Uncle Hughie

Combat flashbacks, a stylish French girlfriend, and hot jazz were all part of living with my uncle.

So often when you hear from me, it’s someone else’s news, someone else’s story, and I’m just there as a vessel to bring it to you. Or as a mama bird to chew it up into more digestible pieces and then… feed it to you? That’s gross. Let’s walk that back.

EITHER WAY, today I’m going to drop some V Spehar lore. My high school years: living at home with my mom, a hospice nurse, who ended up taking in her elderly uncle with dementia to live with us. It was a job that was supposed to only last a few weeks, months at best—and somehow went on for almost a decade. She was maybe too good at nursing, and her methods, while unconventional, were iconic.

To be clear, no one, not even my mom, had experience with dementia care. But we did have experience with magic and whimsy. Instead of fighting the situation, we leaned into it. Our 80-year-old Uncle Hughie thought he was in his mid-30s? GREAT! Let him. We took down all the mirrors on the first floor of the house, where his room was, so he wouldn’t get confused seeing the reflection of an old man where he thought a young man should be.

Flashbacks to his time in the Navy working as a mailman? No problem! My siblings and I were now his little mail clerks, filing envelopes and sorting love letters for the boys. Flashing back to college years? Fantastic! We’re all on the Cornell soccer team now, practising drills in the yard. Anything was possible.

Because Uncle Hughie had invested wisely, he had cash available to keep the adventures coming. He had a very extravagant French girlfriend named Vazzy, who lived in a well-appointed artist loft on Second Avenue in New York. We took the train in from Connecticut to see her frequently, and he could take her on little dates. He loved Broadway shows, so we’d all go together. One time we went to see Swing! and—you guessed it—the flashbacks began again and we were all back in the 1940s at a big band show. He enjoyed the 2 p.m. show so much that he walked out to the box office and got us all tickets to the 8 p.m. show. Our seats were much closer to the stage that time.

He and his wife never had children, and some part of him knew that he didn’t have children. But each day when he woke up to three kids running around in the house, he allowed himself to be surprised and believe that he did have kids, telling us how grateful he was we were there, how much he wanted us, and how sorry he was for not remembering he didn’t have kids because clearly he did—here we were!

We used to play little pranks on him. One Halloween, my friend Tom (an Italian guy who started shaving in sixth grade and quite often kept a five o’clock shadow) dressed as Mary Katherine Gallagher and came over to pick me up to go out to a party. I was dressed as a Spartan Cheerleader, and we told Uncle Hughie that my friend Mary Katherine was here. He politely spoke with “Mary” for a while, but after we left for the party he told my mom how sweet I was to be so nice to such an ugly girl. What a good friend, being so kind to that unfortunate, homely looking girl!

It wasn’t all easy. We had bad days too. Sometimes the flashbacks weren’t about sorting mail; they were about combat, manning battle stations, and being extremely scared. In one such case, my nine-year-old brother got stuck “hiding in a bunker” being perfectly quiet with Uncle Hugh for several hours before being “liberated” by my mom. Other times, he would be extremely aggravated by the rules that kept us all safe in the house, become destructive, and cry out of confusion and frustration. It was tough on everyone. Sharing space with someone who has significant medical needs can also make it feel like your youth is being sidelined. Can’t have people over and be loud at night because Hughie is sleeping. Can’t really go away on vacations because what will we do with Hughie? In some ways it was like he was the child. My mom navigated this incredibly well, finding many ways for us to maintain our nuclear family of five and have private moments outside the care she provided to Hughie, without making him feel left out.

When Uncle Hughie passed away I was in college, and it felt more like the death of a cousin or peer than an elderly family member. It was an unusual feeling to unpack, knowing he was about 90 when he died, but for all those years he was “one of us.” One of the kids. I mean, my mom had to care for him in a very similar way to how she cared for us. He relied on her for everything: making his lunch, making his doctor appointments, taking him shopping for clothes, planning his birthday parties, and even hearing about his broken heart over the loss of friends. He got sent outside to “get some fresh air” the same way we got told to go outside and play. He even got grounded sometimes.

I’ve never publicly talked about this experience growing up with Hughie and all the opportunities having him in our life afforded me. He loved coming to see my plays, and he’d sit for hours listening while I practised singing, or practised a monologue. He’d come to our high school football games and watch me cheer. He paid for my braces… twice. I loved his fancy girlfriend from NYC. They met after his wife had died, and I loved her and all the cute little old-people adventures they went on well before, and during, his time living with us. I loved knowing that he got to have the experience of having kids, something he wanted so badly but biologically didn’t get a chance at. I appreciate deeply the sacrifices my parents made to extend his life, enriching ours in the process. I appreciate most that my parents’ love for each other didn’t fade, though they were navigating the incredibly difficult experience of caring for someone with dementia, alongside raising three kids.

I’ve never really asked them what they thought about caring for Hughie. It’s so funny how we never really ask our parents about their feelings. Instead, we understand our own life based on if our parents did or did not serve as an ideal part of our life experiences. Isn’t that wild? I’m a professional question-asker and I’m just realising now that I’ve never really asked my mom how she felt. How did she balance being a mother, wife and caregiver? Does she regret anything about it? Would she do anything differently knowing what she knows now? I’ve got a phone call to make.

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V Spehar is an award winning digital journalist, TikTok personality and podcaster. Spehar launched UnderTheDeskNews with the aim to make news media less intimidating and easier to understand.