Loss

It has been a tumultuous week. Yesterday, my heart was so heavy that all I wanted to do was wallow in my own sadness. There's a certain comfort in wallowing. Perhaps that's why pigs do it.

This week I went to my Uncle's funeral. I did not think it would be as emotional as it was for me...remains for me. I saw family that I usually only see at weddings and funerals. It was nice to see them. It was nice to be together, although I am virtually a stranger to some of them and them to me. Yet, I have known most of them for all our lives. There is some comfort in knowing that you share blood. Odd, isn't it, the power of familial bonds.

After the funeral, my Aunty (the widow) collapsed in the restroom and was taken to the hospital. Later that day, my mom informed me my cousin was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and the outlook is rather grim.

I did not experience a tidal wave of sadness -- powerful and forceful. But more along the lines of feeling myself sinking slowly into the depths of the ocean. Overwhelming, not in a dramatic way, but rather, in a quiet, silent, sensory deprivation type of way. No wailing or sobbing, but as my chest tightens ever so slowly, tears silently seep out of my eyes.

I cried out to God. Asked for refuge. To hide in a cave. Wanted to continue wallowing. God is good. He allowed some time for wallowing, then He provided real comfort. Thanks, God.

Today is better. My heart is not as heavy and I have decided wallowing is for pigs. My Aunty is doing well and should be going home today. They believe she collapsed from dehydration, so she received fluids and is feeling better. My parents visited my cousin and said he looks well, although he has quite the battle ahead of him.

I miss my Uncle. He always had a ready smile and "hello," and would ask how I was doing. Even when his health began failing and he was weaker and had difficulty getting out of bed. He was soft-spoken and conveyed a gentleness that was welcoming and comforting at the same time. From family stories, I know he could be strict, but I never saw that side.

They showed a video at his funeral, of my Uncle in his wheelchair, singing "Jesus Loves Me" to his great-grandson. Singing in the halting way that older people sometimes do, as though they cannot get enough air into their lungs. But it was sweet and genuine...childlike in the loveliest, most respectful and complementary sense of that word.

I love you, Uncle. You will be missed.