Mullis: The 'look' that unites a life of contrasts

My uncle died three weeks short of his 62nd birthday. His life broke into two distinct seasons.

The first 27 years, he was a charismatic athlete who played football at Wayne State University, worked labor relations at Ford Motor Company, and was the life of the party.

A drunk driving accident ended that season.

The next 34 years were spent as a quadriplegic with a damaged memory and limited ability to communicate. He lived a quiet life in group homes and nursing homes.

Surgeries dominated his last years. He was up for anything that would prolong his life. His body, however, was not. Mid-July, he entered hospice.

During the last weeks, a steady stream of visitors came from both seasons of his life – football teammates, college roommates, fraternity brothers, former coworkers, former girlfriends, former caregivers. My family heard stories of all stripes. And, as my father said, some stories were “not for mixed company."

I was 10 when Uncle Vic had his accident, so I was unfamiliar with the “not for mixed company” years. I only knew the Vic in the chair, the one who could beat everyone at Euchre but couldn’t hold his own cards.

The Vic I knew loved people. It didn’t matter who walked in the room or how much pain he was in at the time. When he saw you, he lit up like you were a movie star, giving a roar, a wink and a smile. And, if you were female, he’d ask for a kiss.

The Vic I knew needed help with everything and was grateful for every favor rendered, mouthing “thank you." I struggled to read his lips, but I knew those words.

The night before he passed, I kissed his brow, earning a weak wink. Although I knew the sweet man lying in the bed, I didn’t know the reckless man who put him there.

The next day, I imagined “mixed company” attending the funeral, swapping memories from the bawdy to the benign. Things could get awkward and no one wanted awkward.

When the doors opened the day of his funeral, I thought there were too many chairs in the room. When the services began there weren’t enough.

Words were said. Prayers were prayed. My dad gave his eulogy, balanced and sincere. Then the officiant opened the floor for anyone to speak. I held my breath, but grief unites mixed company.

One of the speakers introduced himself as Vic’s former college football coach. He was wearing a WSU-green sports coat and had a voice best described as gruff. He spoke about the charismatic kid who blocked punts, the one who was always up for anything, the people magnet.

Then, he picked up the memorial booklet – the one my father picked the photos for, the one sitting on every chair. The front photo was Victor from the first part of his life – blond, tanned, sharply dressed, a sly smile on his face. The inside photo was Victor from the second part of his life – celebrating the New Year in the nursing home, wide-open smile, green New Year’s hat on his head, towel to wipe up drool on his shoulder.

Coach pointed to the first photo, voice thick, eyes wet.

“This was the Vic I knew. That was the look in his eye.”

He opened the booklet and pointed to the second photo.

“And this, this was Vic, too.”

In a day of words, these remained with me.

Later, when I was alone, I picked up the memorial book and studied those contrasting photographs – the man I knew; the man I knew not.

Coach was right. The look in his eye was the same.

Nicole L.V. Mullis is the author of “A Teacher Named Faith." You can reach her at nlvm.columns@gmail.com or www.NicoleLVMullis.com.