The events of this week have left me emotionally and physically exhausted. My uncle, my mom's older brother (the 2nd of 6 siblings), passed away. He had been diagnosed with cancer about 2 years ago, and the cancer ultimately won, but not before he and his family fought with everything they had to make as many memories as they could while they could.
The last time I saw my uncle was Thanksgiving 2011. Looking back on it, how fitting that that would be the last time I'd see him, because when you're diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, everyday is a gift and worthy of thanks to God. Well, really, every day is a gift from God period, and none of us know when our last day is. We don't know which will be our last meal, the last time we'll see a friend or family member, or the last time doing anything. We are alive for a finite number of days, and it's what you do during those days that tell the world what kind of person you were.
That being said, my uncle was a good man, and during his lifetime, he did the best he could all the while sticking fiercely to his convictions, his principles, and his beliefs. He was a gentleman, teacher, friend, uncle, brother, cousin, nephew, and loving and devoted husband and father to his 3 children. He had two daughters and one son, and they're all accomplished professionals. He was a chemical engineer, and his wife an educator. One daughter teaches at the university level, the other daughter is a pediatrician, and the son is an engineer. Like I said, he and his wife raised amazing children, who just so happen to be my cousins. And I'm proud to be related to them all.
My uncle was a great man who loved to play golf, and taught an awkward nephew (me) how to play it too. One of my fondest memories was when he, his son, and I were at the driving range at the local country club. Being the odd person I am, I may be right-handed, but I usually hold sticks (hockey sticks, golf clubs, baseball bats) left-handed. Since he couldn't accommodate my needs, I was forced to adjust to what was available to learn to play golf, using his right-handed equipment. I remember taking his driver and swinging the club. Out of 10 swings, I think I hit the ball once, and when I hit it, it veered to the far right, and I couldn't figure out why. Upon careful observation, he came to the conclusion that because of my paralyzed eye, I probably had a depth perception problem...which is true. However, after lots of patience with a clumsy nephew, he realized the reason my strokes were sending the ball so far to the right was because I wasn't keeping my arms straight; by the time the club struck the ball, it was turned to the right because my hands were crooked! Once we diagnosed that problem, all I had to worry about was my depth perception...oh, and the other problem that whenever I'd hit the ball, and it'd go up to where you'd see a white dot in the blue sky, I could no longer keep track of it the farther it went, and I'd have no idea where it would fall.
I guess I'll forever be a putt-putt man.
Another fond memory I have is that he had a green 1969 (I think) Jaguar E-type convertible. It was a gorgeous antique, complete with an 8-track player! I've always loved cars, and having grown up loving Hot Wheels, any time I'd go over to my cousin's house, he'd permit us to play in the car. My cousin and I would sit inside pretending to race down a traffic-free highway, wind in our hair, music blasting. It was awesome. I also remember how he showed me how to turn it on. Yes, you'd put the key in the ignition, but once you did that, there was a black button you had to push, and THAT was how you started the engine, and my Hot Wheels-based mind thought that was sooooo James Bond, and therefore, insanely cool!
One last memory I'll leave you, my reader, with, is how he took a family tradition, and modified it for those who needed the modification, to promote full inclusion for all.
Let me set this up by saying that when I was growing up, he and his family lived in Port Arthur (East Texas), and in about 1997 moved to Laredo where the rest of us lived, on the border to Mexico. For years, they'd come and stay at my grandmother's house for Christmas.
Our family has a Christmas tradition called the posada (literally meaning "shelter" in Spanish), where we re-enact the Holy Family's journey to Bethlehem for Jesus' birth. Once they moved to Laredo, they wanted to host it too, so on Christmas week, my mom and 3 of her siblings each host a separate posada at their home. When we do this tradition each Christmas, we sing a song, a capella, in Spanish. The men portray the innkeepers while the ladies portray the pilgrims seeking shelter. It's a sung dialogue. However, since my cousins lived in Port Arthur, they didn't grow up in a bilingual environment like the rest of us, and when they moved, my aunt's family came to their house to share in the tradition, and they weren't Spanish speakers either. So my uncle, with his very strong command of linguistics, translated the entire thing, knocking down a years-old language barrier, so those who wished to participate fully now could. And when you're translating a multiple-generations-old tradition from Spanish to English, you cannot translate directly. So he painstakingly took the time to translate the meaning of each verse, so though the language may've been different, the message was identical.
My uncle loved his family - immediate and extended - so, so much. He passed on his love for golf and engineering to his son, his love of science and language arts to his daughters. Family and friends were always welcome in his home. Always the courteous host, whenever I'd visit without my partner, he'd ask how we were doing, and if Frank came down with me, we were made to feel as much at home as anyone else.
Witnessing his wife and kids' strength in the past few days, I'm in awe of their courage, bravery, strength, and love for each other through this tremendously trying time in their lives. It's these characteristics that can help anyone survive even the most trying storms in our lives.
To my uncle: you may be gone, but you left your love with us. I love you, I'll miss you, and I look forward to singing the posada with you again. And by the time we meet again, I hope to make par on the celestial golf course I'm sure they prepared for you.
Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened. -Unknown
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