The Good Sense to Finally Die

"Do you have any milk for this?"

My Uncle Bill gave me a bemused look as I gestured toward U.S.M.C. mug that he had placed in front of me second before. The steam rising from the cup guarded Maxwell House's finest blend, the final defense against its ultimate destination in my stomach.

"It's black. That's how you drink coffee." His 60 plus year old eyes gave me a glint of warning that the conversation was already over, except at age 20 I didn't recognize it.

"I take mine with milk."

Uncle Bill gave me one more look over, a small red vein appearing just over his right eye, providing an odd connection between his steely eyes and his tight cropped white hair.

"Wayne, in life, you can't count on having milk. You can't count on having sugar. You can't even count on it being hot. You can count on black coffee though. You are going to have it black. You're now going to learn how to drink it black."

The vein disappeared as he extolled his wisdom, replaced by a warmness. I drank the coffee. Black.

Uncle Bill was like that. He drank his coffee like that. Nearly twenty years later I remember the conversation and it's how I drink my coffee, Like a man.

Uncle Bill was a man's man. Like most men of a certain generation he had served in the military. He wasn't an Uncle by blood, the Parillo brood had linked up with his Meade blood when he married my father's sister Anne some 60+ years ago.

He was, outside of his own sisters, the person my father knew the longest. Sometimes serving as a father figure, a mentor, a compatriot, and a sounding board he was that guy for my father. I am positive that there were times my Uncle Bill didn't think much of me.

But that isn't why I said he had the good sense to finally die.

He was probably right. To him I was a little too glib for my own good, a little too smug, and a most likely deserving of a good swift kick in the ass. He would occasionally slap me down with a well timed remark, throw in a little common sense wisdom and wonder what was going to come of his country with people like me around.

It was his country, by the way. He lived at the end of a cul de sac - so close to the people across the street that you could hit the house by throwing a baseball. It was almost as though construction workers had built the road, put down his house, then quit because there was no point going anymore since the toughest guy always lives at the end of the block and there was no one tougher than Uncle Bill. My Uncle Bill was the embodiment of the American Dream. He served his country, he bought a home, raised his four kids and loved traveling around with his wife in their motor home type trailer. He paid his taxes on time and if I ever mentioned to Uncle Bill I was a democrat then I probably would have gotten a kick in the ass.

Uncle Bill had problems with his lungs - the prize of a lifetime of hard work. Over the years his lungs slowed him down. Slowed him down enough that he couldn't travel around in his motor home trailer anymore. It sat there at the end of his driveway, a memory of a time past when he was a mobile man.

It wasn't completely surprising when my father called me last year to tell me Uncle Bill was in the hospital. What did surprise me was that the man had fallen down some stairs and broken his neck.

But that isn't why he had the good sense to finally die.

That happens, 83 year old men fall. The next time my father mentioned Uncle Bill it was to say he was in the hospital again. I asked if it was his neck again. No, this time it was his lungs. Massachusetts had been hit by several snow storms and his street hadn't been plowed.

Uncle Bill couldn't breath and the ambulance showed up. Only it couldn't get up the street. They had to call a plow to plow the street and then they got him into the ambulance. Because Uncle Bill appears to have been a piece of jerky residing in a human body - he survived.

Numerous times during the year Uncle Bill made ambulance trips to the hospital. My Aunt is 77 and she couldn't get him to the car. The ambulance would show up, take him to the hospital and then days later my father would find himself driving Uncle Bill back home since Anne needed the help getting her husband inside.

My Aunt is not a selfish woman. Except in one vein - she didn't want her husband of 60+ years to die. Then a few days ago my father let me know my Uncle Bill had finally died.

He had paid off the mortgage - this wasn't Willie Loman finally paying off the house - where we feel bad as he didn't realize some sort of dream. His daughter is a lawyer and she was there. His two sons from the west coast were around. His other daughter was on the way to be by his side. He has numerous grandchildren and his life was fully lived in every sense of the word.

That isn't why I say he had the good sense to finally die. No, it was the medical bills.

Uncle Bill was a veteran so the veteran association paid for some of his bills. Some. Not all.

Uncle Bill owned his house.

He owned his trailer that sat at the end of his driveway.

You have to have nothing for the V.A. to pay all your bills. The bill collectors started in on my Aunt. They started in on my Uncle. They left them wondering why they had bothered to pay their taxes, buy a house, play by the rules, and be responsible human beings. Where is their bailout? Where is their help? Where is their tax break/write off/of a general thank you for living within their means and not being a burden to anyone.

Is that what really happens in the end if you live long enough - someone tries to come and take everything away since he had the good sense to build a family and a life, but the bad sense to keep living.

Wayne