When
my mother had a stroke, I was 9,000 miles away. I was living in
Sydney and rushed home to Saint. Louis, after saying a tearful
and unexpected goodbye to friends I didn't plan to leave for another
month, when my job transfer was to end. I went back in time by
crossing the International Date Line, but couldn't get back far
enough.
My father picked me up at the airport and took me to the hospital,
where I saw my mom in a coma. Wearily, we headed home that night,
only to find an answering-machine message from a Holy Cross priest
at Notre Dame whom we didn't know. I knew before my dad returned
the call that this would be more bad news - about my uncle, Father
George Wiskirchen. "Is this my life or the Book of Job?" I wondered,
as we found out my uncle had also suffered a stroke - only three
days after my mom's.
My mom passed away a few days later, and two Holy Cross priests,
friends of my uncle, came to attend the funeral Mass in his place.
Their presence comforted us. Later, my dad and I visited my uncle.
The stroke had left him paralyzed on the right side of his body
and unable to speak. It was unclear if he would make it or not,
but he proved stubborn. He recovered enough to be moved to Holy
Cross House, where he'd spend the next four years. He wouldn't
teach again or direct the marching band, but each autumn the band
would visit and serenade him.
When I was a kid, I wasn't sure how to address my uncle. He
was my uncle, but he was also a priest, and I knew that came with
a title. So I called him "Uncle Father." (That's Uncle Father
and a younger me in the picture at right.) He was intimidating
yet funny, and I looked forward to his visits. He would tease
my mother - asking for ketchup after she served him a porterhouse
steak. He addressed me as "Kid" and would tell me tall tales,
like about the flea circus he had seen as a boy. I would watch
him work on music or read his prayer book and would tell my friends
that priests weren't stuffy - they smoked, ate decadent meals
and liked jazz. Gradually, he was forced to give up those things,
except for the jazz. Arthritis, diabetes and a heart condition
took their toll on him physically, yet he never complained.
On campus, my uncle was an iconic presence - the kind of teacher
who scares you but whose fearsomeness motivates you. I was a little
scared of him myself - too scared, in fact, to sign up for his
"Current Jazz" elective, fearing I'd be singled out for teasing.
At the same time, he was a comfort. When I arrived at Lyons Hall,
a shy only child and veteran of a sheltered all-girls high school,
he was the only person on campus whom I knew. Just about every
week I'd get a call from him: "Hey, Kid, want to grab some dinner?"
I was grateful for the break from the dining hall and for the
family connection.
My time at Notre Dame wasn't the best four years of my life.
While I learned a lot from my professors and made some amazing
friends, I never felt that I fit in, lacking the conservative
mindset and trust fund of many of my peers. Freshman year was
especially difficult, as my friends in Lyons and I grappled with
a mentally ill friend, with little support from our dorm leadership.
Although my uncle and I both suffered from a German reserve and
were usually guarded in our conversations, his presence and advice
were a great support. He encouraged me to pursue writing and even
gave me an occasional compliment when I showed him stories.
Seeing him after the stroke was difficult. He had lost the ability
to unleash his razor wit. Gradually, some speech returned, but
he often had trouble coming up with the words when he had a thought.
I visited about once a year, on a football weekend, usually with
my dad in tow. My bedside manner is lacking, and my mother's long
struggle with cancer (she had been in remission for a year when
she suffered the stroke) made me dread going into hospitals and
nursing homes. But Uncle Father was happy just to see me. He was
more positive than ever before, despite the chronic pain, paralysis,
and a life that seemed to me to consist mostly of naps, rosaries
and Law & Order reruns. "Maybe there is something
to this faith stuff," my dad, a faithful Catholic, joked. Maybe
there is, I began to think, although after leaving Notre Dame
I had fallen away.
