closure
My uncle is dying.
He's been dying, little by little, for some time now. I think it was about two years ago when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, but I really can't remember. He's not an uncle I'm particularly close to, but he's one of the two that I'm probably the most familiar with. Meaning, he's married to my closest aunt, my mother's youngest sister, who is also my mother's closest friend. Lately he's not been doing very well, and tonight while I was hanging out with some friends, I got a call from my mom. They don't expect him to live for more than a day or something. He's on his last legs, only not, because he's in the ICU with a tube down his throat and another in his neck and his entire face is red and he's not awake or aware at all.
I don't know him very well, I never have, but he's made my aunt very happy, and has been a better father to my cousins than my aunt's first husband ever has been. When my mom called me, she asked whether I wanted to come visit, since I was really just down the block from the hospital, a five minute walk. I said yes, because it was something I knew I had to do, to be there for my aunt if nothing else.
I'm glad I went, because if nothing else, it gave me closure on another part of my life. When I was going through treatment just a little over four years ago (it was mid-September, 2002) I had a stroke and several seizures while at the hospital. I lost about four days of my life, and the fifth was still pretty hazy (my gift to my parents for their anniversary that year was waking up and being aware and able to say more than just "uh-huh" or "yeah"). I was in the ICU for those four days, in a room very similar to my uncle's, but I don't remember it except for two things - I really didn't like it when they tried to do an MRI of my head, and I remember waking up once and being in a strange, small, dark room with lots of machines, very high up, all alone and not knowing where the heck I was (and really needing to pee, there are vague memories of bed pans, but I try not to think about them).
It was nice to see that what I remember was real, and not created from what other people have told me. The private rooms in the ICU looked very much like how I remember them, small and tight with lots of machines, and the bed a lot higher up than in the regular rooms.
My uncle's not going to wake up in four days, be transferred to the eighth floor, and spend a week relearning how to walk, though. My aunt isn't going to have the relief of seeing him recover from this like my mom had with me. I'm getting closure, but she's breaking up.
My uncle is dying, and I don't really know what to say.
He's been dying, little by little, for some time now. I think it was about two years ago when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, but I really can't remember. He's not an uncle I'm particularly close to, but he's one of the two that I'm probably the most familiar with. Meaning, he's married to my closest aunt, my mother's youngest sister, who is also my mother's closest friend. Lately he's not been doing very well, and tonight while I was hanging out with some friends, I got a call from my mom. They don't expect him to live for more than a day or something. He's on his last legs, only not, because he's in the ICU with a tube down his throat and another in his neck and his entire face is red and he's not awake or aware at all.
I don't know him very well, I never have, but he's made my aunt very happy, and has been a better father to my cousins than my aunt's first husband ever has been. When my mom called me, she asked whether I wanted to come visit, since I was really just down the block from the hospital, a five minute walk. I said yes, because it was something I knew I had to do, to be there for my aunt if nothing else.
I'm glad I went, because if nothing else, it gave me closure on another part of my life. When I was going through treatment just a little over four years ago (it was mid-September, 2002) I had a stroke and several seizures while at the hospital. I lost about four days of my life, and the fifth was still pretty hazy (my gift to my parents for their anniversary that year was waking up and being aware and able to say more than just "uh-huh" or "yeah"). I was in the ICU for those four days, in a room very similar to my uncle's, but I don't remember it except for two things - I really didn't like it when they tried to do an MRI of my head, and I remember waking up once and being in a strange, small, dark room with lots of machines, very high up, all alone and not knowing where the heck I was (and really needing to pee, there are vague memories of bed pans, but I try not to think about them).
It was nice to see that what I remember was real, and not created from what other people have told me. The private rooms in the ICU looked very much like how I remember them, small and tight with lots of machines, and the bed a lot higher up than in the regular rooms.
My uncle's not going to wake up in four days, be transferred to the eighth floor, and spend a week relearning how to walk, though. My aunt isn't going to have the relief of seeing him recover from this like my mom had with me. I'm getting closure, but she's breaking up.
My uncle is dying, and I don't really know what to say.