I want to tell you a story. A story that is deeply personal. Sometimes the best way to process trauma is to speak it. To write it down. To relive it. To remember it. Please read this knowing that it’s not easy for me to write. Read knowing it’s not always pretty, but it’s beautiful. Please read this with eyes of empathy, not condemnation. After all, this is a just a memory.
It was the fall of 2016, and I had just moved to Colorado Springs to begin working at a church. My Uncle had been sick for quite some time. I don’t know how many years exactly. He was so strong that he didn’t want anyone to know something was wrong. It was only the past 2 or 3 years that we all began to realize how serious this was. Our time spent with him was being filled with hospital visits, chemo treatments, and waiting rooms. The last time I saw him before I moved to Colorado, he was in the hospital and I honestly can’t tell you the reason why that time. He wasn’t talking much, so I began to show my grandma a video of me singing at my last service in Nebraska. That’s when I heard my Uncle say, “Who is this?” I said, “It’s me, Uncle Jerry.” He went silent again and I noticed a tear stream down his face as he said quietly, “Don’t shut it off.” I didn’t know how much he loved me then.
Weeks later, I’m living in Colorado Springs and working for an amazing church. Life seemed to be going really well. Every day felt like a fun, new adventure. I got a phone call September 20th. It was my mom saying there was a plane ticket in my email and I’d be flying home September 23rd. He wasn’t doing well and I needed to see him before it was too late. I remember sitting in the airport not knowing what I was about to walk into. I’d been gone from home for about seven weeks. Trying not to think about it too much, I continued to read my book until the plane landed in Nebraska.
My Uncle worked at the Omaha airport. I remember any time I’d fly somewhere he’d alway be waiting at the end of the terminal for me and I’d hear him say, “Hey there sweetie, how was your flight?” This time was different. This time, my mom, my dad, and my sister were the only ones waiting for me at the end of the terminal. I was excited to see them, but something was off in their faces. Although they were all smiling, none of them truly looked happy. My dad hugged me and said, “I know it’s late and that it’s been a long day, but we’re going to Grandma & Grandpa’s house to see Jerry before we go home.”
In the car ride there, they all tried to warn me of a few things. He’s not wearing any clothes, it’s hard for him to get up and go to the bathroom on his own, he can’t keep any food down, he doesn’t look like he did when you left, he falls a lot; they just kept going. But my mind wasn’t keeping up. It felt as though I was living in slow motion and everyone else was in fast forward.
When we arrived I walked into the dark living room where he sat in his big, brown recliner. “Hey Uncle Jerry, I’m here!” I said hopefully. “Hey kiddo” he said between deep inhales and exhales. I grabbed his cold hand and he said, “How was your flight?” I said, “It was good, but way too long for me to get here to see you.”
I don’t remember much after that. I remember someone saying he needed his rest and that we’d be back in the morning. In my mind, everything felt fine. He was responding and he was talking to me like he always used to, he was just tired and having another “bad day.” In my mind, I was going to come back in the morning and he’d be even better.
September 24th, the air was humid, it was hot, rainy, and sticky. The sun was nowhere to be seen. My Aunt met us at the car with an umbrella and began to catch us up on what happened in the night and early that morning. My mind was somewhere else, still believing it was fine.
The house had a smell to it unlike any I’ve ever smelled before. My Aunt warned us of that. You see, when someone is dying, it’s almost like you’re reverting to infancy. You lose control of your bladder, you can’t eat on your own, you have to rely on the help of others. My Uncle, who’d been talking to me just fine the night before, now couldn’t say a single word. I sat down next to him and put my hand on his arm to let him know I was there. His breathing sounded painful and exhausting.
Each person’s journey to death is unique. Some people have a very gradual decline; others will fade quickly. However, as death approaches, your job as a loved one is to be present, provide comfort, and reassure them with words and actions that help them maintain comfort and dignity. People think of death as a lonely experience but often it’s not. Everyone was there: my cousins, my Aunt, my Uncle, my Grandparents, friends, everyone.
Everyone was sitting out on the deck in the humid heat while some would go in and sit with Uncle Jerry in segments. I sat there by his side with my sister. We didn’t say anything at all. We just sat. We sat and held his hand. Every once and awhile we’d let out an I love you or an it’s gonna be okay. Other than that, it was pretty silent. Time felt like it was standing still.
We were all waiting for the nurse to arrive to help us clean him up and give him something for any pain he could have been feeling. He didn’t want anything. He let out groans and scowls of pain. His eyes teared up, but never opened, his body temperature dropped, his skin was bluish purple on some parts of his body, and his breathing was interrupted by gasps.
