Grieving

I lost my Uncle Jerry this past week, and it brought a wave of emotions all around me. I saw him struggle, and it made me upset to see such an upbeat guy in so much pain. But I saw him cognizant, even dying in hospice, still cracking jokes. His sharpness and his detailed stories, even while he was gasping for breath, were astounding to me. It made me think about the duality of life, and our responses to tough circumstances. 

Here was this man, laying there as everyone said "see you later" (I never say "goodbye") on his deathbed, still telling me he was proud of me, and trying to motivate me. If being surrounded by loved ones and telling old stories isn't the perfect legacy, then trying to help others at the end, surely is. My Uncle Jerry had both. 

It was painfully sad to lose his physical presence, and I broke down a bit outside of his room. It's hard to see your family cry, and it's even harder knowing that you haven't seen most of them in years. As weddings and funerals become the most prevalent markers of the passage of time, we see our mortality as others look at how much we've grown. Infants become adults, adults become weathered matriarchs, and weathered matriarchs become dearly departed. The cycle moves on, all too quickly. 

I said all of that to say: that the most vivid memories I had this week were of my uncle, mobile and smiling. Me as a happy child, running freely, his little "Merink". So, when you do see your old family and friends, hug them a little longer. Call them more, take more pictures, tell them you're proud of them. The harsh reality is, they won't be here for long. But remember them as the people that raised you when life was easier, bigger, and more timeless. We all need to hold onto that part of us a little longer. Uncle Jerry would've wanted it that way. 

See you soon, Uncle Jerry. Your Merink is proud of you.