a letter to my uncle

Last week I said goodbye to my uncle. He was in hospice. He's fought for three hard years battling a cancer that just wouldn't quit, despite all of our best efforts. He's fought with brilliance, he's fought with dignity, and he's fought with humility. Sadly, as is with many battles with cancer, it's nearly at it's end. 

Having recently lost my grandpa, I've gotten a brief insight on what it's like to truly lose a loved one. But this one hurts more. Cancer has a way of robbing you of innocence and casting a permanent sense of paranoia in your life if you let it. It's sneaky and conniving and smart. It's more adjectives than I have in my brain to describe it - many of them the not nice kind of words. 

But then, cancer also has a beauty in it. When it puts its grips on someone you love, it makes you see all the great things in your life. It makes you stop and think about how things could be worse and thankful for your health and all the great things you've done with that person. 

As my mom drove away the other day, my carefully controlled composure finally slipped and the torrent of tears that had quietly slipped down my cheeks all day finally gave way. And I thought of all the things that I wanted to say to Uncle B that we would laugh about still today. So, even though I didn't get a chance to say it then, I want to put it out there now so that everyone knows just how amazing my Uncle Bryan is and how I'll remember him in future.

So here goes - 

Hey Uncle Bryan - remember when you stayed at my house right after you moved to Ohio? Mom had to go to San Francisco for work and she asked me if I'd like to stay at home and have you come watch me. I jumped at the opportunity. Growing up, you had always lived away, so I was excited to spend time with you. 

I'll never forget the day I came home from school that week and you had rearranged all our living room furniture. I walked in and saw the chairs, TV, everything different and you, in your casual demeanor say "Well, I hope you like it. I just think it makes more sense like this." I thought, "Wow, he's pretty confident in himself to change the way our house looks!" In some ways it still resembles how you arranged it that day in March. 

I remember it was March because that night you and I stayed up and watched the television while US troops entered Iraq. You and I watching the night vision screens seems surreal to me now - a true memory that I can see myself telling my children one day. 

Then came the day you picked me up from my karate lesson and asked me, "Why does your mom have so many open boxes of pasta???" I could only shrug before you responded "Well, it was bugging me so I just put them all together for our dinner." 

"Who is this person?" was all I could think. "No wonder my mom loves him so much - they're exactly alike!" 

Or there's the time you power washed our house and porch just for fun. Or when you stopped by that random summer afternoon to put the front door on, "Because I heard your mom talking about it. So, where's the door?" 

I'll miss the way you'd exhale sometimes when you were thinking - I can't explain the sound you'd make but I always knew that's when you were chewing something over in your brain. 

I will never not fail to tell the story about how you cut a hole in the bottom of grandma and grandpa's trash can that day when we couldn't get the bag out. "Well pull harder on it," you said as you watched me try and heave the bag out. "I'm trying. But. It's. Just. Not. Budging." I replied. "Here let me try," so I let you, thinking you'd see just how hard it was. After several minutes of pushing and pulling on it, just as I was going to get another bag, thinking we'd dump the whole thing into it, you tied up the bag and said, "I got it. Watch out." Proceeded to flip the whole thing over, flung out your pocket knife and cut a square hole in the bottom. My eyes got huge and my jaw dropped, and you just flipped it back over and the bag came right out. It was to this day, the manliest display of "I've got it," I've ever seen. 

You valiantly stepped into my photo booth many times. Instead of objections you gave me liners like "I look like a gay pirate," and mom's "So? What else is new?" to laugh about when I pull the props out. 

There's also that time I called you after I talked to Roger Federer for the first time. I was so excited and I couldn't get anyone else on the phone, so when you picked up I was elated to finally tell my story to someone! Your perfect demeanor captured it so well when you replied, "I bet you just peed yourself, didn't you?" Even the AP photographer next to me got a chuckle out of that one.

And then - most of all - there's the stories YOU'D tell. Like the Alex the Dog being run over one. Or Meme and the dog one - why do so many of your stories contain dogs? Everyone should take a lesson in story telling from you. 

I'll carry your gentle "Hey Kid, how ya doing?" "See ya later, Kid" with a scratchy beard kiss on the forehead, with me forever. 