When the hospice nurse finally arrived everyone sat outside except the immediate family. My grandparents, my dad, and his other brother. It was just as he wanted it. Someone there to call time so we wouldn’t have to, and his family by his side.
And just like that it was over. The gasping stopped.
My dad asked my sister and I to come inside. He was crying. An always-strong voice was now cutting in and out. A voice that always had it under control was now, for the first time, full of fear, sorrow, and tears. He told me to kiss Jerry on the head. I was confused, but then I realized. He’s gone. I kissed him on the head, still feeling confused and unsure.
“He waited for you, Christine,” they all began to say.
“He waited for you to be here. He knew you were here.”
“He’s in a better place now.”
“He’s not hurting anymore.”
We all stood in a circle around him. I watched my cousins cry out. I heard my dad yell at God. I watched my grandparents say goodbye to their youngest son.
We all held hands and I think we prayed, but honestly, I just remember being in shock. I remember crying and looking around the room. It didn’t seem real. It felt like a dream. No, a nightmare. Wake up. Please wake up. Wake up. I just wanted to wake up.
My Uncle was a volunteer firefighter. He was a hero. One of the guys he worked with at the fire department was there and told us it was time for his last call.
When a firefighter dies, they do what is called the Last Alarm Service. It calls for the tolling of the bell three times. And with those three bells, the whole department knew. It wasn’t long after that every single one of them were there at the house. I had to sit and watch as my dad and several other men carried my Uncle’s naked body out of the house. People began coming and going. It all felt like a blur after that. I just wanted to wake up.
“This sucks,” my dad kept saying. “He knew you were here, Christine,” others said. “He waited for you.”
Stop talking. Please stop saying that.
I didn’t want to hear that he waited for me anymore. I didn’t want to hear them say that ever again. I felt guilty. I felt as if I should have been there the whole time. Like I should have never left to begin with. Or that if I hadn’t come back, he would still be here.
Silence is Gods native language. So speak it.
There are no right words to say. Our culture so desperately wants to fix it, to be the hero, but my Uncle was the only hero I ever knew. There are no right words.
The plans for the funeral began almost immediately. My returning flight to Colorado was in a few days though, and I had a job to go back to. Although I knew I could stay in Nebraska longer for the funeral, I told my family I wanted to go back. I’d said my goodbyes. I wanted to go back to Colorado. I didn’t want to feel the hurt anymore. He’d have wanted me to go back.
I got to the airport and my heart felt heavy. I didn’t cry while my family waited with me. One of my Uncle’s coworkers came up to us and told us he was sorry for our loss.
I hugged my crying mother, father, and sister goodbye and walked to the gate. I couldn’t keep it together much longer.
I looked down at all of the workers by the plane. I lost it. The tears began to fall uncontrollably. People stared, but no one asked. People looked concerned, but no one asked.
Everyone was great to me when I got back. However, I was still new. I didn’t know how to be honest with them. I didn’t want to talk. They all supported me and asked me how I was, but I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to cry.
The night of the funeral I finally lost it. It was a Wednesday and we had youth group. No one knew what I had seen, and no one knew that the funeral was that day. I wanted to stay strong and keep it together, but I couldn’t.
I sat in the corner of the room where I thought no one would be able to see me cry. Afterwards, I got asked to follow my friend into the other room. I stood there as he told me everything about losing someone he loved dearly. We both stood there. Arms crossed. He kept talking as I kept crying. Arms crossed.I didn’t have words to say, although I felt like I had to talk. Arms crossed, we stood there looking at each other. He told me it was okay to feel what I was feeling. I knew what he was saying was genuine and true, but all I wanted was silence. I wanted silence and I wanted someone to hug me as I cried.
It wasn’t what I wanted in the moment, but it was beautiful.
No matter how much we think we know about death, silence is the universal language of grief. Silence was all I wanted. Silence until I was ready to speak. It’s best to stay silent.
Now here I am, two years later, and I’m ready to speak. To speak the trauma. I have a lot of thoughts on death. I have a lot of thoughts on grief and mourning and healing. But that’s not what this is about. Like I said, it’s just a memory. The best way to process trauma is to speak it. To write it down. To write every vivid detail.
It’s not pretty, but it’s beautiful.
The people who came and went in that time were what makes this story beautiful. The people who could just sit next to me in silence, or ones who spoke their stories to me.
It wasn’t pretty, but it was beautiful.
amandla
izzy806
theartofmadeline
stormborns