I planned to see my uncle again on Memorial Day weekend, when
he would have celebrated his 50th anniversary of ordination. Unfortunately,
he died about 10 days before this occasion, because of some complications
from a recent operation. When my dad called to break the news,
I cried, although some part of me was relieved for him as I knew
he'd been suffering. I flew to Saint Louis, and my dad and I made
the same drive up Highway 55 to Interstate 80 to South Bend that
we'd made many times before, not talking much, contemplating the
cornfields, truck stops and Our Lady of the Highways.
We were offered rooms at Holy Cross House, which is more a nurturing
home than a nursing home. Upon arrival, we were greeted by my
uncle's good friend, Father David Porterfield, who had attended
my mom's funeral. I found boxes of my uncle's belongings in my
room, and I flipped through Christmas photo cards from former
students and read articles about my uncle's appearance at the
Kennedy Center inaugural concert. He was leading the Melodons,
the jazz band at Notre Dame High School, at the time, and they
were the only high school band invited to play. They had the dubious
task of following Count Basie, but The New York Times
declared they actually upstaged Basie: "More than the other three
bands, this high school jazz band showed an awareness of what
has been done in jazz, what is being done and what may be done"
(The New York Times, John S. Wilson, Sept. 26, 1971).
This was the first I had heard of this event, as my uncle never
boasted of his accomplishments or name-dropped musicians he knew.
The next day, they brought my uncle's body back to Holy Cross
House and held a service in the chapel. Father Dave presided and
gave a moving homily that touched on some of the humorous aspects
of my uncle, such as the yarns he would spin (he once convinced
some students that he was one of the soldiers who raised the flag
on Iwo Jima). That night my uncle was moved to Moreau Seminary,
and we attended another prayer service there. We saw some familiar
faces - folks who had worked with my uncle and former students.
Before Monday's afternoon funeral, my dad and I went to Lunker's,
a fishing and hunting emporium in Edwardsburg, Michigan, that
my uncle had enjoyed. As I stared at a giant fish head exploding
out of the wall, I recalled that my uncle and I shared a love
of tackiness. He collected garish souvenir velveteen pillow covers,
while I collect snow globes. I've organized road trips around
large, kitschy roadside attractions, and it seemed oddly coincidental
that Our Lady of the New Millennium, a 33-foot-tall silver statue
of the Virgin, had made a tour stop at Notre Dame that weekend.
We stopped for a photo on the way back, and I smiled, wondering
if the statue was a gleaming message from my uncle. I took a walk
around a mostly deserted campus - graduation had been the previous
weekend, summer programs hadn't begun. I had never seen the place
so still. I walked around the lakes and smiled at the baby ducks,
as their mothers eyed me warily. Death had brought me back to
Notre Dame, yet the campus was brimming with new life.
The funeral in Sacred Heart reminded me of the Pope's recent
funeral, on a much smaller scale of course but with no less elegance
or gravitas. I couldn't count all the priests on the altar. Father
Hesburgh's and Father Malloy's presence reminded me of how thrilled
my mom had been when my uncle had introduced her to Father Hesburgh
at a bowl game. A group of former band members played hymns. There
was incense, chanting in Latin - the trappings that make the Mass
so powerful. Attending the funeral made me long for a deeper faith.
Whether or not I'll work toward it remains to be seen. I saw the
impact my uncle had on his students, colleagues and fellow priests
- and I appreciated for the first time that a religious life could
be a truly full life, with much love from a supportive community.
The funeral's closing hymn was the Alma Mater, and as I sang
the words I still knew by heart, I felt more love for Notre Dame
than before. I saw the university through my uncle's eyes. He
had given me the gift of a Notre Dame education, through a Holy
Cross grant, and his funeral - more a celebration of his life,
than an occasion for mourning - was another gift.
Julie Wiskirchen lives in Los Angeles. She co-authored St. Lou
Haiku (Timberline Press, 2004) and is the co-editor of an online
humor magazine, Ape Culture, at http://www.apeculture.com.
(July 2005)
