My Uncle Henry died last week. It was unexpected. When I got the call from his daughter, I was in shock. It is not the call I expected anytime soon. I guess we never are really prepared, no matter the circumstances. I guess I never truly realized that other family members are also getting older as we are getting older.
I did manage to spend some time with him on my last visit home. We haven't been able to go home quite as often as I'd like, but I am hoping that will change soon.
Having a chronic illness makes traveling challenging. Having a chronic illness makes life challenging.
I can still recall many conversations with Uncle Henry. I cherish them all, especially one of the last that I had.
"I don't like taking pictures, enuh, Gina." I told him that I needed memories. "There will come a day when all we have is memories," Uncle Henry said, and he laughed as he added, "if we can remember."
I can still remember the trips to the movie theater that he started, which later became an apartment complex. So many memories packed into what seems like very short years. I wish I could have seen him to say goodbye, but in the long run do I really need to see him lying in that cold box, or can I cherish the conversations that I had with him and remember him still walking around or lying in the hammock on the back porch?
Cayman will not be the same without Uncle Henry. My home country has lost another icon.
I can imagine what the funeral was like. I imagine all his family members filling the church. It's a large family and I am sure they all turned up in their Sunday best or special outfit bought specially for the occasion.
I know he was in his 80s and that should make it easier, but does it? He died peacefully in his sleep, apparently ready to go. He lived well, and died when he was ready, it seemed. He died well in a home that he built with his loving wife, Mary, where they raised a family.
He will be buried well, surrounded by loving family and I won’t be there.
I am not with those who are mourning. I’m not with those who gather around food and photos and memories. I’m the absent family member...the one who should be there. I’m not with ‘my people’ to close the door on that life and to look into the faces that have his nose and his chin and to say, “I love you. I’m glad you are my family."
Death sucks and being far, far away from the people I love who are in mourning double sucks.
And the guilt is overwhelming.
I am burdened by the simple fact that I was not there.
I know that I’m not alone. So many people in the chronic illness community feel guilt over all the things we can’t do – guilt because we have to say no to doing things with our kids, our families, our friends. Things we used to be able to do, things we want to do. But our illness – the pain, and the fatigue – means we can’t.
Honestly, though, that knowledge doesn’t make the guilt go away. When you hear the disappointment in your loved one’s voice as they say they understand, do they really understand?
Well, I believe in eternity ad Heaven, and I believe that one day I will see Uncle Henry again in all his glory, and although tonight I feel the sting of guilt and regret of not making it to say good-bye, I hope he died knowing that I always loved him and treasure the memories and the conversations we shared.
Rest In Peace, Uncle Henry!
Thanks for the conversations, and your wisdom.
My condolences to Aunt Mary, my cousins Patty, Elaine, Gwenda, Marisa, Ian, host of his grandchildren and extended family.
