My uncle died. He died at the age of 52. He died without me getting the chance to say goodbye. He died of cancer.
When I was first diagnosed with cancer, the first doctor I saw asked me if I had a family history of any type of cancer. I told him no. (At the time my brain wasn’t really functioning.) Doctor number 2 asked the same thing and again I replied with a no. Doctor number 3 asked again. And well the same response of no. Now that I’m up to doctor number 8 I think I should change that answer of no. My grandfather died of lung cancer all the way back in 1997. My uncle died last week of liver cancer and my grandmother has leukaemia. So yes. Cancer is in my family I guess.
Going to my uncle’s funeral was an effort all itself. I haven’t spoken to anyone on my father’s side of the family in nearly 3 years (My fathers brother was the one who died). I didn’t know how my father would react to seeing me, or how my aunts and uncles would react. It was frightening. As I approached the funeral parlour I started to shake. I wasn’t able to walk on my own. I instantly thought to myself ‘What a great time for my legs to go out!’ I called over to my little brother who helped me out of the car and walked with me. I saw my father and he just ignored me. Fine! I wasn’t there for him anyway. After seeing him I regained control of my legs. Ah it was just nerves. Phew!
After the service and on my way to the cemetery I began to feel really selfish. Here I was, supposed to be grieving for my uncle and all I could really think about was my own mortality. Did I have much longer? Will I soon be buried next to him? I didn’t want to think it, but I couldn’t help it.
As the coffin arrived I broke down. Right there in front of my father. I was showing emotions in public and I really didn’t care. I cried for my uncle. My uncle who I hadn’t seen in 3 years. For whom I never answered his calls because I was so angry with my own father. I cried for myself. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want this cancer to be the end of me. I didn’t want to go out like that. Frail and weak.
I pulled myself together and drove off with my sister to visit my grandmother. I hadn’t seen her in about a year. I visited her when I first came back to Australia, but never went back in fear of seeing my father. I was not prepared for what I saw. Yes she had just lost her son and had leukaemia but…….. All her hair was gone. She had the same liver spots as me, only worse. She had a walking stick like me, but seemed to need it more than I did. I saw what could be my future and I didn’t like it at all.