So today (5th of November) marks the 9th anniversary of my uncle's death... I never wrote about it before so it's very personal...
The first time I was confronted with death, I was thirteen years old.
Until then, I had considered myself lucky. I had spent thirteen years of my existence not losing anyone, and especially, not worrying or even thinking about losing someone I cared about. My grandparents were healthy, my parents were fine, my siblings and I were thriving. No one in my family had ever been seriously ill or had been in an accident. I thought we were invincible. I naively believed that it was always going to be that way; but, for a time, it was a nice feeling to hold onto.
It didn’t last long, however.
My first experience with death was a brutal one. It happened violently and unexpectedly. It took me by surprise and, from one day to the other, everything changed.
It was the 7th of November. It was a Saturday afternoon and I was enjoying my free time with my siblings. We celebrated my mom’s birthday only the week before. Everything was great. Until my mom received a phone call and everything changed.
I don’t remember exactly how it happened but I know that suddenly my mom became very agitated and left in a hurry with my dad. I know that my siblings and I gathered into my sisters’ room, trying to understand what was happening and if this was serious. After a while, we truly started to worry. We knew something was wrong, but we had no idea what. Then, my dad came back, alone. He finally took us to his room and what he said at that moment, I never thought I would ever hear him say it: “Your uncle is dead.”
Your uncle is dead. My mother’s brother. Dead. At barely fifty years old.
What did it mean?
Why was he dead?
I knew for sure that he wasn’t sick. Was it an accident then? Unfortunately no, it wasn’t an accident.
What was it then?
Suicide.
The word was so strange, so alien to me that it didn’t make sense at the time. I knew what it meant; I knew what it implicated, but I couldn’t associate it with my uncle. That didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense for a long time after that. From one day to another, my uncle disappeared, without a word, without a warning; and we never knew why.
For a while, I didn’t understand his death. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. I felt numb and helpless, and I didn’t understand. I went to the funeral, I saw my mother cry for the first time ever, I saw my grandmother break down in front of me, I saw my uncle being buried; and yet, I still hadn’t realized.
It was only a few weeks later that it hit me.
When it happened, I was doing homework at my desk. It was a usual school night and I wasn’t thinking about it. Then, it suddenly struck me. Violently and unexpectedly; like my uncle’s death. I finally realized that I would never see him again; that he was gone, forever. It was at that moment that I understood what it meant, even if I still didn’t know why.
All the feelings that I had been repressing, all of the emotions that I had kept away; it all suddenly dawned on me. I felt overwhelmed. I remember breaking down at my desk, in the middle of the evening. It was painful and horrible, but, in a way, it felt good. I wasn’t numb anymore. I could feel.
It took me a while to accept it, to acknowledge my feelings instead of repressing them, and just to learn how to live without knowing, without understanding, and especially, without him.
It was one of the most real and terrible experiences of my life and it haunted me, for years; and if I’m being honest I’m still haunted by it. I am absolutely terrified of living through this again, even though I know I eventually will. It’s part of life. We all have to face it one day.
Still, it doesn’t make it easier.
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