sunday

It's crazy the things that go through your head when you hear bad news.  The first being, maybe this news isn't so bad?  Maybe this is a blessing.  Maybe this is something to thank God for.  Maybe this is actually good news.  Tame (ie normal and understandable) in comparison to 'why couldn't I get my shit together enough to send him that picture of E with hair?'

Uncle Dave passed away this morning.  My phone rang at 530 and when I saw my sister's name on the caller ID I knew what she was going to say.  I've known this moment was coming for a long time now.  But despite all the heartbreaking - and oftentimes numbing - experience I have with death, I just can't predict when someone's last moments will be.  I wish I could.  Patients and their families ask me all the time.  And I so badly wish I could have better answers for them.  Something more helpful that 'I don't know.'  Give them the time they are asking me for - time to prepare.  But the truth is, I just don't know.  No one does.  And the even bigger truth?  You can't prepare.  You can't.

But even as I write this post I realize that part of me did know.  Part of me knew when I spoke to him 2 days ago.  We talked about nothing.  We talked about everything.  He expressed concern that E wasn't walking yet and I assured him that at 11 months old she still had time yet.  Our conversation left me with a smile on my face and so much love in my heart.  And part of me knew.

I wish so many things.  I wish I'd had more patience.  That I had made it home more often to see him.  That I could have helped shoulder the work load that my family has taken on these past 2 years of illness.  But more than anything I wish I could have made him better.  My body aches with how much I wish I could have saved him.

David Lee.  I am so happy that you are no longer in pain.  So happy that this life is done and you've moved on to the next.  Moved on to a place where you can walk.  Run.  Maybe even ski downhill with a ridiculous top hat on.  I've heard all the stories;)  But I will miss your potato salad and your deviled eggs.  I'll miss your under the radar thoughtfulness that would pop up at the most random times.  I'll even miss the prying - sometimes usually frustrating - questions that I had to remind myself came from a place of pride and affection.  I will miss you, Uncle.  So much.

All my love.  Amy Michelle.