Coping Lessons From My Uncle Howie

Dementia stole his words, but not his humanity.

My Uncle Howie at his Lake Ontario cabin in 2022.

During the last summer of my Uncle Howie’s life, the two of us were at his local supermarket when he asked me, “Where do they keep the wooden things that you put in your ears?”

Uncle Howie was in the early stages of dementia, and he was losing words. Earlier, when I was eating cereal he said, “Do you want the white stuff that you sprinkle on top?” The bank was “the place run by the government where they keep all the money.” When discussing his earlier travels, he said “that place, way down there,” which with some questioning proved to be Florida.

At the supermarket, a quick text to my cousins solved the mystery: Q-Tips.

We proceeded to the deli section. In his crisp pinstripe shirt and khakis, Uncle Howie sidled up to the butcher counter and addressed two aproned young men. “We’re looking for a steak, but we don’t know very much,” he said. The young men gently gave their consult on T-bones versus ribeyes.

At the checkout line, the teenage cashier scanned our frozen breaded shrimp and bagged salads. Howie looked at the boy gravely. “You’re doing a wonderful job,” he said.

This was not the dementia talking. This was Howie. He always treated everyone he met with kindness and respect, and they returned the favor. At the dollar store, he bonded with the white-haired, yellow-smocked ladies unpacking boxes; they put down their price guns and gamely helped him with his list—nail clippers, gardening gloves, a baseball cap. These women, who were past retirement age and no doubt had very difficult lives, deserve the credit for their gracious service to an elderly gent in preppy attire. But I also think Howie brought out something extra in people. The world was a friendlier place when you were with Howie.

At the liquor store, Howie bought a case of his favorite wine, hefty magnums of Woodbridge Merlot. I reached for the box.

“You’re not carrying that!” he said.

“Well, you're not,” I said.

“I’ll carry it,” said the young woman behind the counter.

I looked at Howie. “She’s a professional,” I said.

Howie nodded. I had him there.

Howie lost his ability to summon words like “sugar” and “Florida,” but he retained something far more important. He never lost his ability to see people. The clerks and cashiers we met on his daily errands were not anonymous servers—they were experts, and they deserved his deference. Not because he was frail and a little fuzzy, but because they were working hard and they knew things—about the best cut of meat, the location of the gardening tools, the proper placement of canned goods in a grocery bag.

We drove from store to store, and every time I made a left-hand turn, he’d say "You got it!" Each evening, he’d tell me what a wonderful dinner I’d prepared, even though it usually was just the supermarket bagged salad and breaded seafood. His praise never sounded condescending; he just appreciated the effort.

This post is based on a speech I gave at Howie’s memorial in 2023, and I spent Monday and Tuesday trying to cull a larger statement about The State of the World from these remembrances. I had important points to make about self-checkout, contactless delivery and customer-service chatbots. But you already know what I was going to say about all that.

Just after sunrise today, I walked my dog, Polly. The runners and other dog walkers wished each other good morning. It’s what we do every morning, but today there was an extra gentleness in my neighbors’ voices, and I was grateful for it.

I don’t have any deep insights about How Things Are today, so I’ll just leave my Howie stories here. Howie couldn’t control what was happening to his mind, and this distressed him greatly. But even though he forgot words, he never forgot how to treat people.

There’s a lot that we can’t control, and there’s a lot that can be taken from us. But today I’m hoping that if I follow my uncle’s example I can at least ensure that I retain my humanity and maintain control over how I treat others.

It might not be as easy for me as it was for Howie. Last Sunday, I was walking out of a yoga class when a fleet of monster trucks with Trump flags roared by. My middle finger flew into the air before I knew what I was doing—namaste.

So I’ll take it day to day. I’ll smile to my neighbors. I’ll thank the cashier. I’ll tell the harried shopper, “That’s OK. You go first.”

After dinner each night, Howie and I would drink cheap wine on the screened-in porch of his Lake Ontario cabin. Howie would talk about his life, his family, and his worries about what was happening to the planet. Then, as the sun approached the watery horizon, he’d bask in its hazy golden light, watching the sunset as if it were his first.

I’ll try to do that, too.

Who is your role model for getting through these times?