The Greatest Man I Never Knew

The greatest man I never knew died a short time ago.  His name was Phil and he was my girlfriends’ uncle.  I had met him a year before his death and on a few occasions after that.  The reason that I never knew him is because by the time he had come into my life, his was already ending.  Phil had ALS, or Lou Gehrigs disease as it is typically referred to, and when I met him he was already a mere shadow of the man he once was.  Not able to move without the aid of a motorized wheelchair, and unable to vocalize his thoughts, he was fast becoming a prisoner in his own body.  Phil could think as clearly as ever.  His mind was still sharp and alert; it was his body that seemed to be betraying him. It had begun with nothing more than a limp four years ago, and had progressed with a plodding, unrelenting debilitation that held few glimmers of hope and one steady, final promise. 
In the end, his daughter had to hold his eyes open for him to be able to see those of us that stood around his bed in the hospice. I remember quite clearly thinking “God save me from such a fate.”  I could think of nothing so horrible as knowing that you were going to die, and knowing too, that there was nothing you could do about it.  The sight of Phil lying there on that hospice bed is etched into my mind in very intense and permanent detail and I know that I will never forget it.
    A few days after Phil passed away the funeral was held.  For two nights they showed the body.  I usually try to avoid funerals and things of that nature because I do not do well with the thought of death.  It unsettles me and typically starts my mind dwelling on dates and appointments that I don’t know and can’t change. On the second night I attended, at the behest of my girlfriend and her parents.  The room was filled to the bursting with friends and family and the air had a charge to it that I had never really felt before.  I was surprised to find that although grief hung heavy in the room, so too was there an underlying level of joy.  It didn’t make any sense to me and I chalked it down to a misconception.  I would find out shortly that I was wrong.
    Phil lay in a coffin at the head of the room.  Two things that were strikingly different about the setup fast became apparent to me.  The first, there were only a fraction of the amount of flowers you would typically see at a showing, and the second… Phil was dressed in a faded flannel shirt instead of a tuxedo.  You see, Phil had requested that he be buried in his favorite shirt and that people should buy gifts for the family instead of flowers for him.  Seeing Phil there, surrounded by little dog statues atop little garden benches and wearing something more suited for wood chopping, than a funeral, I began to see a glimmer of the man that Phil had been.  I don’t know why he didn’t want flowers, maybe because flowers die and there was already enough death.  But the flannel?  Well, I like to think that being buried in a flannel shirt was Phil’s last, little joke.
    Shortly after I got there, Phil’s adopted daughter, who was in fact his real daughters best friend, walked to the podium and began speaking.  Her speech was heartwarming and encouraging and when it was over she asked if anyone else would like to talk.  In a room filled with apprehension and unease, nearly a dozen people volunteered, and one by one they walked to the front of the room.  Each one had a different story to tell, and each story touched my heart in a different way.  The speakers painted the picture of Phil’s life in broad, warm strokes, and the culmination of their work shone more beautifully than most anything I’ve ever seen.  Here was a man that gave of himself as though selflessness were a religion.  Who laughed and loved the way it was supposed to be done.  Here was a man who would do anything for you, and paid no never mind to a thing as simple as whether or not he knew you.  They told stories of how night or day, rain or shine, he always wore the same little smile, as though something about life just tickled him.  A hard worker, and a fun player, not a word was said about Phil’s life that did not strike a chord.  It seems that, lying there in front of me, was the most exact example of the person I had always hoped I could become.  No hint of selfishness or bitter angst.  I watched the speakers’ faces intently, looking for the lie.  But I found no hint of dishonesty.  I had witnessed the tragic end of a great man. 
Lying right in front of me in his flannel shirt and wool cap was the exact persona of the person I’ve always struggled to be.
For some time I couldn’t take my eyes off of Phil’s body.  But then a new voice spoke, and I looked up into the face of hope.  Sitting there at a strangers funeral, surrounded by a sea of grief ridden people I didn’t know, I found hope.  Hope for tomorrow, hope for today, hope for me and, even, hope for you.  In a world where people are forced to fight battles they aren’t allowed to win, in a country terror stricken by unknown assailants, in a town known for its escalating crime rate, in a room I hope to never be in again, I looked into the face of Phil’s daughter, and found hope.   Phil was dead, but his family lived on , and were better for having him.  “God, save me from such a fate?”  I should be so lucky as Phil.  He was a man, and men must die, but he was also a great man, and great men are remembered forever.  In fact, Phil was the greatest man that I never knew.

Author's Note

I wrote this about four years ago. It is true and it still carries a lot of emotion with it.

Reviews

[Nautili]

Oh. The man i almost married before marrying my husband, has Lou Gehrig's. It was hard to read since he isn't at the final stages yet. Although he slurs his words and walks a bit drunkenly, he can still talk and walk.Out of his whole support group( he was diagnosed 11 years ago) he is the only one still alive! It seems to be progressing rahter slowly for him, thank God.This was a bit hard to read. But very well-written.