Cancer didn't win this battle. I want you to know that. I know you do, but I still want to say it. Cancer lost this fight. You were so strong and never cracked under it's pressure. I'm sure it pissed cancer off more than anything the way you almost paid it no attention in life. You still golfed, rode horses, worked, almost to the point that some times I forgot you even had cancer. You tried to give cancer an offer it couldn't refuse - and who could blame it - you are a charming man. 

I promise that if I ever have children, they will love The Godfather, never put steak sauce on a steak and put plenty of ice cubes in people's cups at dinner. If Bret Bielema is still a coach somewhere, my children will hate him for no apparent reason too. I will NOT however listen to your depressing ass music - sorry, but I have to draw the line somewhere. Also, unless you find a way to give them prejudice, they will love "Cream O Soup" casseroles. They're good and you know it. 

If I have any regrets about this, it's that I never made you those damn chocolate cherry cupcakes I found on Pinterest about a million years ago. Let's face it, bud - ain't nobody else eating them, and now I'll never get the chance to test my baking skills out on it. Also, perhaps only my mom truly appreciates my pie crusts the way you and grandpa did. I wish I had hopped on the baking train earlier, but it was such a pleasure to try new recipes for you two. 

I want you to know that I love you. I will miss your wisdom and your sarcasm. I'll also miss all the great cooking (except for the jalapeno ham you did that one Easter, what were you even thinking??) and look forward to passing on my one tried and true Uncle Bryan recipe of grilled feta and olive stuffed chicken breast. I also see that you found a way to get out of being the chef for my nuptials, so I'll send the bill to Heaven somehow, if I ever get married that is.

My only hope, is that one day I can run as fast as you did when you tried to chase that motorcycle.

I know I'll see you again some day, and until then when I need to hear your voice I'll just look through the pages of Dr. Seuss. "On and on you will hike. And I know you'll hike far and face up to your problems whatever they are. You'll get mixed up, of course, as you already know. You'll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go. So be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact and remember that Life's a Great Balancing Act. Just never forget to be dexterous and deft. And never mix up your right foot with your left. And will you succeed? Yes! You will, indeed! (98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.) KID, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS! So... be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea, you're off to Great Places! Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting. So...get on your way!"

my first thanksgiving without grandpa

Yesterday marked the seventh month that my grandpa passed away. It's hard to believe it's already been half of a year. I guess living out of state has a few advantages - at least I'm not surrounded by the places he used to be, looking at the empty space that fills his chair at the dinner table at family dinner Sundays. 

They always say holidays are the worst after a death in the family and I suppose it's true. The Fourth passed with little heartache - maybe it was still too fresh. Maybe it was being surrounded by family that kept it at bay. Whatever the reason, being home for the Fourth of July didn't hurt. Halloween didn't hurt. 

But Thanksgiving - this hurts. It occurred to me a few weeks ago that I didn't really have a reason to try out a new baking recipe this year. It's always filled me with a giddy excitement to try out a new recipe to surprise him with. Mini pies in mason jars, pie tart bites, homemade cakes with homemade caramel frosting, old fashioned candy, you name it, I tried it in hopes of getting one of his rare smiles and a "that's pretty good," seal of approval. Usually I got the smile and the seal of approval because one, I was his favorite, and two, the man loved the dessert table. 

One of my biggest successes in life has to be mastering the art of the homemade pie crust. I can do it. It's buttery and flaky, doesn't burn and isn't gooey. It's perfect. Don't get me wrong, my mom and grandma will still eat up an entire pecan pie if I make it for them, but it's not the same as making something "for grandpa." 

Thanksgiving is a time to reflect on your life, your year, and give thanks to God for all that you've gone through and come out the other side of. This year, I'll thank Him for getting me this far in my life, for a job that I still have, the friends that support me in whatever I do, the family that loves me no matter how much I complain, and for giving me the dreams and ambitions to continue to strive for more for my life. And then I'll thank Him for my time that I had with my grandfather. While nearly 27 years isn't nearly enough time to know someone, I'm so incredibly thankful that I had all those years. That I could sit in his chair with him and take all those Sunday afternoon naps, venture out to the barn, littered with wood shavings on the floor to watch him make most of the furniture that's in my house, and see the sun rise in the quiet stillness of perfect summer Saturday mornings. 

And when it's time for Christmas, and we decorate the tree - I'll make sure to put enough tinsel on the tree, because that's his favorite part about it. 

Photo courtesy of Table Party of Two