I have recently returned from a trip back to Texas. I was given a chance to tell my beloved Uncle Jon how much I loved him so I went.
Uncle Jon had been receiving treatment for cancer for the past eight months. His last round of chemo ended in December and we had hoped that he would be cancer free but it returned in January. He was scheduled for a bone marrow transplant in early March but then I received the news that he had developed an infection in the hospital, which is not unusual since your immune system must be nearly wiped out prior to the marrow transplant and hospitals are unfortunately teeming with nasty little viruses and bacteria from all the sick people that are being treated.
I telephoned my aunt Jane for an update and she said that they had taken Jon home. I immediately assumed that it was to get him better before the next attempt at a transplant but then she told me the news. "No honey, your uncle Jon is not going to get better." Then she told me that she loved me and hung up the phone as she broke down crying.
48 hours later I arrived in San Antonio. I told SB as I was leaving Hong Kong that in a weird way it felt as though I was going home to die myself instead of Jon. I guess this makes sense when I look back at the statement because Jon and Jane were my second set of parents and in a lot of ways my life really began when I went to live with them for the summer and stayed for seven years. They took me in, nurtured me, supported me, and understood me in a way that my own parents could not. I relished every moment that I spent with them. Even now I can hear Jon's big, booming laugh and see the wonderful sparkle of his eyes. So being without Jon is a death of sorts.
He was the one who always pulled the family together and as we all came back home to be with him all his children, biological and otherwise, promised to gather again as we would have in his lifetime. It was what he really wanted, to have his loved ones close to one another.
I am grateful that I made it home in time, that I was given the opportunity to tell Jon how much he meant to me, that he was a parent, a mentor, and a dear friend. I was able to hold his hand and tell him how my life was and how loved he was. I sat and told him about my job, SB, everything that had happened to me in the past few months. I sat up all night with him, giving him kisses and holding his hand until it was time to wake the rest of the family because he was leaving us. I fluctuate between being comforted and traumatized about the end. I won't detail what happened here other than he was a man who always wanted to live. Always and yet when he had to go he was only concerned for us.
My friend Barbara told me that when her husband died, an elderly neighbor passed away that same month. She bitterly thought to herself that this man had lived a long, full life while her husband was young. It was not fair. She knew exactly how I was feeling.
Uncle Jon had been receiving treatment for cancer for the past eight months. His last round of chemo ended in December and we had hoped that he would be cancer free but it returned in January. He was scheduled for a bone marrow transplant in early March but then I received the news that he had developed an infection in the hospital, which is not unusual since your immune system must be nearly wiped out prior to the marrow transplant and hospitals are unfortunately teeming with nasty little viruses and bacteria from all the sick people that are being treated.
I telephoned my aunt Jane for an update and she said that they had taken Jon home. I immediately assumed that it was to get him better before the next attempt at a transplant but then she told me the news. "No honey, your uncle Jon is not going to get better." Then she told me that she loved me and hung up the phone as she broke down crying.
48 hours later I arrived in San Antonio. I told SB as I was leaving Hong Kong that in a weird way it felt as though I was going home to die myself instead of Jon. I guess this makes sense when I look back at the statement because Jon and Jane were my second set of parents and in a lot of ways my life really began when I went to live with them for the summer and stayed for seven years. They took me in, nurtured me, supported me, and understood me in a way that my own parents could not. I relished every moment that I spent with them. Even now I can hear Jon's big, booming laugh and see the wonderful sparkle of his eyes. So being without Jon is a death of sorts.
He was the one who always pulled the family together and as we all came back home to be with him all his children, biological and otherwise, promised to gather again as we would have in his lifetime. It was what he really wanted, to have his loved ones close to one another.
I am grateful that I made it home in time, that I was given the opportunity to tell Jon how much he meant to me, that he was a parent, a mentor, and a dear friend. I was able to hold his hand and tell him how my life was and how loved he was. I sat and told him about my job, SB, everything that had happened to me in the past few months. I sat up all night with him, giving him kisses and holding his hand until it was time to wake the rest of the family because he was leaving us. I fluctuate between being comforted and traumatized about the end. I won't detail what happened here other than he was a man who always wanted to live. Always and yet when he had to go he was only concerned for us.
My friend Barbara told me that when her husband died, an elderly neighbor passed away that same month. She bitterly thought to herself that this man had lived a long, full life while her husband was young. It was not fair. She knew exactly how I was feeling.
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