Early January was a difficult time in the Midwest. With many of its great cities located on latitudes in line with Moscow, its inhabitants had long ago adjusted to the inhospitable nature of its climate. Snow and frigid temperatures are the norm for midwinter. But in the first week of the coldest and gloomiest month of the year, a monster snow and ice storm swept across North America. A giant low-pressure system provided the moisture. A frigid Canadian high followed, dropping temperatures well below zero. As foot upon foot of snow fell, Milwaukee, Cleveland, Detroit, St. Louis, Minneapolis, and Chicago were all but closed. Thousands of automobiles disappeared beneath tons of plowed snow. Some giant metropolitan areas gave up. A massive flood of stranded holiday travelers lived for days in the giant airports. It was winter in America.
Flying 35,000 feet above the vast and fertile spaces, a Midwesterner, who had made this flight many times, was awed by the vast blanket of endless white. The snow cover began in southern Missouri and ended at the North Pole. Landing in Chicago, on the first of a string of bitterly cold days, the runways of the vast complex that is O’Hare were barely recognizable: Two icy strips, carved out of the piled snow, looked more like an Arctic military installation than the world’s busiest airport.
Yet in this great city, life, for most anyway, was beginning to return to normal. On the sports page, the city’s many columnists speculated on the return of Michael Jordan; the Bears were trying to find anybody to coach their pathetic team; the Vikings played the Falcons at noon, and the Broncos played at 3:00. The front page was depressing news from Washington; on the local pages, the mayor was praised for the city’s efficient snow removal. But on the ninth floor of Northwestern Memorial Hospital, in room 989, none of these events were noted.
In room 989, an entirely different reality prevailed. Nurses came and went. Life-sustaining machines made their quiet, spooky noises. A hospital has a grisly reality of its own. A man was dying in room 989. He was my uncle.
A well-known movie director once said the life of every man has all the elements in it for a great movie: joy and sorrow, triumph and defeat, humiliation and redemption. Reading the obituary he helped write, I was staggered by the vast and sweeping arch of a life led by a guy I just knew as Uncle Bud.
He was born in the prairie city of Des Moines, Iowa, in the year America entered World War I. At 16, he contracted Crohn’s Disease, an ailment which would gradually, but relentlessly and painfully, plague him the rest of his life. He graduated from and was an active, lifelong supporter of the University of Chicago. In WWII he worked on the Manhattan Project. In the early Fifties, he started a mail order company — which was 20 years ahead of its time — called Monroe Wholesale. Monroe (my and my cousin’s first job) was a company dedicated to a simple credo: selling high-quality merchandise at a low cost through the mail. Monroe sold everything from toys to appliances to jewelry. Monroe treated its employees like family. Uncle Bud created a company-wide profit sharing plan, long before they became the norm. Though Monroe’s now long gone, many of my uncle’s old employees still keep in touch.
Monroe was good to my uncle. He and my aunt traveled the world. He financed two sons through college and grad school. His grandchildren are well provided for. He gave generously to many in need, actively supported the Chicago Opera and Symphony, was active on the boards of many companies and, later in life, became the president of the prestigious Chicago Architecture Foundation.
Oddly, he wasn’t really an ambitious man. He already had all he wanted. He and my aunt treated me like I was a son. I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated all his help and love before it was too late. My mom called, and said I’d better come now.
The frail stick of a man lying in the bed, in room 989, bore little physical resemblance to my uncle. My aunt warned me not to expect too much, he might not be very coherent. But he was. He asked me, as he always did, sharp, on-point questions about my business, clearly recalling details from a conversation a year past.
It’s a terrible irony of life. It seems like, if your body shuts down, so should your nerves. For my uncle, this wasn’t the case. What little body he had was in great discomfort. I sat on his bed and told him I loved him. He told me how good it made him feel that I was there. I told him I always felt he was there for me for anything I’d need. He wondered why I’d never asked.
I’m embarrassed to say, I left too soon. I wanted to say more, but I guess the intimacy of the moment frightened me. I wanted to kiss my uncle goodbye, but tubes, wires, and rails surrounded him. I stroked his arm, and then I left. Two weeks later, in far too much pain, he died. I’m glad he’s not in that bed anymore.
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This article appears in January 29 • 1999 and January 29 • 1999 (Cover).