that there were no less than 20 bags of potato chips at the ready. We love chips. I remember there were 6 of us playing the game, and playing six-handed Shafskopf versus the tradional four-handed Shafskopf is probably not the best or easiest way to learn, but dang-nabbit they were going to teach us. Franko was convinced that they were all cheating. So here's Franko, a robust, boisterous person himself, getting into it with the Ellringers for cheating, and all the sudden uncle Bob just appeared from the basement. He walked through the kitchen, said not a word to anyone, and proceeded to go into the living room and have a seat. Odds are pretty good that he wasn't wearing a shirt, but I don't remember...after a while, you just quit keeping track of who has a shirt on and who doesn't. All of us were non-plussed...it was just Bob, having woken from a nap. Franko threw down his cards, looks at me, and says, "You guys are all cheaters...and who the heck was that guy??" I suppose Bob would be a bit of a shock to someone who'd never seen him before, particularly after having woken from a nap with his hair all askew and having nothing to say to anyone in ways of greeting or parting as he made his way through the room.
I'll also always remember the tutorial Bob gave Simon and me on why bib overalls are truly the best pants a person could ever wear. He proceeded to compare bib overalls to a backpack with pants attached. He went through every pocket and explained all the possibilities of all that things you could put in them. Pens, rolls of quarters, toothpicks, mini screwdriver, chapstick, breath mints, wallet, cell phone, amongst other things. He stated that you can literally carry 20-30 pounds worth of stuff in your bibs. He then pointed out the buttons on the sides of the bibs, and explained that if you get hot, you just unbutton those buttons and you have built in ventilation. No matter that people can see your underpants when you have the buttons unbuttoned...we're all family here...mostly, anyway. Given that several of my uncles like to wear bib overalls, it's safe to say that I've probably seen more of my relatives' underpants than most people have of their relatives. Like I said, we're family, it's all good. It's funny...when I come across a random person wearing bibs, I can't help but smile. It reminds me of my family, and how much I adore their little oddities.
The news of Bob's cancer diagnosis was a shock to all of us. Apparently last fall he had developed a cough and just wasn't feeling all that well. He went to the doctor for a checkup, and they decided to do a chest x-ray. They had the device a little lower than usual, and noticed a few suspicious spots on his liver. One test lead to the next, which ultimately resulted in the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. Initially he was given 6 months to a year to live, which was then quickly escalated to a cautiously generous 6 weeks. We were floored. Being in healthcare, I know that pancreatic cancer is a death-sentence, and typically a short, painful one. My heart dropped when I found out the news. It dropped for Bob, but it dropped even more for his family. The Ellringers are a clan...they rally together when someone is in trouble, and they whoop it up when it's time to have fun. They have a closeness that I admire, and despite their differences, they love each other fiercely. They are some of the most fun people I know, and some of my favorite memories are the huge family gatherings that we've had over the years. Probably the best one was the gigantic party we threw after Grandma passed away several years ago. She lived to the ripe old age of 92, and if she could have found a way to attend her own funeral party, she would have been right there with us eating pizza, playing cards, and shouting loudly to be heard. It's just what we do...what we've always done. It makes me sad to hear about families that aren't close, or families who don't even like each other. I can't imagine life without my giant family.
Bob is the first of my mom's siblings to pass away. Given that he was 73 years old, he had a good long run, filled with lots of family time and doing all the things he wanted to do. I never once heard him lament about missing out on something that he had wanted to do. If he wanted to do something, he did it. If it didn't seem worth doing, he didn't. With Bob there was very little grey area, and I can appreciate that about a person. He lived life on his terms, and for the most part, I think he was a really happy guy, even if he was mostly quiet about it (by Ellringer standards, anyway).
