ABOUT LOSS... (Patreon)

My uncle died yesterday. 

It was sudden, in his sleep, and he was 83, a decent age. He'd always smoked and liked a drink, but there are strong genes in that side of the Rose family. My dad - my uncle's brother - is 85, and though he had a small heart attack a couple of years ago, he's in remarkably good shape. 

My grandad - their dad - was 90 when he died, and would've kept going if he hadn't broken his hip. The doctors hadn't noticed it, and it was only after months of pain that they realised, during which time he continued to drive, and tried to live the sort of active, full, life he'd always had. He needed an operation to re-set the fracture, but he had a weird reaction to the anaesthetic. 

The days after the operation, he went from being completely lucid, to being like a child, drifting in and out of hallucinations, describing vividly the things he was seeing - all of which seemed to be memories. We sat with him in the hospital as he described watching pre-fab houses being built after the war, clapping a cheering a non-existent parade, all as if he was watching it happening in front of him. He died a few days later. 

My mum and sister were with him when he went, sitting up in bed. While waiting for him to be taken away, his jaw dropped open, and it creeped them out so much they tied a scarf around his head to keep it shut.

My uncle wasn't somebody I saw often. Once every year or two, but up until I was around the age of 21, we were very close to that side of the family. Actually, it was a silly rift that happened in the wake of my grandad dying which put an end to the regular get-togethers. 

In the decades since, my cousins and my sisters and I would try to occasionally organise something to bring the family back together, and we'd still see everyone at the big events - weddings, birthday parties, anniversaries, etc... but it never quite went back to how it was. Up until then, my dad and uncle had gone together to see Watford FC play every Saturday, without fail.

Nonetheless, despite no longer being close, my uncle was a constant presence in my life. Uncle John just was. He was just there. He was a lovely man, much as my dad is. Soft-spoken, but funny. Kind and generous. My whole life he called me "Curly", because of the hair I had as a little kid. 

At one of my aunt and uncle's annual New Year's Eve parties he called all the guests into the room where I was - I think I was 11 or 12 - and told them I was going to do a comedy show for them. It was one of the most awkward and embarrassing moments of my life (no, I didn't put on a show), but demonstrates how he had me pegged as a licentious little show-off even at that age.

Unfortunately, with one sister on holiday, and the other in a supermarket and in no fit state, it was left to me to break the news to my dad that his younger brother has died. The family didn't want him to find out over the phone. 

It's a horrible thing to have to do at any age, and seeing my dad so confused and raw yesterday will probably haunt me. Didn't help that he gave me his bank details in the midst of it in the event anything happens to him suddenly...

It also stirred up feelings that never quite seem to go away, of the year when I was 12, where one family member after another died... a cousin, another uncle, and my 9-month old niece and mum's dad, all within the space of a week. I was with my mum when she heard about her dad and granddaughter... 

And I was the one to break the news to my dad about my niece. 

I was about to leave for school, when my mum got off the phone from my sister and screamed at me to wake my dad up; "Tell him she thinks Kimberley's dead..." 

And that's what I did. In the weeks and months afterwards, I struggled to process it, visited by images that remain burned into me; my niece's body in the chapel of rest, lowering her tiny coffin into her grave and throwing flowers onto it, seeing her empty cot, knowing she'd died in it... but oddly the sight of my dad - always so stoic and buttoned-up - crying was the one which disturbed me the most. He struggled for years afterwards.

My own grieving had to be done alone, because the rest of my family were so ripped apart by their own pain. And I think somewhere in that, by being the one who uttered the words "she's dead", I somehow felt responsible for making it real. All of that has been stirred up.

I never wanted to have to give that news to anyone again, least of all my dad. It's hard to shift a feeling of guilt - even though, intellectually, I know it's not my fault - over delivering news that you know will break another person you care about. 

I really struggled yesterday. How we react to death is so personal, and private in a lot of ways, that you can only do it by yourself, to a degree. But I did feel isolated and scared, just as I had at 12 and 13, grieving and processing the most monumental loss, alone in my bedroom.

So, yes, my uncle was 83. He wasn't young, but I've got baggage when it comes to death. I'm sad that he's gone. I'm sad for my cousins, and for my his grandchildren - one of whom had her 21st birthday party yesterday. I'm sad that this feels like I'm closer now to the day when my own parents will die.

But I'm mostly sad for my dad, and I'm sad that I had to be the one to make him sad. 

Just another thing that I suspect I will always carry with me.

Paul