Thursday, May 20, 2004
my uncle is dying.
my uncle has recently been diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer, which has metastasized to his liver. immediately, thoughts of my dad rushed through me again, he having succumbed the same way (except he had it by way of colon cancer). my mom and sister visited him, and he does not look well. his skin has started to turn yellow, and his feet are starting to swell, both textbook signs of impending liver failure. he is hardly eating, and he's losing weight rapidly.
my uncle ben was the first relative at the funeral parlor the morning my dad died. At 6'2", and coupled with very bright eyes and clear skin that spoke that he was obviously a well-bred intellectual, it would've been easy for him to create the impression that he would be constantly looking down upon you. however, he easily broke my misconception upon our handshake. he spoke fondly of my dad, and i discovered for myself why uncle ben was a frequent character in my dad's 'when i was young...' stories. he was, like my dad, an easy guy to talk to, someone who paid his utmost attention to me, even though i was probably rambling about my dad, his cousin, who died two hours ago. he mentioned then that he himself was having medical problems, but he was very sure that they were minor, and that he already seeing a doctor for it. with his easy smile and affable manner, we talked as if the last time we had seen each other was a matter of months, not over 15 years.
and now, all he has now could be less than one. he was discharged from the hospital tuesday, with the doctors not being able to recommend him any medicine anymore. i cannot even begin to think of the frustration that your whole life has been whittled down to a matter of days, that all those who have been educated for years to possibly helping you have done their complete best, but fate has decided that months may be all you have left.
it was raining last night as i was hearing mass, and i put my arm out beyond a canopy to let drops fall on my hand. it occurred to me that i did not know when the last time my dad felt rain was. and it pained me to think that my uncle may not be able to feel rain again, either. the best i could do then was to pray that, should my uncle not live much longer, that he not suffer, that he be as lucky as my dad.
it's odd how invincible we perceive ourselves and those around us so easily, that this transience we have will actually be a paradox of the word. that we always think we will live to feel the next time it rains.
my uncle has recently been diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer, which has metastasized to his liver. immediately, thoughts of my dad rushed through me again, he having succumbed the same way (except he had it by way of colon cancer). my mom and sister visited him, and he does not look well. his skin has started to turn yellow, and his feet are starting to swell, both textbook signs of impending liver failure. he is hardly eating, and he's losing weight rapidly.
my uncle ben was the first relative at the funeral parlor the morning my dad died. At 6'2", and coupled with very bright eyes and clear skin that spoke that he was obviously a well-bred intellectual, it would've been easy for him to create the impression that he would be constantly looking down upon you. however, he easily broke my misconception upon our handshake. he spoke fondly of my dad, and i discovered for myself why uncle ben was a frequent character in my dad's 'when i was young...' stories. he was, like my dad, an easy guy to talk to, someone who paid his utmost attention to me, even though i was probably rambling about my dad, his cousin, who died two hours ago. he mentioned then that he himself was having medical problems, but he was very sure that they were minor, and that he already seeing a doctor for it. with his easy smile and affable manner, we talked as if the last time we had seen each other was a matter of months, not over 15 years.
and now, all he has now could be less than one. he was discharged from the hospital tuesday, with the doctors not being able to recommend him any medicine anymore. i cannot even begin to think of the frustration that your whole life has been whittled down to a matter of days, that all those who have been educated for years to possibly helping you have done their complete best, but fate has decided that months may be all you have left.
it was raining last night as i was hearing mass, and i put my arm out beyond a canopy to let drops fall on my hand. it occurred to me that i did not know when the last time my dad felt rain was. and it pained me to think that my uncle may not be able to feel rain again, either. the best i could do then was to pray that, should my uncle not live much longer, that he not suffer, that he be as lucky as my dad.
it's odd how invincible we perceive ourselves and those around us so easily, that this transience we have will actually be a paradox of the word. that we always think we will live to feel the next time it rains.
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