Utter bullshit
Lately, my anger has been so strong, so overpowering, that it feels like a separate entity. A burning creature in my chest and head, flaring up at the smallest piece of news.
And there’s so much news. A constant stream of things ranging from utter bullshit to heartwrenchingly awful.
I can’t seem to stay silent about it, though I try. I try not to bring it up in casual or work conversations. But if asked, I can’t shut up about it. Like the stream of news flowing into my head, the words against it flow out of me. A neverending “and then this.”
Some mornings the heat grows so intense that it is no longer anger, it is rage.
Holding this in, carrying it around, has been difficult. I don’t do well with emotions, and large emotions like this one, really do me in.
And then March decided I needed a second, equally large emotion: grief.
Airlines ask when you book tickets if you’re traveling for business or pleasure. There should be a third “I’d rather not” option.
I’m an only child, by the universe’s, and later, my parents’ choice. I spent many hours wishing for an older brother, someone to give me rides (in a sportscar, probably) and share music and heckle me in a gentle but oddly specific manner. It took me years to realize I already had all that.
My uncle Victor, my mom’s youngest brother, was 14 when I was born. Young for his age in physicality and demeanor, he saw me as a younger sibling. I called him “ahtor.”
At age three, when my memories really start to solidify, my parents and I moved about 90 minutes away from my grandparents and uncle. Visits were limited to mainly holidays and birthdays, and the week or two in the summers when I would stay with them.
I loved my visits with my uncle. He introduced me to MTV. To late night junk food snacking (he worked as an EMT and often had weird shifts). To Genesis and weird prog rock. He played in bands and taught me how to play the keyboard. (The first song was “96 Tears” and remains one of the few things I can still play by memory.)
He gifted me my first Barbie Corvette (the silver one with the pink racing stripes). He called me “chicken lips”. I ate ketchup with my scrambled eggs just like he did.
He made me, and everyone around him, laugh CONSTANTLY. His jokes and impressions were non-stop, and holiday dinners were full of laughter (and some chiding from my grandmother).
As I grew older I spent less time with him. He moved out of his parents house, dated girls. (One of his girlfriends became my pen pal, and we mailed cards and letters for nearly a year. She sent me a special letter when they broke up saying how much she would miss me.)
Then he was married, and had three little girls, all of whom felt more like my nieces than my cousins. I graduated from college and married myself, moved away and had a child of my own. Visits back to Arizona were limited to once or twice a year, and I didn’t always see him then.
Life happened, as it often does. Years turn into decades. And in December, my mom called: Victor was ill. I went out to see him, the first time in years, maybe since 2017?
The next few months were a rollercoaster; he needed a liver transplant. Admitted to the hospital in mid December, he didn’t leave until February. He received a new liver in record time, but it wasn’t meant to last. My uncle passed away at 62 on March 7.
The kid and I flew out to Arizona last week for his service. It was both therapeutic and agonizing to hug my cousins, to say goodbye, to grieve.
As anyone who has experienced grief knows, there is no single trajectory. And new causes for grief bring up past experiences and heartache.
I’ve spent the past three weeks battling anger and grief, both bubbling up at terribly inconvenient times: showering, driving, making food, trying to sleep. My body and soul are exhausted.
One of the best things about having a favorite uncle who is essentially a big brother, is introducing him to your kid. Vic was a man of love; he loved his family, he adored my father, and when I last saw him, he asked constantly about my spouse.
And he loved my kid. I’m so glad she got to know him, and I’m so sorry she had to lose him, too.