I'm so grateful that I had the opportunity to see him before he passed. I was disheartened to see the man in the bed, my uncle, sleepy and delirious at times. I was amazed by quickly his illness had aged him. By all means still an imposing man, but he looked more like a hospital patient than my robust, commanding uncle. By the time I arrived, Bob was no longer getting out of bed, and he was in a nursing home on hospice care. He needed to be fed, and didn't have much of an appetite. When he did eat, however, he pretty much always made sure to eat dessert first...smart man. He wasn't able to play cards. It absolutely breaks my heart to tell this next story, but my mom told me that before I got there, they were playing cards and Bob was having a good day. They asked him if he wanted to play with them, and he said that he would just listen. And so they played cards while he laid in bed with his eyes closed, listening to his brothers and sisters having fun. Even as sick as he was, it gave him comfort to hear his family playing his favorite games. Apparently at one point while they were playing, he told Paul to stop cheating. It was probably the last good thing they could have done for him.
Once I got there, I quickly went into "hospice nurse" mode, rubbing his feet, swabbing his mouth, and trying to make him comfortable. I checked his catheter and enlisted my brothers and Simon in moving him in the bed to get him into a more comfortable position. I became almost completely unglued when I noticed that he had my grandma's hands. I ran my fingers though his beautiful salt-and-pepper hair (so much like Grandpa's)...still just as thick as I always remembered. I was amazed by how soft and silky it was, and told him that someday I hope my greys will be as pretty as his. We did get some reaction out of him when we talked about his guns, when I put Cooper on the bed for him to pet ("Isn't he ugly, Bob?" "Yep"), and when I told him that I finally beat some of the uncles the night before at Sheep...he smiled at that one...I think Bob always thought I was the worst Sheep player, and a little part of him swore inside every time he found out I was his partner...hahaha! Carol also got quite the grumble of disdain out of him when she told him that she was going to shave his beard. I know care of those who are dying isn't for everyone, but I find hospice nursing to be such a special aspect of healthcare. I like knowing that I'm able to provide comfort to those who are embarking on their last stage of life. And to not only provide comfort to the dying, but to the families that they are leaving behind.
I wish I could have stayed in Texas to help take care of Bob. Had I known that he was going to pass the day after I left, I probably would have. I wanted to be there to make sure he was comfortable, that he wasn't struggling to breathe, and that the nurses and hospice people were checking on him. I wanted to be there for his family, to explain what was happening while it was happening. I made a decision the day that I left...that I was going to do whatever it is that I have to do to become hospice certified, and to make myself available to my family members in the future who might need hospice care. I know there are a lot of good hospice caregivers out there, but how many of them have the availability to devote themselves to just one patient? I can do that. I can make that happen. And I want to do it. More than anything, I want to be available to provide comfort in the dying process to the people who I love the most. I want to be able to do the last good thing, even if that's just a cool wash cloth on the forehead, or a foot massage, or putting on some chapstick. I want to take care of those things so my family doesn't have to, so my family can just spend time doing what they need to do to cope...to play cards, to banter, to tell stories. It's those little things that provide the most comfort in the end.
The most comforting thing of all in these situations is spending time with family. Every night that I was in Texas, I stayed up until 1am or later drinking beer and playing cards with my aunts, uncles, and cousins. One of the nights we stayed up until past 2am, and as I was getting into bed, I heard Tom and Paul (Bob's brothers) giggling like little kids in the back room as they were getting ready for bed. I believe they had gotten into the Fireball that night. My heart was so full of love for my family as I listened to them finding happiness in the sadness. It's how we cope, it's how we stay close, it's how we honor our family members who lead a good life and who are passing into whatever comes next. We played a few hands of Texas Hold 'Em, which was Bob's favorite poker game. We even found a bottle of some homemade Kahlua that Bob had infusing in the cupboard, so we poured a bunch of glasses of it and put up a toast to the husband, the father, the brother, the uncle, and the grandpa who we loved and who we were all going to miss. To top it off, it would have been fitting to have gone out in the yard and shot off a bunch of Bob's guns while shouting at the stars, but we refrained. Given that Bob was vigilant about gun safety and that guns were only for protection or hunting, he would not have approved of that behavior. But I still think it would have been a fitting tribute...sober, of course. It made me sad to think that some of the last good times I've had with my family were centered around someone's death or illness. I think celebrating someone's life is as good a reason to get together as any, but I don't want that to be the only time that we do it. I want to see my family more. I want to travel to see my cousins who live near and far, I want to finally commit to taking that trip to Thailand to see my uncle Sy. I want to celebrate life while we're all still healthy enough to do it.
