Mullis: 33 years in a chair hasn't diminished this golden boy's spirit

My uncle had a catastrophic accident 33 years ago, the night I turned 10. It left him without the ability to speak or walk. He’s been in a wheelchair ever since, his communication limited to nods, winks, and a laugh that's more of a bark.

His identity before the accident felt like folklore to me.

My father and his siblings characterized him as a golden boy – curly blond hair, very blue eyes, athletic prowess, natural charisma, and a sharp mind. He had plenty of friends and plenty of girlfriends. He earned a scholarship to Wayne State University, where he played football and graduated with honors. He had good work, made good money and loved a good party, until the last party ended with a drunken drive into a tree.

When I was younger, the only part of that identity I could comprehend was the blue eyes. He has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen on a person in real life. As I got older, I started to see the 28-year-old golden boy inside the aging paraplegic.

Whenever anyone walks into my uncle’s room, his eyes light up and a booming sound of greeting slaps our eardrums. I imagine he would be the type of person who picks people up when he hugs them. Give him a kiss and he motions for two more.

He loves to play cards. Euchre’s my family’s game and he is, without doubt, the best Euchre player of us all. I don’t think I've ever lost as his partner, and I’m not a great player.

Euchre has been our primary interaction, since it doesn’t depend on conversation. My uncle can’t hold his cards, so we place them in a stand that sits by his elbow. He “passes” with a light shake of the head and “orders up” with a slow blink. Then, we ask questions.

Hearts? Shake of the head.

Clubs? A slight nod.

He knows the score and whose turn it is to deal. He enjoys the table conversation, winking or letting out that barking laugh when someone makes a particularly witty crack. Whenever an argument erupts, he adds his two cents, mouthing the words. Sometimes, we can read his lips. Often, we can’t.

If this frustrates him, it never shows.

Nor is he frustrated if I trump his ace or make a poor lead. He knows how to counteract mistakes. He fixes me with those merry blue eyes as if to say, “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

Coughing and swallowing are his constant challenges, often interrupting our play. We flutter and guess, trying to help while he struggles. He endures, ending each episode with a smile.

He will be 61 on Saturday, an age his doctors didn’t think he would see. Despite his success, a body can only stand so much. Breathing and eating have become more precarious, requiring tubes and triggering hospital visits. He’s in a bed more than a chair.

My most recent visit was to a bed, where Euchre couldn’t do the talking. He was struggling to cough while medical people fluttered and guessed. The episode seemed stronger, longer and scarier. I shrank to the corner of the room.

When it was over, he fixed me with those merry blue eyes and smiled – the message clear.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

Nicole L.V. Mullis is the author of the novel "A Teacher Named Faith." She can be reached at nlvm.columns@gmail.com or www.NicoleLVMullis.com.