My uncle died yesterday. Well, I found out yesterday, but chances are, he died Wednesday night. Alone, in an apartment from which he hadn’t yet been evicted, but would have been soon.
There are many facets to my grief today- that my grandmother has lived to see two of her three sons die- that my father is now an only child, after being the oldest of three- that there are three daughters out there now without a father. On a selfish note, that my “favorite” uncle died- the one who always cracked inappropriate jokes at family dinners, pissed off both my dad’s wives (with great precision, I might add), gave me the White Album when I was too young to understand the lyrics and let me hang out in his office after school when it was important to me to hang out with a cool adult.
I’m afraid, because I saw us as similar- made from the same mold, struggling with similar issues, and he died alone, clutching his blanket as though in pain, frozen there for 24 hours before someone noticed. His own daughter blew off making funeral plans to sleep in.
I’m angry, because over the past year, I had started suspecting I was more of a pawn in my father and his ongoing sibling issues than a much loved niece. I’m furious because he took dangerous chances both with his own children and while my sister was a big part of his life.
The last time I saw him, he brought his youngest daughter to Carter’s birthday party. I appreciated his courage, as I’m sure it was an uncomfortable situation for him, but he did it because despite all of his shortcomings, I think he loved the children in our family- his, mine, me and my sister when we were children. I think he wanted our children to have a sense of connection and family- to not be alone.
I’ll complete this sometime down the line, maybe after the services, maybe years from now. I’m about to go sit on the couch with Kevin and take comfort in not being alone.