So I've got some new goals to accomplish this year, and I have uncle Bob to thank for it. Sometimes getting pointed in the right direction takes inspiration from the most unexpected of places. I'm going to take his illness and his passing and do something positive with it. Thanks for everything, uncle Bob. We love you. We miss you. God speed.
Bob was born in 1942, around the time that my Grandpa Ellringer was shipped to the South Pacific to fight in World War 2. Bob was the first of 11 Ellringer siblings...not the smallest family of that era, but certainly not the biggest either. Bob and his siblings grew up in the tiny town of Eyota, Minnesota, where a smattering of his siblings, nieces, and nephews still live to this day. Bob joined the military after high school and made a career out of it. He was a Captain in the Air Force and traveled all over the world with the military, but ultimately spent most of his time stateside. He married my aunt Carol and they had two children, Clint and Tiffany. Clint followed in his father's footsteps and became a career military man, but he chose the Navy instead.
Up until a few years ago, I didn't know my uncle Bob all that well. As far back as I can remember, he lived in Texas, and so I only saw him about once a year, if that. There were a few years there in the late 90's when my family and I road-tripped south around the holidays to see my uncles and aunts who lived in Oklahoma and Texas. I remember the 5 of us in my family, plus Grandma, all piling into the minivan together and driving for what felt like days. Having criss-crossed the country multiple times in the last decade, I realize that it's a lot shorter trip than it felt like back then. Anyway, uncle Bob and his family lived in West Texas, which is about what you would expect when you think about West Texas. Dry, desert climate, the ground peppered with mesquite trees and prickly pear cactus, oil derricks in the middle of vast open fields lazily moving up and down, sunshine and short sleeves in December...in other words, not at all like Minnesota. It was like being transported to another world. I was just a kid then...probably 15 or 16 years old, and even at that young age I realized what an opportunity it was to be able to go to a different place in the country with my family...to have family to visit who lived somewhere other than Minnesota.
Bob was always a presence. If you've ever met him, you know what I'm talking about. He was an imposing man, largely built with thick hands, a big head, and small feet...like most of the Ellringers. They come from farming stock...one look at any of them, and you'll believe it. They have the look of people who put their whole bodies to work, and they work hard. Bob's most distinguishing characteristic was his thick head of hair, and his burly beard that went down to his chest. Above that beard were his round cheeks and his distinctively dark-brown Ellringer eyes. All the Ellringer kids have those dark brown eyes; not a single one of them inherited my grandma's piercing baby blues. We see her blues in some of us grandkids though. Most often Bob could be spotted wearing his favorite bib overalls, with or without a shirt underneath, depending on what time of the year it was. The Ellringer men seemingly run hot, so Bob's typical attire was sans shirt. Not a single one of us bats an eye at a little familial partial nudity. It's common for 10+ Ellringers to pile into one house and stay there for days on end together...you're bound to see someone naked at some point, there's just no avoiding it. Most of the Ellringers are exorbitantly loud, and out of all of them, I'd say that Bob was one of the most quiet...which isn't to say that he didn't make himself heard...he had a very commanding voice. When Bob barked out an order, we all turned at attention. He'd raise his voice every now and again if he felt like someone was cheating at poker (Tom), or if someone was "leading crooked" during Sheep, their favorite card game (Sy), or if someone started to get on his case about his Republican loyalty (Dave). Truth be told, all the Ellringers are loud, so to say that one of them is more quiet than the others probably just means that they operate at normal volume for everyone else. It's a wonder that we're not all deaf, given all the yelling we have to do just to be heard during family gatherings, especially during card games.
