My Uncle Jr.

My Uncle Jr/Emil was a very tall, strong man with a big, expressive voice. He had tattoos and a real presence when he walked into a room. His loud, booming voice was balanced with a sense of humor that lit up any conversation.

He was married to his wife Irma for more years than I’ve been alive. They had a dreamlike way of balancing each other out, making each other laugh even when they bickered. He took care of her in their home until his very last days even when her dementia became advanced and difficult to manage. Each time a move in date was set to a group home, he found a reason to postpone – one last Christmas, a birthday, a season. From his hospital bed, I am told he was asking to talk to Irma until his last day.

Emil had two kids, a daughter who was estranged for several years, and a son, who stood by him. In my last phone call with my uncle a few months before he died, he spoke about how sad he was that his daughter still wouldn’t speak to or see him. For years, he would ask me “What did I do? I don’t know what I did for her to treat me like this.” And then he would retell me the story about needing to use the bathroom in his apartment that his daughter and granddaughter were living in and having them close the door on his face.

Thankfully, he and Irma had the love of their son, his wife and another granddaughter who he got to be close to and see up until his final days. He loved his granddaughter dearly and had much joy spending time with her.

He had a younger brother and sister, my Mom, who he was also close to. And he had three nieces – my two sisters and I. Both his parents died some years back. When his father was dying in a VA hospital for 3 months, we worked together to care for my Grandpa and not leave him alone in his last days at the hospital.

Towards the end of Grandpa’s life, I arrived one morning at the hospital to see Jr in a chair on the other side of an open door to Grandpa’s hospital room. When Jr looked up and saw me coming down the hall, his face lit up with his usual joyous smile and he said, “Oh Sarita, you are such a great sight to see! I am so tired here, up all night, and I need to go rest. Thank you so much for coming here.” And he gave me a hug. He then sat back in the chair and showed me how he’d been watching his Dad all night through a crack in the door.

Jr was a Vietnam Veteran. One night 30 years ago, I had dinner with Jr and Irma and my soon to be husband at the time at their apartment in Manhattan. We had such a great time talking and laughing and sharing stories. At one point, Jr started talking about Vietnam. He shared some very intense stories with us in detail – a very close call when his unit had gotten ambushed, and some very hard moments. He spoke about his PTSD when he returned home, and being given training from the VA on how to “not get angry” because he said once you’ve been trained to kill, they taught him that his anger could be very dangerous. His wife looked stunned and said he had never told her these stories before. I guess sometimes you can feel safe sharing something with more peripheral loved ones than your immediate circle.

That night, he dug out a yellowed, old newspaper article about him and his army buddies being given an R & R trip to Hawaii during the war. It had cool photos of him looking young, and thin, and hopeful. In the written interview, while talking to the journalist, my uncle had said, “That’s California out there,” pointing longingly to the ocean. I said, “That’s where Irma was!” because she had been in San Francisco. His face lit up and he said, “Yea, you’re right,” and Irma looked moved by the notion.

We were so engrossed in conversation, we almost missed the last transportation home that weeknight. A week later, I sent my uncle a letter telling him how moved I was that he trusted me enough to share such intimate experiences from his life with me, and that I was so very proud to have him as my uncle. He called me after receiving it, yelling into the phone (his hearing loss made him talk very loudly) that my letter had made him cry. He said, “Sarita, no one has ever said anything like that to me before – not even my own children. Thank you so much for writing that to me.” I told him I was proud of him and really grateful to have him in my life. How I wish now I would’ve done that again this past year. I hope somewhere deep down he still knew.

My childhood memories of Emil were also balanced with humor and seriousness. When I was in elementary school, his family and mine went ice skating in Prospect Park together. I was a very anxious kid, gripping the wall rails, terrified of falling on the ice. I looked up and over and saw my gentle giant uncle trying to skate through the rink when he suddenly fell and screamed as he hit the ice. He then turned over onto his knees and dramatically crawled off the ice, shouting, ”Oh no, this is not for me. Get me outta here!” I remember laughing and feeling better that it wasn’t just me feeling scared.

On a heavier note, when my mom was lighting candles all over our apartment during a bipolar episode when I was a similar age, a fire had started on our record player. I was terrified to see the flames, and my uncle Jr. took a book and put the fire out. I can remember my heart racing and feeling so grateful he was there, terrified of what would’ve happened to us if he hadn’t been.

Jr was someone who I could openly talk to about serious things and also laugh with about anything. He had a challenging childhood, went to war as a very young man, worked hard night shifts most of his life, and I’m sure had his own struggles and joys within his marriage and nuclear family. He was very gentle and kind to me. He used to care for stray cats at one of his night jobs. He seemed to always be smiling, laughing, and pushing forward even when things got tough.

He passed away last month and I wasn’t able to see or speak with him in his final weeks in a hospital. I felt a lot of anguish about that at first. After working together with him to care for my grandpa/his dad many years ago, I had really wanted to be there for him too. I wanted to hold his hand while he slept or tell him I loved him when he woke. I wanted to be one of his people by his side. It’s not what his son wanted, so I respected his wishes, and then felt flooded with sadness and regret the moment I found out he had died. He follows his sister from just a year and a half ago.

Death is so sad and hard. Even if you know it may be coming, there is no real way to prepare for it, or for the profound feelings of loss that immediately land when you hear it’s happened to someone you love. All the cliches come to mind – don’t wait to tell people what they mean to you, live everyday like it may be your last. The older you get, the more real it all starts to feel.

I feel sad that on my last call with him, he sounded sad and disillusioned by how their life had become, and the grief he suffered. He had said, “We tried to live a good life. We don’t deserve this. Irma doesn’t deserve this.” He was exhausted caring for her and juggling his own health issues. He was grieving his sister, his daughter’s estrangement, and looking back to old memories for happier times.

I’ve been feeling swallowed in grief again since his passing – so sad that his life has ended, sad for his wife who he loved so much and is now trapped in her advanced dementia without the greatest anchor of her life. I feel sad for his granddaughter who has lost him too young. It’s retriggering my grief from losing my mom last year, and my anguish over how hard both their last days were. I am fearful of what my last days may be like after seeing the horrors of theirs’.

And somehow, we have to go on, living as best we can, grabbing joy where we can find it. Remembering them as a whole, over the span of their lives rather than focusing on their suffering near the end of their lives.

I wish I could go visit my Uncle Jr and Aunt Irma in their NYC apartment for dinner – bring them a pizza or go fishing at the river, which my uncle loved to do. He had recently told me his dream was to go live someplace warm, fish in the sunny heat and then go home to his air conditioning and cook up the fish with a cervecita. That’s the feeling I need to hold onto. The images of him in better days, honoring and emulating his humor, his kindness, and his resilient optimism.