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The Rant Shack
(Wherein We Rant)
Mike Says:
(01/16/07)
P A U L M O O N
September 23, 1943 - December 31, 2006
One of the reasons that this update ended up late this time was that, unfortunately, it was not a very happy holiday in my family. We lost my Uncle Paul—my mother’s twin brother—on Christmas Eve. A few months ago, without warning, Paul had a seizure at work and collapsed and had to be rushed to the hospital. Tests there found the brain tumor. Not very long after, things went south quickly, and he had to be taken in for emergency brain surgery. I was there for that. And it was tough, not just for the expected reason, but because the pressure on his brain from the tumor was messing up his speech centers, so he was getting words oddly jumbled. He would try to say the word “tumor” and it would come out “Sabbath”, for example. It was very difficult to communicate with him, which was especially frustrating for him, because as far as his mind knew, he was saying all the words he meant to.
He came through the surgery, and they got out what they could, but ultimately, it didn’t appear it was going to be enough. But the treatment started, regardless, because you have to do everything you can. Radiation, meds, all of it. Paul began his fight. He lost much of his ability to communicate, as he couldn’t get more than a few words out a time, and they weren’t always the words he wanted. He lost more than that. He lost his hair. He lost weight. He lost a lot of bodily control. But Paul fought on. Always a stubborn guy who never understood what quitting meant, he suffered through it all and pressed on. Also not one to do what he’s told, Paul, wanting to go to church (always a spiritual man), just got up one morning and walked there himself. As I recall, that’s several miles from his home. But he went anyway, and found much peace and hope in his faith.
In September, his 63rd birthday came around. Being that he was a twin, it was my mother’s birthday as well. She came into town and ended up putting together a big family gathering at a local restaurant near his home. I went to his home that day in my new van. I’d already been out to show it to him, and being a car guy—and always a big fan of me (the feeling was mutual)—he was very excited about the whole thing. I hadn’t gotten to take him for a ride then, but on his birthday, I got to be the one to drive him to the restaurant. It was a drive that meant a lot. Firstly, because it meant a lot to him (he couldn’t talk much, as I said, but I’m told that after that day, he talked about that ride a lot). Second, because I got to talk with him. And find out something for myself that was a big relief. Due to his communication problems, people were—understandably—not too sure that he was fully understanding them. This uncertainty would sometimes make people speak to him like he was mentally impaired, or talk to others in the room as though Paul wasn’t even there, or couldn’t hear them. On this ride, and the ride back, I made extra sure to speak with him as I normally did. And through our talk, and his reactions, I found out for myself what I was pretty sure of anyway—he could understand me fine, and my uncle was still in there. That fact was both a relief and kind of heartbreaking, as I imagined what that must be like, being a prisoner in your own body like that, unable to speak what’s on your mind…a mind that was otherwise functioning just fine. But, it was a great birthday, even though the underlying sadness was there. Many of his relatives and friends were there…his children and his children…most of the people that mattered in his life. It was a special day.
We all held out hope, but things started getting worse. Seizures started coming more frequently, and the pain was getting much worse for him. He ended up back in the hospital a couple of times, but there just wasn’t much they could do. Finally, the night before Christmas Eve, he had a mass seizure and went into a coma. He was taken to the hospital, but he never woke. On Christmas Eve day, he slipped away. Peacefully. After the months of hardship and struggle and pain he went through, he deserved that peace. He was a very proud man, and I know the life that he had ended up with because of the cancer was not the one he wanted. He’d earned his rest.
The timing kept the follow-up from happening quickly, right on the holiday and all, but plans started to be made. The funeral would be the week of New Year’s. On the day of New Year’s Eve, my sister and my niece flew into town to stay with me. We spent New Year’s Eve with my cousin Melissa, Paul’s oldest daughter, and his son, Paul Jr., going through hundreds of photos at my apartment. They wanted to do a photo slideshow celebrating his life, and my sister, the PowerPoint queen, was going to put it all together and set it to music. It was a rough New Year’s, but a special one, with all of us sharing memories of the man who meant so much to all of us. Seeing all the photos helped bring those back. Monday and Tuesday more family came into town, including my folks, with everyone having a part in the planning. Tuesday was the viewing, always the hardest part of these things, up the freeway at a funeral home in Auburn, a town I lived in for a while as a child. There we all had a chance to say our good-byes. The cousins—including my cousin Melinda, Paul’s third child—met up at my place after, where we continued working on the presentation, and worked on the eulogy. And spent some more special time together. It’s sad when you realize how little you see each other, even though you live in the same town. Everyone’s lives just get so busy. It’s a shame that it has to be things like this that end up bringing us all together.
