The Sorrows of Mr. Top

I'm leaving for St. Louis soon to visit my uncle, Thomas Otto Patterson, or, Mr. Top, as his "vanity" license plate still reads, though he no longer drives. He was my father's only sibling. At 91, he is a sweet Hobbit of 4' 11", with a generous belly over which he pulls his pants, such that his belt is connected at his chest. He'd rather eat chocolate ice cream than anything else, specifically Ted Drewes' chocolate frozen custard, a St. Louis favorite. When he did drive, cars in front of him suspected the car following had no driver at all, as his head barely cleared the steering wheel; and before he stopped, the experience of driving with him had become terrifying and dangerous. I called his doctor and asked him to urge Tom to quit driving. I didn't want to be the one delivering the bad news. He agreed. But why would such a task fall to a nephew?

Tom waited until his late-forties to get married, and he and his wife Betsy were deeply grateful to have a chance at parenthood at that stage in life. Grace grew up in St. Louis. Her parents were always the oldest among her peers', but she had an otherwise ordinary and comfortable childhood with a father and mother who adored her. After she went off to college, to Drake University in Des Moines, the ensuing years were hard on her parents who experienced a perhaps more painful empty-nest syndrome than younger parents would. She made Des Moines her hub and didn't travel home nearly often enough to suit her parents, now in their seventies.

She met and married a man in Des Moines. My parents and I traveled from Denver to attend her wedding. The groom did not meet the high standards of Grace's parents, which was a cause of tension. They often complained that they did not see enough of her, and they seemed oddly uninvolved in the wedding, though it was mostly very pleasant. I was privileged to dance with my only cousin on that side of the family, some sixteen years my junior. We also got to see the now famous Bridges of Madison County--the bridges, not the movie, and John Wayne's childhood home. As we wandered, my parents and I tried to guess at what it was that seemed strained . . . wrong. Was it that Grace was young and independent and her aged and very conservative parents (the St. Louis conservative is one of the purest of the species) had become somewhat alienated? I'm still not certain as to the truth of the matter, though many hints have been dropped through the years.

She and her new husband later announced that they were moving to Phoenix, Arizona, and that Grace was pregnant. It was a great blessing to these aged parents that they would get to experience being grandparents also. I was happy, too, happy that they were coming west. I had in-laws in Scottsdale whom we visited regularly, and I looked forward to getting to know my young cousin much better, an opportunity that never presented itself.

Grace gave still-birth to a girl, Mary Grace, then died a day later of a uterine amniotic embolism. She lived long enough to be photographed holding her dead baby in her arms. The funeral in St. Louis, on my uncle's birthday, was the saddest event I have ever attended, and the saddest thing I have ever personally witnessed was the open casket containing the body of Grace holding the body of her child, Mary, in her arms. As Christians, her elderly parents wondered why God would allow such a thing to happen. Of course, no answer ever came. 

I have visited them at least once a year since this loss. I attended a grieving parents group with Tom and Betsy years ago. They only attended for a short while. They did not find it helpful or comforting, rather it deepened their own grief to see other grieving parents. The pain never left, and is still palpable in my uncle when we get near the subject, which I try to do with him on occasion.

Four years ago this month, I got a call from Tom informing me that Betsy had passed away from a bad fall she had suffered. My mother, one sister, and I went to St. Louis for her funeral. She was buried next to her daughter and granddaughter.

I have continued my visits with Tom, who is now in a wheelchair and attended by helpers 24/7. They do nearly everything for him. He is fortunate to have the resources to be able to stay in his house. I was there for a month last year and had the joy of shopping and preparing meals for him after he'd taken a bad fall attending a Missouri Public Television event where he met Tom Brokaw. He's leaving his local public television station a significant legacy gift. Though I didn't really suspect foul play, it did give me an idea for a novel.

I love my time in St. Louis. My Uncle reminds me of my Father, my Grandfather and their era. His life is a comfort to me, and I hope my time with him brings him some comfort, too. I spent my first five years in St. Louis, and had many summer visits thereafter. I love sleeping in the old single bed in his guest room. I love being among my Grandfather's old things . . . the smells that take me back to my childhood. I love the humidity and the comforting nighttime chirping of the tree frogs.

I called him not long ago, reluctantly, to let him know that my niece Jenny had just given birth. I knew he'd be glad to know it--he was in Denver for her wedding--but I also knew it would make present his own losses. Of course, it did. We had a nice conversation, and he cried.

Anyway, I'm leaving Saturday for St. Louis. I'm happy that the past lives in our hearts, and that there are living sacraments that make the past present to us; and that, if we are fortunate, we will become sacraments to younger people who long to connect to their roots.