A Life Well Lived
Wayne B. “Dutch” Brady ~ ~ November 7 1933–November 5, 2016
“A life well lived,” the priest repeated. New to the parish, he didn’t really know my uncle. He couldn’t have known how true his words were as he paired “a life well lived” with “the importance of family” to my Uncle Wayne.
When I spoke with Terri, Uncle Wayne’s and Aunt Rosie’s youngest daughter, I asked her to tell me about his death. He had fallen, had a bleed in his brain, his kidneys were failing, and he had been in the hospital, in ICU, for a couple of days. On the day before he died, he was stepped down from ICU and his vitals were improving.
At one in the morning on the day he died, Terri was awakened by a call from his nurse. He was agitated and they couldn’t calm him down. He was calling for Terri. The nurse asked if she would come.
When Terri and her husband arrived about an hour later, she had a meaning conversation with him that she told me she would treasure forever. During the visitation held on Wednesday, November 9, I heard more about that conversation from Aunt Rosie and Terri.
Uncle Wayne told Terri to write down everything he was about to tell her. He had his financial affairs in order and told Terri where she would find what she needed to take care of her mother after his death. Uncle Wayne’s hobby had been woodworking. He told Terri to write down the names of each person and the gift of his tools they were to receive. Once he had accomplished that, he relaxed and declared, “I’m going to die today.” By 2:25 that afternoon, he was gone.
During his funeral on Thursday, one of Uncle Wayne’s granddaughters sang with tears in her eyes. Her strong, rich, melodic voice led us in singing the most uplifting of hymns. Later she told me she had chosen all the music for his service. I’m sure Uncle Wayne was beaming his pride from the other side.
At the luncheon following his funeral, I was invited to sit with the family. In my mind’s eye, my cousins were still teenagers — my last significant contact with them. Now they are parents and grandparents. I marveled at the family these two produced.
April 16, 1955
From these two came four.
Tim, Ted, Tammy, and Terri
From those four came twelve.
Grandchildren, the center of Uncle Wayne’s and Aunt Rosie’s lives.
And from those twelve have come nine.
Great grandchildren who may never know the importance of their great grandfather’s intention for his life.
But they will benefit from it.
Around the table, I observed my uncle’s children relating to their nieces and nephews and grandchildren with such fondness and care. I watched Ted’s daughters wrap their arms around their father with obvious affection. He beamed devotion as he returned their endearments.
I couldn’t help but notice the contrast with the family gatherings of my youth after my parents, brother, and I moved to my mother’s hometown, New Bremen, Ohio. My mother and her three sisters talked loud and bickered with each other, jangling my nerves. Uncle Wayne, only nine years older than I and like a big brother to me, tried to lighten things up with ornery antics. At ten years old, I came to see their behavior as the scars they bore as a result of growing up with a violent alcoholic father. I didn’t know my grandfather because my grandmother divorced him when my mother was pregnant with me.
In my forties, I read about patterns of behavior members of alcoholic family’s adopt in order to survive. To my surprise, I found myself in those patterns that get passed down from generation to generation, even when the active alcoholism or addiction is not present. I recognized in myself the hero child/lost child patterns.
I thought my family would enthusiastically support my archeological dig into family history. As astute as I had been at ten about the source of their scars, I had no appreciation for the depth of the pain just below the surface of their merry-making, fun-loving personas that often grew contentious. At first, my mother tried to answer my questions, but one day she said, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” With that she closed the door.
I only asked Uncle Wayne once to tell me about his father, someone I could only remember seeing once when I was eight. He told me he had no use for his father. “He never helped, Mom. He never supported his family.” Seeing his pain, I never asked again.
After hearing Terri tell me the nature of her meaningful conversation with her dad, the import of his agitation became clear to me. He could not relax until he knew Aunt Rosie, who has health problems of her own, would be cared for. To the end, he was determined not to be like his father. He would take care of his family. Once he had given Terri all the information she needed to take over for him, he was ready to leave behind his pain-ridden body and move on for his next adventure.
A life well lived. May he rest in peace knowing he accomplished his intention. He loved and took care of his family well. And with that, he broke the chain of generations of family wounding and pain.
“Good job, Uncle Wayne. You got it right.”
