The Mourning After

My Uncle George is on the left end of the couch at this last Easter.

About nine years ago, my Uncle George was first diagnosed with cancer. He ended up beating the disease that time, but a few short years later it was back, and this time with finality. On Friday he finally passed on, at the ripe young age of 59, leaving behind my Aunt Melissa and a bunch of siblings, a mother, and nieces and nephews. Quite obviously he died too young, quite obviously he will be sorely missed, and quite clearly, cancer sucks. His viewing will be Thursday and his funeral on Friday.

For those of us who work in Democratic politics, we talk often about the proverbial "Republican uncle," and for me, George was literally it. We didn't agree on much of anything in our world views, and that was the charm in the relationship. Despite those differences, we still found many common grounds to agree on. I went to my first concert with him, a Rolling Stones show at Giants Stadium on the 1994 "Voodoo Lounge" tour (in fact, I saw the Stones at Giants Stadium with him twice). I saw my second concert with him too, Tom Petty at the Spectrum on the "Wildflowers" tour. We went to sporting events with him, concerts, hung out in New York City with him, and did a lot together over the many years I knew him. He and my aunt always liked going to a restaurant called Esposito's in New Jersey, meaning we even had similar food tastes too. He busted my chops quite a bit over the years, but so many of the best experiences in my life, he was a part of. When I think back over the years, I remember him at my high school and college graduations, I remember bits and pieces of their wedding, NFL games in the Meadowlands, concerts, and so much more. The memories are all happy now.

When I went to visit with him last Sunday, it was clear the end was nearing. The human body is only made to take such abuse, and even a strong spirit eventually wants to go. When I heard that he died, in a strange way I felt relieved for him. We all reach our time, and while his was far too young for how good of a guy he was, he reached that time. My father called me a few hours before he died and said they were going to sit bedside with him and play some Rolling Stones music for him. I can't think of a more fitting way to go.

The death of a close family member often leaves one deep in thought. For the last day plus, I really didn't have any words to say, so I didn't. In the aftermath, I find myself a bit more thankful that ten days shy of turning 33, I have my parents, my grandmother, most of my aunts and uncles, and even several great-aunts and uncles. At times it seems like a burden, something that weighs me down, and at times like this, I realize that i'm very lucky. As a believer, I find myself praying that the good Lord takes care of George Schmitt, and brings him home to him now. As a person, I find myself pondering what my days left will be like.

As I stated at the top, 59 is too young to die. Cancer is a terrible way to go. I also know that he lived a good life. The impression he left on myself and my family was a great one in life, and we'll carry that memory forward with us for the rest of our lives.