Oh, hi. I mean, Hiiiiiii. It's been a few weeks. Well, technically,it's been since last Monday, but it's been a few weeks since I wrote anything substantial or not photography or whatever. It's the same old nonsense: I'm busy. It's a boring, uneventful busy, the kind where I feel like I'm not even really enjoying myself because it all feels like an obligation.
I'm also having issues writing. I used to be able to just pour it all out on this blog, but now I'm struggling with it; I don't feel particularly funny or interesting. Perhaps I need to be drinking more, or something.
Last week, my Uncle Butch passed away. I had visited him on Sunday because word was that he wasn't doing so well, but when I stopped by he was sitting up and chowing down on ice cream. He was cracking jokes, waving to nurses and friends, and attentive. His color was good and his appetite was robust. The only thing wrong was that he couldn't breathe.
Uncle Butch smoked for decades. Emphysema grew into COPD (Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease). He was on oxygen for I don't know how long. And even being on the oxygen, didn't stop smoking until about three or four months ago. Not to sound preachy or anything, but seriously: If you're reading this and you smoke, quit. Please. I am begging you. They're fucking brutal. I can't tell you anything more heart breaking than being with my Uncle Butch and watching him struggle to catch his breath.
And I mean it. He couldn't catch his breath. He would sit there and try so hard to just do this one basic thing, one simple-life giving activity that you and I unconsciously do roughly 26,000 times a day. And he would really struggle. I wanted to breathe for him, it hurt so much to watch.
Given how chipper he seemed on Sunday, I was shocked to get the phone call Monday afternoon — just as I was getting ready to visit him again — telling me that he had passed away. It seemed so unreal.
On the one hand, there are all the platitudes about how he's not suffering any more, he's back with his wife, my Aunt Mary R, whom he missed terribly, etc. Which I believe, of course. But then there's the selfish side that wants to keep him. And the tortured side, because I didn't visit him often enough and didn't keep in touch like I should have.
In the homily at the funeral, my cousin Kevin touched upon something that is very true: Aunt Mary R and Uncle Butch were unfailingly generous in their hospitality. In Lebanon, their house was the hub. It was where we all gathered and hung out. It was the place to be. I learned to swim in their pool. I spent long hours of rainy days sprawled on their basement floor playing board games. My aunts and uncles gathered there for pinochle tournaments. When my mother went into labor with me, it's where my brother stayed and everyone gathered to wait for my arrival. We played volleyball and badminton in their back yard. Michael Seeger and I would go leaping from their porch or climb their willow tree playing daredevils. There's a gorgeous photograph of Michael and I with our grandmother standing in the sunset along their property line. It seems like we were always there.
At the funeral there was a slide show of photographs. One photo popped up that slayed me: Uncle Butch holding me as a baby and dancing. Uncle Butch loved to dance and sing. I had no idea that picture even existed; I'd never seen it before.
Uncle Butch was the last of my grandmother's generation. I am so lucky and blessed to have known such a great bunch of people, much less to be related to them. So few people get to know their great aunts and uncles the way that I did, to grow up near them and spend so much time with them. Losing Uncle Butch was like losing each one of them all over again.
So many photos in that slide show were of them all, laughing, celebrating, enjoying each other. As each one of them has passed away, relationships have become harder to maintain. Cousins moved further away, visits and parties became less frequent, we all somehow got busier. They were all truly the glue that kept our big crazy family together. We're more spread out than ever.
I miss them all so, so much. Sometimes when we do have family gatherings, as new age-y and corny as it sounds, I can almost feel them with us. Like they're hovering just at the edge, right over my shoulder. And if I turn around fast enough, I just might catch a glimpse of them.
I'm also having issues writing. I used to be able to just pour it all out on this blog, but now I'm struggling with it; I don't feel particularly funny or interesting. Perhaps I need to be drinking more, or something.
***
Last week, my Uncle Butch passed away. I had visited him on Sunday because word was that he wasn't doing so well, but when I stopped by he was sitting up and chowing down on ice cream. He was cracking jokes, waving to nurses and friends, and attentive. His color was good and his appetite was robust. The only thing wrong was that he couldn't breathe.
Uncle Butch smoked for decades. Emphysema grew into COPD (Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease). He was on oxygen for I don't know how long. And even being on the oxygen, didn't stop smoking until about three or four months ago. Not to sound preachy or anything, but seriously: If you're reading this and you smoke, quit. Please. I am begging you. They're fucking brutal. I can't tell you anything more heart breaking than being with my Uncle Butch and watching him struggle to catch his breath.
And I mean it. He couldn't catch his breath. He would sit there and try so hard to just do this one basic thing, one simple-life giving activity that you and I unconsciously do roughly 26,000 times a day. And he would really struggle. I wanted to breathe for him, it hurt so much to watch.
Given how chipper he seemed on Sunday, I was shocked to get the phone call Monday afternoon — just as I was getting ready to visit him again — telling me that he had passed away. It seemed so unreal.
On the one hand, there are all the platitudes about how he's not suffering any more, he's back with his wife, my Aunt Mary R, whom he missed terribly, etc. Which I believe, of course. But then there's the selfish side that wants to keep him. And the tortured side, because I didn't visit him often enough and didn't keep in touch like I should have.
In the homily at the funeral, my cousin Kevin touched upon something that is very true: Aunt Mary R and Uncle Butch were unfailingly generous in their hospitality. In Lebanon, their house was the hub. It was where we all gathered and hung out. It was the place to be. I learned to swim in their pool. I spent long hours of rainy days sprawled on their basement floor playing board games. My aunts and uncles gathered there for pinochle tournaments. When my mother went into labor with me, it's where my brother stayed and everyone gathered to wait for my arrival. We played volleyball and badminton in their back yard. Michael Seeger and I would go leaping from their porch or climb their willow tree playing daredevils. There's a gorgeous photograph of Michael and I with our grandmother standing in the sunset along their property line. It seems like we were always there.
At the funeral there was a slide show of photographs. One photo popped up that slayed me: Uncle Butch holding me as a baby and dancing. Uncle Butch loved to dance and sing. I had no idea that picture even existed; I'd never seen it before.
Uncle Butch was the last of my grandmother's generation. I am so lucky and blessed to have known such a great bunch of people, much less to be related to them. So few people get to know their great aunts and uncles the way that I did, to grow up near them and spend so much time with them. Losing Uncle Butch was like losing each one of them all over again.
So many photos in that slide show were of them all, laughing, celebrating, enjoying each other. As each one of them has passed away, relationships have become harder to maintain. Cousins moved further away, visits and parties became less frequent, we all somehow got busier. They were all truly the glue that kept our big crazy family together. We're more spread out than ever.
I miss them all so, so much. Sometimes when we do have family gatherings, as new age-y and corny as it sounds, I can almost feel them with us. Like they're hovering just at the edge, right over my shoulder. And if I turn around fast enough, I just might catch a glimpse of them.
Labels: Appreciation, Family Matters
1 Comments:
My mom has COPD and has since I was in college. It's really started hitting her badly in the last six months or so. Her doctor thinks she'll need to be on oxygen within the next year. This all pretty much scares the shit out of me.
I'm sorry for your loss. I've started experiencing that same sort of separation with my own extended family, and it's hard to accept. I'll stop here before I go tumbling into cliches.
Post a Comment
<< Home