While on my train trip, I found out that my uncle was having surgery that day -- his defibrillator, the one implanted directly near his heart, was not working. That night, when the train finally pulled into the station, my parents explained that the doctor had not been able to perform the surgery. The doctor determined that my uncle's heart was too weak to take the surgery ... essentially, my uncle would be sent home to wait for his heart to give out.
My cousins hadn't told my mom (or her siblings) about my uncle being in the hospital last week -- on the one hand, they didn't know how serious it was, and, on the other hand, we have all had just too much grief of late. When I spoke to my cousin the next day, she expressed a desire for 12/12/12 to be here soon. At first I didn't catch her meaning. My uncle's birthday is 12/21... and I know he is looking forward to turning 86 on that day.
Then, it hit me, she was saying she was just so done with a life full of grief. Last Christmas Eve, her mother-in-law, a great woman, was in a car accident that eventually led to her death. The crash left her paralyzed and she asked her children several months later to let her go because she didn't want to live that way. I truly loved that woman and still feel the pain of that loss. Our world is truly diminished by her not being in it. And losing Greg on top of that, only months later, another person who lighted the world in an unnatural way, sucker punched us all.
I know how she feels... though, I guess I don't necessarily share that sentiment.
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On the day after I arrived home on the train, I woke at 5:30am to the phone ringing. I was sure it was my aunt calling to say that my uncle had left us. But, it was another uncle, the oldest, calling to share his fear and concern with my mom, his little sister.
It is significant mostly because my mom and her oldest brother don't get along. I don't know how many times she has written him off -- or how many times they have come together over loss and pain and fear of loss. A few hours later, my mom told me that her brother had called to say that he was going to the hospital and wanted her to go with him.
By the time she was telling me this, it had been decided that they should invite their other brother to go along. This is even more significant because these two, despite living yards away from each other, don't speak to each other. They have also had their reconciliations and falling out -- though more falling out than reconciling during my lifetime.
When the car pulled up to pick up my parents, neither of my uncles got out of the car -- so I went out to see them. My uncles acted surprised to see me, I am sure my mom told them I had arrived, but it is still nice to be greeted as the unexpected happy surprise.
We chatted, one uncle so worried and scared he couldn't really put two words together, the other gregariously telling me about finding out about his brother being in the hospital and waking early that morning uneasy. He told me had gone out to blow leaves at 4am and waited as late as 5:30a before he called my mom.
I pictured him pacing back and forth willing the sun to come up and the time to pass. All this came tumbling out, I could hear in his pretend easy manner the concern and the need to share this story with someone. There was his other brother, nervously moving his hands, looking over at us, but not saying anything. I did my best to be a good, active listener, standing outside the car's rolled down window.
My mom and dad finally emerged from the house and climbed into the back seat -- I gave each of my tios another kiss through the window and watched them pull away. As I walked back in the house, it hit me again -- it doesn't matter at what age you lose a sibling, it is a dagger to your heart. And watching the fear and anxiety in my uncles demonstrated that it mattered very little whether or not siblings appear "close" or not. It showed the power of the grief -- the power to pull people together who fight so much an outsider would not believe there was any love there let alone so deep a connection that it tethers you irrevocably.
FIVE ...FOUR ...THREE
Many years ago, before I was born, they were five. I always thought of them as the five that survived, knowing that there had been two sisters who died in Mexico and another baby brother lost here. I think all told my grandmother lost five children, but five survived. In 1967, my mom and her brothers lost their little brother. He, like my own brother, was a captivating soul. I have never met anyone with a bad word to say about the uncle I never met.
Then they were four. Four is all I have ever known... the fifth only mythical for me. Here were three headed to see the fourth, fearing their time as four was nearing an end.
Four -- it is a number I reject. I don't know how to be one of four. I only know how to be one of five. FIVE, we are five... we will always be five, right? Even if he's not here physically; we are five. I have said it, over and over, it is the only way I know how to describe my family. We are FIVE.
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On our way out of town on Sunday, my little sister and I paid a visit to my brother's grave. Unmarked as of yet, my sister searched for the Chinitos who were to keep my brother company. When they were at the cemetery picking the plot, she had said that Greg would be comfortable there between the Chinitos -- just like in Monterey Park.
I sat there, composed, because I didn't want to scare my sister's new boyfriend or destabilize my sister. I sat there beside him, my hand on his grave ... trying hard to reach him. I recalled laying my head on his chest in the funeral home when we were allowed to spend some private time with him. It was the only good cry I had until writing this.
Long and rambling and not really story-like, but I need to begin to debrief this last visit home -- and for some reason the blog felt like the right place to do it. Thanks for listening...
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CODA:
I got to see my sick uncle Saturday night just before packing up for my trip back to New Mexico. As always, he was supportive and loving -- if there is one other cheerleader in my family, it is him. He told me, as if he had to take this chance, not to give up -- to follow through with the PhD. I have not shared with him the challenges, but he is the only other one in my family, until myself and now my sister, to go beyond the BA. He hugged me tight and told me how proud he was of me. I told him about seeing my uncles and my mom off for their visit to him in the hospital. And we both smiled at the beauty of that sight. For today, we are not grieving, only celebrating one more day and giving thanks for that precious gift.
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