Last night, my family held a candlelight vigil in honor of my uncle Daniel Webster, who passed away five days ago. I did not attend because I could not mentally take it yesterday. Instead, I started writing about him and I want to share some memories here.
Thinking about Uncle Daniel last night prompted me to remember when I was a kid (maybe when I was like 8 or 9) and we went from Missouri to Rockford to visit my mom’s family. Keep in mind, I grew up in a small town and my mom’s family lived in a big city. They were exotic, exciting, and amazing.
Grandma Feltz, Grandma Katie, and Uncle Daniel lived in this trailer (which I remember as a silver spaceship-looking trailer but I am most certainly remembering that incorrectly) down the street from a hardware store on a little dead-end road.
My older brother and several of my male cousins were picking on me and I ran away down the hall to find my grandma. My Uncle Daniel heard me crying as I passed his room. He came out from his room (which was dark and always smelled like pot) and asked what happened. I told him and he went out and yelled at the boys.
Before that day, my memories of him were that he was just a little creepy. All of my uncles were scruffy, angry, and in my mind, dangerous. They had dark creepy bedrooms covered in posters of mostly naked women and cars, they would fight aggressively with each other, and I was intimidated by them. After that day, though, I was never afraid of him again and It may not have really happened that way, but that is how I remember it.
I know I didn’t visit him often. The last time I had a good visit with him was in November when I delivered a copy of my book to him. I remember visiting with him and having a good conversation. He was proud of me and very supportive.
I can’t believe he’s really gone. I am heartsick at the realization that my family’s genetics means we are all doomed to die too young, too soon, and before we have even had a chance to live out our lives. On August 4th, my uncle would have turned 58. Three months ago, we lost my father on his 61st birthday. I am almost 41.
The idea that my life is more than 2/3 of the way over terrifies me. I have so many things I want to do with my life still, but the weight of the internal fear of dying is nearly more than I can bear. For weeks, months even, I’ve been spiraling through a depression fueled by loss, fear, and grief. I’ve been struggling with mortality, the purpose of life, and what it all means.
Often I wonder if it is even worth it to live. Grief is the heaviest thing I’ve ever carried. When I was a teenager, I lost my cousin to gun violence. I don’t even know the true details of the situation, but I can remember his face. I’ve never forgotten him but sometimes I have wondered if he was real.
Grief fades with time, but it never truly leaves you. It colors who we become and who we remain to be. In the last few years, I’ve felt grief in a way I never knew was possible and I don’t like it. I also know that it isn’t over. As I age, so does everyone around me. As I push closer to my own death, so do my older relatives and the inevitable losses. I carry the weight of losses not yet realized and it is a heavy burden.
As I watch my mother, aunts, and remaining uncles grapple with the loss of their brother, I find myself dreading the day I lose them. And further dreading the day I lose my own brothers. The biggest fear, though, is that I will lose my children before they lose me. I’ve already lost a grandchild and I didn’t think I could survive that. While I know I can survive anything, the fact is that I don’t want to. Some things are unendurable to the human soul.
Until next time,
Cathy Marie Bown
Cathy Marie Bown 