THE RECLUSE

My neighbor died yesterday. He was 90. The man I had only known by reputation and from seeing him on his front porch across the street and one house over, was a beloved uncle who had been a talented jazz musician traveling the world, playing with the greats. By the time I became his neighbor, his health was declining, and he was living almost as a recluse. The only people I ever saw at his house for a long time were not welcome visitors to our street.

For a while, a healthcare worker would visit every morning. The LifeNet ambulance became a more and more frequent presence. Still, I stayed away. I noted that his main caregiver seemed quite loyal, and the thought fleeted through my mind that maybe he was not as bad a character as I thought.

Last week LifeNet was there at least three times, and the last time he was carried away. I heard one of the healthcare professionals tell another neighbor that he was being placed in state custody. I felt a combination of relief and sadness. It was obvious that his health was deteriorating; I was relieved he was probably being taken to the hospital and then to a nursing home, but sad for him because that he knew he would probably never be in his home again. The next day, though, a car was sitting in the street in front of his house. When I pulled into my driveway, they got out and introduced themselves. They were the niece and her husband who had flown in from New York.

The Backstory

That’s when I learned his backstory. We all have one. The older we get, the more interesting it is. If I had only known. His behavior that was so reviled on our street was a side effect of the cocktail of drugs he had been prescribed (surely by more than one doctor who did not have full information regarding other medications). He was a veteran of World War II. He was from New York. He moved here from Los Angeles. He had a family; he was loved. But somewhere along life’s twists and turns, he took a path that led him to my little city, to my street, and to disquieting demons.

A Good Few Hours

Bernie – that is (not was) his name – got to come home one last time. It was for less than 24 hours, but it was a good few hours. He was with his beloved niece and her husband, and his Kitty Kitty. He died in the hospital, and he died at peace. His niece and her husband kept me informed through his last week. They are good people. He was good people. If I had only known.

Regrets

What nags my consciousness is that I did not need to know. I did not need to know his story to be a good neighbor. To be a better child of the universe.

Share your voice with me. What strategies have you found helpful for cultivating more compassion, even in the face of offensive behavior?

Word to live by…