A sad day
I received an email from my aunt in Buenos Aires about my Uncle, her brother. The email said he was in the hospital getting analyses to see what’s wrong with him, but I emailed my cousin and he told me that this uncle is in the later stages of esophageal cancer. Apparently, he was diagnosed a few years ago, and underwent surgery and maybe treatment, and told only one brother and swore him to secrecy. I’m not sure why the family is like this. My mom was the same. Never wanting to worry anyone. This uncle is one of my favorites, my mom’s little brother. He is the type of fellow that never worries about anything (so much so that my other uncle, his oldest brother, would worry about him that he had a false sense of security about things and didn’t even muster a worry about himself or his future.) He would magically show up whenever my mom and I were in Argentina, no matter where we were, how far away, or whom we were visiting. There would be a rap on the door, or a ring of the bell, and it would be him, sheepishly grinning with his “aw shucks” sort of way. My mother adored him. He’s so well liked by everyone. He’d help complete strangers and neighbors as if they were members of the immediate family. I seldom say things like this, but the man is a saint. Never will you be able to find anyone who could say he ever said one bad thing, one negative thing about anyone or anything—Mr. Positivity. Mr. Optimist. Mr. “Everything will work out in the end.” My uncles and aunts would nag him about things, and he’d shrug and say that he wasn’t worried. He made his living doing whatever he could, daydreaming of the next thing before even finishing up the current thing. Maybe one day he’d decide to open up an ice creamery, then midway through the venture, he’d feel bogged down by the 9 to 5, sell it and think of what he’d like to do next. He worked hard, knew how to do just about everything, had done almost every profession, (a bit like me) and never had an unkind thing to say about anyone. To tell you he didn’t smoke or drink sounds funny to me. Not only did he not smoke or drink (no one on my mom’s side of the family does) he didn’t even swear or use colorful language. THAT’S how nice he is. And now this. I am gripped with fear and sadness and anger all at once. I probably am hearing about this because he’s at the very late stages. I will probably never see him again, and to think of this makes me so sad. There’s a lump in my throat I just can’t swallow today. Gone are the days of sipping Maté in some kitchen belonging to one of my mom’s cousins, and hearing a rap on the door. Perhaps, somewhere, my mom has the tea kettle on and is waiting for him, who knows. I don’t believe much in a heaven, or whatnot, but my mom and her brothers and sisters adored each other. If there’s a way to reunite on the other side, he’ll find a way to do it, of this I’m sure. I hope I’m wrong. I hope he’s got some time left, and that he’s not suffering somewhere…lingering. Dear Cancer. Fuck you. AGAIN.
