My uncle died from COVID yesterday, just after noon. That’s him with my grandma and how I picture both of them in my head. I loved them both, very much.
My mother said the saddest thing when she told me. What she said in Chinese was, My little brother ran away.
That’s what broke me that day. He was my uncle, but he was her baby brother.
He was actually my favourite uncle because he always seemed thrilled to see us. He owned and operated a Carvel in NJ for decades and none of us ever saw him without coming back with a cooler full of ice cream.
The mayor of that town wrote a nice little something about him.
He was as good and decent a human being as the universe allows, just like my mom and everyone else from her family.
He didn’t deserve to die and certainly not like this. COVID. But I suppose that’s true for the vast majority of the people that die from this stupid virus.
His family – my cousins and aunt – are grieving because this came out of left field for them.
It’s not my story to tell so I’ll stop here.
As for me, I feel a tremendous amount of guilt. Because, while I grieve for my uncle’s death, I really grieve more for Alison’s.
You see, whenever some tragedy happens, you also get some bullshit bonus.
Like if you lose your job, the bullshit bonus might be that you can’t pay rent and also get kicked outta your apartment.
Or if you crash and destroy your car, the bullshit bonus might be that you can’t walk again.
The bullshit bonus that my uncle’s family has to deal with is stuff like who’s gonna manage the store and how are they gonna to set up the funeral?
I know this because I dealt with things like that too. I wasn’t ready. No one ever is.
This fucking cancer took so much from me, from my family.
Actually, it took my family.
I laughed when I wrote that last sentence. Because what else can one do?
That’s why it’s bullshit and why it’s bonus: Cause more just randomly shows up at your doorstep when you least expect it.
The bullshit bonus I hate the most is that I don’t grieve like normal people.
When my dad died, I felt like…20% of what I should have felt for this man I loved and that loved me so. I was his boy and he was my dad.
But all I could think was, “At least he lived longer than Alison.”
How. Fucked. Up. Is. That?
I loved my old man. God, I loved him. Like a fat kid loves cake.
It’s not right. It’s not fair.
They deserved to be more than mirrors and magnifying glasses to Alison and yet, that’s all I can muster. And the guilt from that is just more bullshit bonus.
I’m rambling. I’m sorry.
Everything’s fucked up and nothing’s right in my head anymore. Nothing’s been right since November 2015.
My uncle took us all fishing once, when I was a kid.
I remember being so deliriously happy that day and I thought he was the coolest guy ever. He deserved so much more than this.
Son: You’re thinking of mommy.
Me: Yes. I’m thinking of family. How did you know?
Him: You went (breathes deeply)
Me: (nodding) You’re a smart boy.
Him: Are you sad?
Me: Now, how sad could I be? I have you.