The Ellringers are big card players, and there are a few games that they like to play. It can almost be guaranteed that at any given Ellringer outing, poker will be played at some point. Everyone gets out their money pots, which vary in description from leather pouches to prescription pill bottles. They are as varying in size and shape as they are in the currency contained within. My container (a prescription pill bottle...fitting, for someone in the healthcare profession) is usually mostly empty, a testament to my poker playing ability. The Ellringers are typically conservative poker players, betting mostly nickels and dimes, and it's considered a big bet when someone throws in a quarter. When the quarters start flying, the players start dropping. You'd be surprised at some of the fights that have almost broken out over a pile of nickels, dimes, and quarters. I suppose it's not so much the currency, but the principle of the thing.
The traditional Ellringer game, and the one that I still can't quite seem to play correctly, is a game called Sheep, or Schafskopf, as it's known in Germany. It's a trump game, and it's also a partner game. One of the things that makes it complicated is that your partner changes with each hand, based on what cards you and your opponents happen to have. There are also a lot of goofy rules, and the order of the trump makes no sense to me. Many an Ellringer will scoff at this as they read it, as the order of trump makes perfect sense to people who have been playing this game for 50-60 years or so. Truth be told, I came across a card game book some years ago and I found the official rules for Schafskopf, and let's just say that the Ellringers have their own version...hahaha! Not that the official rules of Schafskopf made any more sense to me than the Ellringer rules anyway. Bob could almost always be counted on to be the one to get the cards started; usually his cue that he was ready to be done with the pleasantries and get down to card playing was the appearance of his money pouch in front of him. He'd get to work organizing his quarters, dimes, and nickels and wait for the rest of us to catch on. He rarely, if ever, missed a card game at a family gathering. I remember waking up in the wee hours of the morning, hearing their whiskey-fueled banter as they gave each other crap about their cards. They really do have fun together.
A few years back, Bob and his wife Carol started coming to Minnesota in the spring to stay with my parents. They typically would stay for almost the entire summer. Simon and I were still travel nursing at that time, and given that we spent most of our winters on assignments, we were frequently home in the summers. It was then that I really got to know my uncle Bob. I learned that he was a God-fearing gun-toting right-wing Republican Veteran with a fierce love of America and an overall appreciation for a good cup of coffee, a home-cooked meal, a rousing card game, a loyal dog, and time spent with family. He would get choked up when talking about his mom or his dad, who had passed on some years ago. He gave the biggest, tightest, rib-crushingest bear hugs. When you got right down to it, his gruff persona was just a facade for the tender-hearted man hiding beneath the surface. He also liked to go for walks, do puzzles, play horseshoes, and watch movies. He did not, however, enjoy Team America: World Police. It was fun for the rest of us to watch him watch it, particularly the puppet sex scene. I'm honestly surprised that he watched the whole thing...but that was kind of Bob's thing...once you start something, you finish it. He didn't talk much about his military service, and I found out later that that was probably due to the fact that he simply couldn't. Apparently uncle Bob was involved in some highly classified operations. My mom recalls him coming home one time with a briefcase shackled to his wrist, with orders not to discuss it with anyone. So he didn't. Perhaps he was a secret agent of some kind. It's kind of fun to think of my uncle Bob as a secret agent.
I'll never forget the first time my buddy Franko met Uncle Bob...it's truly one of my favorite stories. Franko and I were elbows deep in a Shafskopf lesson with Uncle John, Tom, my mom, Paul, and probably Dave. A good majority of the Ellringers were in Minnesota staying at Grandma's house for some reason or another, so it's safe to say that we were crammed in there like sardines, that the windows were fogged up from all the breathing, and that there were no less than 20 bags of potato chips at the ready. We love chips. I remember there were 6 of us playing the game, and playing six-handed Shafskopf versus the tradional four-handed Shafskopf is probably not the best or easiest way to learn, but dang-nabbit they were going to teach us. Franko was convinced that they were all cheating. So here's Franko, a robust, boisterous person himself, getting into it with the Ellringers for cheating, and all the sudden uncle Bob just appeared from the basement. He walked through the kitchen, said not a word to anyone, and proceeded to go into the living room and have a seat. Odds are pretty good that he wasn't wearing a shirt, but I don't remember...after a while, you just quit keeping track of who has a shirt on and who doesn't. All of us were non-plussed...it was just Bob, having woken from a nap. Franko threw down his cards, looks at me, and says, "You guys are all cheaters...and who the heck was that guy??" I suppose Bob would be a bit of a shock to someone who'd never seen him before, particularly after having woken from a nap with his hair all askew and having nothing to say to anyone in ways of greeting or parting as he made his way through the room.
