Nobody gets out alive anyway.“ ~ unknown
My Uncle Peter died last Friday. He was a really lovely, wonderful, kind man – an all around good person with a great sense of humour and an easy way to him. He had a very brief fight with cancer, where it totally kicked his ass. So fast. A month and a bit? God, it was crazy. I talked to him a few weeks ago and he sounded good, even though he was in the hospital.
"Hi Kiddo!”, he said to me, and he wanted to hear about my divorce hurdles, asking me questions and what not. I told him he was in my prayers, and he said, “Don’t waste those on me – you pray for Mike (my ex) to let you live your life.” I told him not to be silly, there were enough prayers for everyone, I have a surplus.
I wish that death wasn’t so awful. That he didn’t have to go. Especially when giant douche bags still roam the earth. Why? I am just filled with that question, for so many reasons lately.
The morning he died, Jan called me (his daughter, one of my closest and dearest friends) to tell me. I hadn’t even gotten out of bed, the kids were at their Dad’s for the first time in three weeks, and I was dragging my butt. When I saw her number, I knew.
“Jan, I am so, so sorry. I don’t know what else to say but this just fucking sucks."
We talked for a few minutes and then I called my Mum and Dad, my sister and my brother in the states. I talked with them as I hopped around the bedroom getting dressed and trying to put on mascara. In hindsight, I probably should have ixnayed on the mascara.
I got down the stairs, about to head out the door, only slightly behind schedule, when I noticed water pouring through the light fixture in the front hall. It had been storming out all night and now my roof was leaking. I went down to the power box, shut the power off to that part of the house, threw some towels down, got a bucket under it and went to work.
Honestly, I had to laugh. Which is a terribly inappropriate response. But I did. Hard. Until I smeared what was left of my mascara off. I thought, my life is insane but I have a LIFE. I am alive. I get to have leaking roofs, children who won’t go to bed, heartache, and if I can somehow manage it again, JOY. I get the mystery of MORE. More time to fuck up, more time to do with what I want. More time to make choices. More time to find adventure, and for adventure to find me. Something Peter doesn’t have anymore of.
I talked to Him (what to call Him on this tumblr?) that day – he called me. Asking me if I was okay. Not really and yes, all at the same time, was my answer. He makes me laugh. He made me smile. We both have a terribly morbid sense of humour. He even talked about using points to fly out this way, to see me. I’m trying to just roll with everything, but I can be overwhelming with my affections, I know I overwhelm him, so I feel like I am reigning myself in.
On my way home, I called my friend Ginny (my adventuring 69yr old widow), since we were supposed to meet for dinner, so I could beg off – I needed to tarp my damn roof, and it was miserable out. She had had a terrible day too, and said she would come and help. I told her she could call 911, when I broke my neck. I picked her up on my way through town to my house, we grabbed supplies and a head lamp from the local hardware store. Here I just need to say, I live in a stupidly small town. I mean when Ginny and I walk in and she says, "Gerry! Gerry we need you!” and Gerry comes out and hooks us up with gear, goop and some names of guys who may be able to help out with roofing, and tells Ginny, “Call me later Sweetheart, and I’ll see if I can’t find Rosie’s brother’s number.” – I walked out of there thinking, I live on the set of Northern Exposure.
A few hours later, I’m covered in insulation and spider webs from the attic (when I was up there, I shouted, “Ginny, I’m such a princess, this is awful!”) and also wet and dirty from trying to crawl around the roof on the non-punky parts to look for possible fixable areas. We went out to dinner anyway. Just like that. To the nice restaurant, Jack’s, in town that we sometimes get dressed up to go to. We sat by one of my favourite prints.
We talked about death. We talked about life. We talked about boys. We both passed on having a beer, even though we wanted one, because we were feeling weepy. I savoured every single bite of my blue rare steak. Chewed slowly and thanked the cow. Because yum.
So Friday ended with a full belly and pleasant company with which to share my melancholy and strange thankfulness.
And Saturday was a new day. The first Saturday Peter didn’t get to share.