It was a reunion that did not begin all that promisingly. When my 8-year-old nephew Henry walked into room 805 of Seattle Swedish Medical Center late Wednesday afternoon. . . only his second time there to visit his papa-my brother Steve- someone asked him if he knew who I was. Henry looked across the room at me without a flicker of a smile or a hint of recognition and very succinctly said “nope.” It had been two years since we had seen each other- and in the years before that our encounters have been frustratingly infrequent and brief- so I shouldn’t have been surprised. And it’s entirely possible that young Henry had much more pressing matters on his mind at that moment than getting reacquainted with one of his uncles from Wisconsin, so he might very well have recognized me more than he was willing to admit or let on. Still, in that moment I felt like I was #587 on Henry’s hit parade of favorite people (and maybe not even that high in the standings) . . . although I probably snuck a little higher up the pay scale when I slyly reminded him that I was the uncle who gave him Wii Star Wars for Christmas. But nevertheless, I was profoundly nervous in those first few moments. I am not exactly Bozo the Clown when it comes to entertaining youngsters – it’s much harder work for me than it is for Kathy, for instance, and she was a couple thousand miles away and not in a position to help me re-break the ice with my nephew. So it was hard for me to imagine just how Henry and I were going to become buddies, particularly under such circumstances and with not all that much time available to us. Henry was caught in the middle of something so scary and bewildering. His papa was in the hospital; Henry’s dad, Scott, was needing to be there almost around the clock; and that meant that Henry was being shuttled between a host of close friends anxious to help out any way that they could. They were, for all intents and purposes, the “village” helping to raise Henry during these challenging few days. And as splendidly as Henry held up through all that, it had to be so tough. What he wanted more than anything was to be with his dad and his papa – and to be in his own house again.
And amazingly, that’s when Uncle Greg rode to the rescue- although it was Scott who actually came up with the idea. The thought was that I would sleep in Steve and Scott’s guest room, and – if I was willing – Henry would stay there with me . . . rather than staying with various friends in what was amounting to a perpetual string of sleep-overs. (The nights were especially tough for Steve, so it was necessary for Scott to be at the hospital pretty much 24/7.)
For about three seconds I hesitated, because for some reason this vision popped in my head of me being tied up with duct tape to a chair in the basement while Henry ransacked the rest of the house. But then I took another look at this precious 8-year-old, going through such a grueling gauntlet and so anxious to just sleep in his own house again, that I said an enthusiastic YES.
And it proved to be one of the best things that happened to me all year. Henry and I spent Wednesday evening watching Looney Tune videos (Sylvester & Tweedy for the most part, with Henry anticipating most of the dialogue- – -just like his Uncle Greg can do with most of the classic Bugs Bunny cartoons) . . . and Thursday evening playing Wii bowling, Wii tennis, and Wii Star Wars – with each one being a more decisive defeat for yours truly than the one before. We started with bowling, but Henry managed to fire off six strikes in a row on his way to a bone-crushing victory. Next was tennis, which is the only sport in which I can demonstrate at least decent competence, but against Henry in the Wii version it was like Roger Federer against Elmer Fudd. (Guess who was who.) In six games, I won exactly one point. Then came Wii Boxing, which got to be a bit confusing because we got confused about who was who – but once we had that sorted out, it was “Hard Hitting Henry” all the way. After that came Wii Star Wars, which is the game that Kathy and I gave him for Christmas – and I ended up feeling the kind of bewilderment a country western fan would experience when forced to watch Wagner’s Ring Cycle. I ended up just jiggling my joy stick ( I think you call it that) as rapidly as I could and striking the “X” button (which I’m pretty sure was used to swing the light sabre) as rapidly as possible, but with absolutely no idea what figure on the screen was mine or what the point of it all was. (If you look up the word “Clueless” in the dictionary, beside the entry you’ll see a small photo of me playing Wii Star Wars with a completely befuddled look on my face.) Randi was on hand, by the way, and I’m sure would attest to Henry’s supremacy in everything we played that night. And when we laid ourselves down to sleep, we couldn’t find the remote for the DVD player- so we watched one of Henry’s favorite train videotapes. (Mark my words, he is destined to be the U.S. Secretary of Transportation someday.)
Not that every moment was spent in front of a screen. Thursday morning we spent time playing with his trains, planes and trucks. . . and during the Wednesday dinner we enjoyed at a friend’s house, I helped Henry color a picture of the Blue Angels for him to give to his papa. The Blue Angels are a team of U.S. Navy jet fighters who do an amazing show in the skies above Seattle once a year. Henry looks forward to this as though it were Christmas, and it was propitious timing that he could have such a diversion during this rough time.
I was going to say that Slowly but Surely, Henry and I became buddies. . . but in fact it happened quite rapidly. And that’s got nothing to do with any natural rapport I have with youngsters – which I’m afraid is still pretty scant – but rather with Henry’s amazing openness. And it makes some sense. Here is someone who was adopted by two American strangers. . . and that day in the orphanage when they first saw each other, something which the nanny whispered into little Henry’s ear caused him to reach out his arms towards his new parents/ these complete strangers who looked nothing like anyone else he had ever seen or met. But somehow he knew that they were going to love him and take care of him. . . and indeed they have. And I feel profoundly blessed and humbled that Henry was willing to go off with his Uncle Greg, whom he scarcely remembered (if at all) and give him a chance.
And here’s where it gets good. Friday morning, a very close friend of Steve and Scott’s came by to pick up Henry in order to bring him downtown to watch the Blue Angels’ performance from start to finish. Henry was excited but tired, so he asked me if I would please carry him from the front door of the house to the street below where Mary Ellen would pick him up. That’s 49 steps. . . and that’s not a misprint, either. . . 49 steps from the front door of their beautiful hilltop home to the street below. I’m not sure what made Henry think that I would have both the strength and the coordination to pull off such a feat, but he nestled into my arms with full trust- and thanks in no small part to the continuous prayer I whispered all the way down, we made it safe and sound. That slow, arduous journey down those stairs was such a sweet experience for me. . . topped a few moments later when I got back to the house just in time to answer the phone. It was Mary Ellen, calling on her cell phone, to say (quietly) that as she drove off with Henry, she asked him how he was doing and he replied “I’m really glad my Uncle Greg could come out here.” She wanted me to know that Henry had said that- which warmed me from my heart down to my aching calf muscles. And when Henry and I had a lo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ong final goodbye hug Friday night, I knew then and there that I have to make sure that Kathy and I see more of this great little guy, whether he lives in Seattle, Sacramento, or in the heart of the Swiss Alps.
pictured above: Henry playing with some of his Blue Angels jets. I especially loved it when he would take three or even four of them into his hands and make them “fly” through the air in perfect formation, reminiscent of what they do in the sky in their performances.