I'll also always remember the tutorial Bob gave Simon and me on why bib overalls are truly the best pants a person could ever wear. He proceeded to compare bib overalls to a backpack with pants attached. He went through every pocket and explained all the possibilities of all that things you could put in them. Pens, rolls of quarters, toothpicks, mini screwdriver, chapstick, breath mints, wallet, cell phone, amongst other things. He stated that you can literally carry 20-30 pounds worth of stuff in your bibs. He then pointed out the buttons on the sides of the bibs, and explained that if you get hot, you just unbutton those buttons and you have built in ventilation. No matter that people can see your underpants when you have the buttons unbuttoned...we're all family here...mostly, anyway. Given that several of my uncles like to wear bib overalls, it's safe to say that I've probably seen more of my relatives' underpants than most people have of their relatives. Like I said, we're family, it's all good. It's funny...when I come across a random person wearing bibs, I can't help but smile. It reminds me of my family, and how much I adore their little oddities.
The news of Bob's cancer diagnosis was a shock to all of us. Apparently last fall he had developed a cough and just wasn't feeling all that well. He went to the doctor for a checkup, and they decided to do a chest x-ray. They had the device a little lower than usual, and noticed a few suspicious spots on his liver. One test lead to the next, which ultimately resulted in the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. Initially he was given 6 months to a year to live, which was then quickly escalated to a cautiously generous 6 weeks. We were floored. Being in healthcare, I know that pancreatic cancer is a death-sentence, and typically a short, painful one. My heart dropped when I found out the news. It dropped for Bob, but it dropped even more for his family. The Ellringers are a clan...they rally together when someone is in trouble, and they whoop it up when it's time to have fun. They have a closeness that I admire, and despite their differences, they love each other fiercely. They are some of the most fun people I know, and some of my favorite memories are the huge family gatherings that we've had over the years. Probably the best one was the gigantic party we threw after Grandma passed away several years ago. She lived to the ripe old age of 92, and if she could have found a way to attend her own funeral party, she would have been right there with us eating pizza, playing cards, and shouting loudly to be heard. It's just what we do...what we've always done. It makes me sad to hear about families that aren't close, or families who don't even like each other. I can't imagine life without my giant family.
Bob is the first of my mom's siblings to pass away. Given that he was 73 years old, he had a good long run, filled with lots of family time and doing all the things he wanted to do. I never once heard him lament about missing out on something that he had wanted to do. If he wanted to do something, he did it. If it didn't seem worth doing, he didn't. With Bob there was very little grey area, and I can appreciate that about a person. He lived life on his terms, and for the most part, I think he was a really happy guy, even if he was mostly quiet about it (by Ellringer standards, anyway).
I'm so grateful that I had the opportunity to see him before he passed. I was disheartened to see the man in the bed, my uncle, sleepy and delirious at times. I was amazed by quickly his illness had aged him. By all means still an imposing man, but he looked more like a hospital patient than my robust, commanding uncle. By the time I arrived, Bob was no longer getting out of bed, and he was in a nursing home on hospice care. He needed to be fed, and didn't have much of an appetite. When he did eat, however, he pretty much always made sure to eat dessert first...smart man. He wasn't able to play cards. It absolutely breaks my heart to tell this next story, but my mom told me that before I got there, they were playing cards and Bob was having a good day. They asked him if he wanted to play with them, and he said that he would just listen. And so they played cards while he laid in bed with his eyes closed, listening to his brothers and sisters having fun. Even as sick as he was, it gave him comfort to hear his family playing his favorite games. Apparently at one point while they were playing, he told Paul to stop cheating. It was probably the last good thing they could have done for him.
