My uncle died 15 years ago last week. I blogged my raw emotions the day he was buried, almost oblivious to the history that was being made that evening. I've also discussed my, uh, inheritance.
Uncle Jim was a flawed man, but as I said a decade and a half ago, there will never be a right way to die at 52. Part of me can imagine him now at 67, gradually turning into his father (my grandpa), a reactionary grouch. Both of them had a fearful, paranoid side. Regardless, Jim was the kinder of the two. They had a volatile relationship that was sort of patched up when my grandfather died in August 2002, though I found it weird that Jim suddenly kept Chuck in a high regard after his passing.
Jim's passing was a tipping point in my mid-20s. I was less than a year removed from college, and I was treading water. I was back in Downers Grove, isolated and kind of flailing. I did not want to spend my entire adult life living with my folks --like he did-- so it eventually inspired me to take improv classes. Also, this was the first in a string of deaths in my immediate family, mostly in my parents' generation, extending to my aunt's passing a few months ago.
For a lot of my relatives, their time had come. In my uncle's situation, he kept his pancreatic cancer under wraps until he couldn't; I learned a few years later that he turned down treatment. He was on borrowed time anyway, he surmised, but it also jibed with his pride and his frugality. (Again, he wasn't perfect.) My uncle and mother argued over how to take care of my grandmother, and with Ma taking the reins, Grandma was able to get more thorough assistance. Given everything that has gone on in the world (and my family) since 2008, maybe this "what if" is best left to my imagination.
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