After many frustrations trying to get the presentation together—and fears it wasn’t going to be working right in time—our sleepless nights paid off, and it all came together in time for the funeral on Wednesday. I pulled into the church parking lot and was immediately stunned at the size of the crowd. Paul had worked for PG&E (our local utility company) for over thirty years, and had so many more friends than I’d ever known about. The place was packed. Tim had been out of town but made it back in time for the service, and as he’s known my family for so many years, my mother asked him to sit up front with us. Relatives I haven’t seen in some time were there. Friends and acquaintances I hadn’t seen for, in some cases, over 20 years were there. Most interestingly, the husband of my cousin on my father’s side of the family showed up. Interesting because he’d known and worked with my Uncle Paul for years, and somehow (not having been married to my cousin for too many years) never knew that I was related to Paul. He just showed with the rest of Paul’s friends and co-workers and was shocked to see me there. The service was very nice, and the PowerPoint presentation (my sister and I both held our breath) managed to work right, and was everything we’d hoped it would be. It was fitting tribute to the whole of the life of a man who had touched so many lives in his time with us. From there, the procession headed back up the freeway to the cemetery in Auburn where Paul was buried, near the grave of his first wife, Millie, the mother of his kids and an aunt that I’d always loved dearly until cancer had taken her, too, twenty years ago. Paul and I had talked about this—about his fond desire to see his wife again. And now he will. The burial led back to the hotel where my mother was staying, and to the wake, which she’d arranged in one of the meeting rooms there. Once more, the size of the crowd surprised us all, and supplies had to be restocked for the thing midway. There were tears, but mostly laughter. Many good times and memories were shared and relived, and with plenty of smiles…the same smiles that Paul always brought to all of us that were lucky enough to know him.
I have many memories of my uncle, but the strongest is probably from when I was about eight years old. My family was living on ranch at the time, and relatives had come to visit. We were all taking a walk around the property, and I’d stopped, while the family walked on, at a small pond. I was sitting at the edge of the water when I suddenly heard my Uncle Paul yelling my name. I looked up and saw him running toward me like a freight train. Confused, I looked over my other shoulder. That’s when I noticed the bull. It was just standing there, some distance from me, with its head down but its eyes right on me. It didn’t look happy. Bulls rarely do, but this one looked especially testy. Naturally, I was frozen, but Paul, with—no surprise—no thought to his own safety, came running up and grabbed me, and carried me away at a frantic run. Thankfully, the bull did not give chase.
But that memory’s always kind of summed up, for me, the kind of man he was. We live in a world of people that have to sit down and think what the right thing to do is…contemplate it, measure the pros and cons, etc. Paul never had that problem. I always liked to say that he was a man of completely involuntary integrity. Doing the right thing was simply instinct to him, as natural as breathing. He was really a man from a different time, almost seeming out of place in today’s world. He had an unmatched work ethic. He worked hard all his life, happy to have the job that let him provide for his family and never complaining about long hours or conditions. He liked working. And he liked taking care of people. You’ve heard the phrase, I’m sure, about a man who’d give you the shirt off his back. I think they came up with that phrase for him. No matter how long his workday was, Paul would always come home, grab a shower, and then be off to check in his kids (that they were grown didn’t seem to stop that), or his friends, or even his neighbors. My mother used to call him “Mother Paul”. He was a caretaker. If you needed it—or if he just THOUGHT you needed it—he would do it for you (I had to talk him out of (a couple of times since I moved back to Sacramento) coming over and removing my sliding shower door and replacing it with a curtain, as he thought that would be easier for me). He would put money in people’s pockets if they needed it, without hesitation or thought. He worked on people’s cars, worked on their homes, and never considered it a burden. The opposite, actually. He almost seemed to consider it a privilege. He just loved people. All people. From every walk of life, rich to poor, businessman to redneck. He could find the good in everyone. Even if you couldn’t find it yourself. And if you were to bring any of these traits up to him, he would probably just look at you in confusion. These things weren’t choices he made. They were who he was.
Like so many others, I will miss him. I’ll miss his laugh. I’ll miss his advice. I’ll miss our conversations that were so refreshingly void of gray areas. I’ll miss those reminders, after spending even a little time with him, that there are still men like him in the world, and with them the hope that maybe it’s still a world worth living in and fighting for. What I won’t have to miss is his example to me. I’ll always be able to carry that with me. We all need heroes. We need people in our lives that teach us what we can be, and what we should be. Paul Moon will always be my hero. I’ll remember him every time I think something’s complicated that really isn’t. Or every time I meet someone who I’m not too sure about, and need to be reminded that I’m just not looking deep enough. Or when I need to be reminded that life is a gift, and everyone in my life is a gift, and that I should treat it, and them, with the selfless gratitude and simple joy that they deserve. That every day is a miracle…if you just open your eyes and see it.
Thank you, Uncle Paul, for everything. I love you. I’ll miss you. And I look forward to talking with you again soon. Hope you don’t mind if it’s not TOO soon. But, I know you’re a patient guy.
And, yeah…Costanza was my favorite, too. Good call.
Mike
The
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