Once I got there, I quickly went into "hospice nurse" mode, rubbing his feet, swabbing his mouth, and trying to make him comfortable. I checked his catheter and enlisted my brothers and Simon in moving him in the bed to get him into a more comfortable position. I became almost completely unglued when I noticed that he had my grandma's hands. I ran my fingers though his beautiful salt-and-pepper hair (so much like Grandpa's)...still just as thick as I always remembered. I was amazed by how soft and silky it was, and told him that someday I hope my greys will be as pretty as his. We did get some reaction out of him when we talked about his guns, when I put Cooper on the bed for him to pet ("Isn't he ugly, Bob?" "Yep"), and when I told him that I finally beat some of the uncles the night before at Sheep...he smiled at that one...I think Bob always thought I was the worst Sheep player, and a little part of him swore inside every time he found out I was his partner...hahaha! Carol also got quite the grumble of disdain out of him when she told him that she was going to shave his beard. I know care of those who are dying isn't for everyone, but I find hospice nursing to be such a special aspect of healthcare. I like knowing that I'm able to provide comfort to those who are embarking on their last stage of life. And to not only provide comfort to the dying, but to the families that they are leaving behind.
I wish I could have stayed in Texas to help take care of Bob. Had I known that he was going to pass the day after I left, I probably would have. I wanted to be there to make sure he was comfortable, that he wasn't struggling to breathe, and that the nurses and hospice people were checking on him. I wanted to be there for his family, to explain what was happening while it was happening. I made a decision the day that I left...that I was going to do whatever it is that I have to do to become hospice certified, and to make myself available to my family members in the future who might need hospice care. I know there are a lot of good hospice caregivers out there, but how many of them have the availability to devote themselves to just one patient? I can do that. I can make that happen. And I want to do it. More than anything, I want to be available to provide comfort in the dying process to the people who I love the most. I want to be able to do the last good thing, even if that's just a cool wash cloth on the forehead, or a foot massage, or putting on some chapstick. I want to take care of those things so my family doesn't have to, so my family can just spend time doing what they need to do to cope...to play cards, to banter, to tell stories. It's those little things that provide the most comfort in the end.
The most comforting thing of all in these situations is spending time with family. Every night that I was in Texas, I stayed up until 1am or later drinking beer and playing cards with my aunts, uncles, and cousins. One of the nights we stayed up until past 2am, and as I was getting into bed, I heard Tom and Paul (Bob's brothers) giggling like little kids in the back room as they were getting ready for bed. I believe they had gotten into the Fireball that night. My heart was so full of love for my family as I listened to them finding happiness in the sadness. It's how we cope, it's how we stay close, it's how we honor our family members who lead a good life and who are passing into whatever comes next. We played a few hands of Texas Hold 'Em, which was Bob's favorite poker game. We even found a bottle of some homemade Kahlua that Bob had infusing in the cupboard, so we poured a bunch of glasses of it and put up a toast to the husband, the father, the brother, the uncle, and the grandpa who we loved and who we were all going to miss. To top it off, it would have been fitting to have gone out in the yard and shot off a bunch of Bob's guns while shouting at the stars, but we refrained. Given that Bob was vigilant about gun safety and that guns were only for protection or hunting, he would not have approved of that behavior. But I still think it would have been a fitting tribute...sober, of course. It made me sad to think that some of the last good times I've had with my family were centered around someone's death or illness. I think celebrating someone's life is as good a reason to get together as any, but I don't want that to be the only time that we do it. I want to see my family more. I want to travel to see my cousins who live near and far, I want to finally commit to taking that trip to Thailand to see my uncle Sy. I want to celebrate life while we're all still healthy enough to do it.
So I've got some new goals to accomplish this year, and I have uncle Bob to thank for it. Sometimes getting pointed in the right direction takes inspiration from the most unexpected of places. I'm going to take his illness and his passing and do something positive with it. Thanks for everything, uncle Bob. We love you. We miss you. God speed.
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