Surviving

In February of 2002, I wrote a post about my uncle being diagnosed with cancer. At the time, we worried whether he would make it through the summer.

This morning, two years later, I got the phone call that he has died. I’m sad that he’s gone, glad we had as much time with him as we did, horrified by how cancer can completely subvert your body and turn it against you, relieved that his suffering and pain are over, and worried for my cousins and aunt and how they will handle all this.

I had every reason not to like this man. I was four when my aunt married him. His name was Robert, and she typically called him Bob or Bobby. Since I was called “Bobby”, the family soon took to calling me “Little Bobby”. Talk about emasculating; that’s right up there with “John Boy”. I grew up with a passle of little cousins wandering around, knee high, all calling me “Little Bobby”. *shudder*

Bob was outgoing and gregarious, one of those people who never met a stranger, because he knew their life story within five minutes of meeting them. I was a shy, quiet kid, often tongue-tied and intimidated by Bob’s boisterous nature. Bob played high school football and was a sports fan his entire life, while I was more bookish with virtually no interest in sports.

And yet, I never felt anything but warmth and acceptance from Bob. I learned to respect and value his gentle sense of humor, his love for his family, his devotion to his kids (and eventually his grandchildren). My brother’s line was that Bob was the sort of guy who would sew a shirt, just so he could give you the shirt off his back. I enjoyed playing poker with Bob, or listening to him tell stories while he fished, or just sitting around the breakfast table lingering over a pot of coffee. I’m really going to miss him.