lost
so, my uncle died on saturday morning.
he was my mother’s older brother, in his 70s, and had been in failing health for a while – with a recent, rather rapid decline – so news of his death didn’t really come as a shock to anyone. it wasn’t a matter of “if,” it was “when.”
we weren't close, and we had little interaction with him. my memories of him are random and fractional. we saw him more often as kids, when my sister and i would spend time with our cousins (his daughters), but those days ended long, long ago and, even then, our visits were maybe a couple of times a year. i think the last time i saw him was six years ago at my grandmother’s funeral, where he was thin and frail and looking much older than his years.
but this isn’t an entry about my uncle or his death. at least, not directly. it’s about what someone can take with them when they die. yes, we’ve all seen Ghost and know that you take love with you and all that... but, in my uncle’s case, he’s taking something more.
earlier today, i was talking with my mom on the phone. when i heard of my uncle’s death, i initially worried that she would take it very hard, since he was the last living member of her immediate family. but, surprisingly, she seems to be dealing with everything remarkably well. i think perhaps she knew his time was coming to an end, and had reconciled herself to the fact that he’d be much better off moving on than sticking around. she actually said to me, “i know he’s happier in heaven with (his late wife) and (his late daughter).”
but today, as we were chatting and going over the plans for a post-funeral reception, which will be held at my parents’ home and will no doubt involve my father behaving like an asshat at some point, she said something that i hadn’t ever considered.
between the discussion of chopping vegetables and picking up cold cuts and where we'd put kyle while guests were over so that he doesn't dart out the door or snack on the food, she said, “my childhood is gone.”
when i asked what she meant, she said that, with the death of her brother, she’s lost the only person left alive who knew her as a child.
and i found that profoundly sad.
7 comments:
Wow. That's powerful.
I think she should start taping herself and spill her childhood memories. Create her own "oral history." That way, her childhood is never gone. And generations from now, some little person will be thrilled to get the tapes and listen to them. I know I wish I had memories of my grandparents and great grandparents.
well, your great-grandmother especially. yes, i read your tales of sparky. (i had to go back to your blog to find her name just now, though, because i kept wanting to call her "scrappy," which i'm sure she was. but that wasn't her name.)
my mom's actually started doing something like that by assembling her family tree. she's been doing it for a couple of years, gathering photos and tracking down family history from assorted relatives across the globe.
the oral-history idea is an interesting one. not sure she'd go for that kind of thing, though. i may have to just get her to tell me the stories and i'll write 'em down. :-)
You know, that last part is a wonderful idea. Putting together, all her memories, would be such a touching gift.
No?
Saving the memories of a family might be meaningful for your mom, but it is a wonderful gift to YOURSELF, too.
I am sorry for this loss.
(((((*vickie*)))))
thanks lou & moob.
i might actually float this idea. (nice suggestion, TWW!)
It's weird how these things always have a reverb effect and open all sorts of emotional worm cans. I am sorry for you and your family, and relate very much to your mom's sentiment. It's always a blow to realize that you can no longer access the one person who shared a part of your life. It's almost as though you've lost part of your native language - it's still inside, but there's no one else who knows how to speak it.
It is a sad statement, and also makes me think of the idea that everyone is destined to become an orphan eventually (that is, if they outlive their parents, which hopefully most people do). I think it is a major reality check for most people when they realize that they are the oldest generation in their family tree.
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