№19406[Quote]
When I was a child, around seven years old, my beloved uncle was hospitalized for cancer. I do not know what kind of cancer, but my best guess is lung cancer.
He always smoked, I don't blame him, lots of people did at the time, and the conditions he lived or chose to live in weren't the best.
He was always a resilient person, he plucked nettles from his garden with his bare hands so me and my siblings wouldn't get stung when we were playing outside, we often joked with our mother that he had 'hands of iron'. He made us french fries in his old frying pan. They weren't like the ones from the restaurants, but it was the thought that counted. They were great, by the way. He made them on a sort of gas cylinder stove. He also had a missing thumb, a stump had already grown over it and he liked to show it off to us, as a warning to be careful when we grew up and had to cut firewood. Of course, we were from the city and that didn't really matter to us, but we enjoyed his teachings regardless.
He had a giant CRT TV, which we watched childrens cartoons on. I remember slightly complaining to my mother that it didn't have 'the good channels like we did back at home'. I wonder if that stung him, that I didn't appreciate what he had enough. I don't know if I'm overthinking this, I hope I don't.
When we came to visit, he always had this bowl, bowl of change with a little top with an elevated 'handle' thing in the middle of the cover. I don't know the words, and I won't bother trying to look them up. It was greatly detailed, made of plastic or of 'artificial matter' as they called it. It was an antiquated term, back then during the Soviet occupation. I corrected them sometimes, but I knew it wouldn't matter. He always gave us some coins when we visited.
Once he was hospitalized, we were sad of course. But we were children, we didn't understand the ramifications.
Quite possibly one of my worst mistakes I have ever done then followed. My mother asked me if I wanted to go visit my uncle in the hospital, I said no because I was playing with my friends, or playing on the family computer or something. I don't remember. I figured I'd have another chance to visit him.
After my mother came back, she told me "that it was good I didn't come, he was in so much pain."
What if I wanted to see him? Wanted to see him for one last time before he died a few days later? Why didn't you make me come?
He later died the few days after. I wonder what was going through his head when he saw the others visit, but not me. Did he think I hated him? I hope not, I certainly hope not. I didn't want to make you think like you didn't matter to me.
After his death, we inherited his home. I don't know if it would be of his wishes, but we renovated it. We use it as a summer home now.
We still have the bowl of change he used to give out to us. We now use it for candy and use it to give out candy to trick-or-treaters or just for our needs. I think that would be what he wanted.
Many years later, he finally came up with conversation with my mother. I didn't confess to my guilt that I couldn't visit him. But I did finally admit I couldn't properly remember his face. It's an odd and sad feeling to not remember someone you love's face.
She told me she has a picture of him. She will show me a picture of him tomorrow. I hope she remembers his name.
I guess writing this down really helped me at least attempt to get over this. After this whole thing, I really began to care a lot more for others. Especially for my grandparents. The thought that one day they will not be here is a haunting one, I really love them. Sometimes I feel like I'm not doing enough to appreciate them, not caring enough for others and not appreciating them enough until the day they are gone. I don't know if there's a word for this kind of behavior, I hope not. Or maybe I do, then I wouldn't be alone anymore.
God, I sound like a mental case.
Thanks, mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, other extended family, friends… and maybe even you. You're important to me, aren't you? You're reading this. I hope you're enjoying life aswell.