There’s a phrase people like to use as we get older—something about how death becomes more frequent, more familiar. I don’t know if “familiar” is the right word. Maybe just… expected.
I’m taking a break from another piece I’ve been working on—one that will probably irritate more people than it enlightens—to talk about something that, in my experience, people don’t like hearing about.
This week, my uncle—my mom’s brother—passed away.
He did a lot of good things in his life. He was an excellent photographer with an extensive portfolio. Beyond that, I can’t say much with certainty. And that’s where things get… complicated.
The last time I saw him in person—really saw him, had an actual conversation—was when I was a junior in high school. Around 1982.
That wasn’t a good encounter.
It happened when my grandmother, his mother, died.
At the time, my grandmother and I weren’t exactly on good terms. I had been called out of school because she’d been taken to the ICU after a heart attack. It was spring, and everything in my life at that moment revolved around the state band festival. We were hosting it. There were logistics, performances, solos—hours and hours of preparation coming to a head.
So I sat in a hospital waiting room.
Waiting.
Everyone else was allowed in to see her. I was told I’d get my turn “shortly.”
I did.
I walked in with the parish priest while he administered last rites—after she had already been pronounced dead.
That moment stuck with me for two reasons.
First, it reinforced something she had said to me more than once: that I wasn’t a priority to her. She’d told me that directly. Along with the classic line about writing me out of the will. At 17, that lands hard. At 60, it still lands hard.
Second, it interrupted a moment in my life that mattered deeply to me. Not in a selfish way—just in the way that something you’ve worked toward for months matters when you’re a kid trying to find your place in the world.
My mom knew all of this. She tried to explain it to her siblings.
They didn’t care.
I wasn’t asked to stay. I was told.
The next evening was the family gathering—stories, remembrance, preparations. I had a band concert that night, part of the same festival. My band director understood everything and didn’t expect me to show up.
But I did.
Because it mattered to me.
I don’t think I had been home for more than 20 minutes before my uncle showed up, furious. “Furious” doesn’t quite cover it. He was livid—angry that I had “insulted” my grandmother by choosing the concert over the family gathering.
My mom tried to defend me, but she was up against a level of stubbornness that didn’t leave room for nuance.
That was the breaking point.
From then on, he essentially cut off communication with me. My sister maintained some level of contact over the years—visits, conversations—but for me, it was always indirect. I’d hear that he asked about me. That he hoped I was doing well.
We never spoke.
Fast forward to 2024—my mom’s passing.
The family planned a memorial at one of her favorite places: a church camp on Flathead Lake. Anyone who’s been there knows how beautiful it is. A perfect place for a chapel. A perfect place to say goodbye.
I had every intention of being there.
And then my life fell apart.
The strokes.
I couldn’t go.
And once again, I heard—through others—that my uncle was “pissed as hell” that I didn’t make time to attend my own mother’s memorial.
I reached out to him a few days later, after things had settled, and sent a message on Facebook.
The response I got back was a thumbs-up.
That was it.
That was the last exchange we ever had.
I’m not happy he’s gone. Not even close.
I don’t celebrate death. Even when someone gives me pause, life doesn’t work that way for me.
What I’ve struggled with—especially since my husband’s death—is the idea that we’re supposed to speak kindly about the dead. That we’re supposed to rewrite history into something softer, something easier for everyone else to hold.
Grief therapy has taught me something different.
People are complicated.
Relationships are complicated.
And sometimes the version of a person that others mourn is not the version you knew.
I have learned—sometimes the hard way—not to interfere with someone else’s grief. If they loved him, if they have good memories, that matters. That’s theirs.
Just like my experience is mine.
I know my mom would be deeply sad if she were here to see this. I know his children and grandchildren have their own stories, their own memories.
For them, I am genuinely sorry for their loss.
But for me?
It feels like I say “my condolences”… and then I go back to what I was doing.
And that bothers me.
It makes me wonder if something in me is broken. If I’ve lost the ability to feel the way I’m supposed to feel.
I know, logically, that I do care.
But lately, everything feels… muted.
Like I hear the news, shrug, and keep moving.
Maybe that’s grief.
Maybe that’s survival.
Maybe that’s just what happens after enough loss stacks up in a short period of time.
I do know this:
My mom stood up for me when it mattered.
She didn’t always understand everything—especially my love of music—but she stood beside me anyway.
And that matters more than I probably gave it credit for at the time.
So if you still can—
Hug your mom.
Today.
And every day you get the chance.