The Ten Most Memorable Events of My Twenties

4. My Uncle Dies of Cancer at 60
March 30, 1997
Age: 23

When I was growing up, my aunt, uncle and cousin lived just seven blocks away from us. I was lucky — some people live far away from their extended families, but mine was in the neighborhood. We belonged to the same synagogue, my cousin and I went to the same schools, and although we travelled in different social circles, we knew lots of the same people. (She was six months older than me.) My aunt, uncle and cousin were not just members of the family, but also neighborhood friends. My grandparents — my dad’s and my aunt’s parents — lived in Queens, so we all used to get together for family occasions. We seemed like a stable, unchanging, eternal unit, the nine of us: my grandparents (the fulcrums), my aunt, my uncle, my mom, my dad, my cousin, my brother and me.

My uncle was born in the summer of 1936, shortly before FDR was reelected in a landslide, and he was named after the president. In contrast to my aunt, who can be quite reserved, my uncle was talkative and funny and charismatic. He lit up a room. He could be corny, and he’d tell the same jokes and stories over and over, but it was all part of his charm.

Sometime in 1995, he learned he had cancer. I think it was lymphoma, but I’m not sure. He tried lots of different treatments. He’d get better, and then he’d start to do poorly again. Throughout his illness I never heard him complain; if he was scared, he didn’t show it. He always projected optimism.

During my first year of law school, his condition got worse. The last time I saw him — I didn’t know it was going to be the last time — was when I was home for spring break. I went to my aunt and uncle’s house to visit, and he seemed fine. We sat in the living room and talked. I’ll always remember one thing he told me during that conversation: the New York Times crossword puzzle gets harder as the week goes on. I couldn’t believe I’d never realized this before. It was such an elegant idea.

After spring break I went back to school. A couple of weeks later, on a Friday, my dad called to tell me that things weren’t looking good. My uncle was in the hospital and he’d gotten much worse. I asked my dad if I should come home. He said I didn’t have to — he might pull through, after all, and my aunt didn’t want it to seem like we were coming home to wait for him to die. So instead I called the hospital in New Jersey and talked to my uncle very briefly. He was somewhat out of it. The last thing he said to me was, “Have a good weekend.”

The weekend continued. Friday night, Saturday. Then, on Sunday afternoon, my dad called again to tell me I should come home. My uncle didn’t have much time left, probably less than a day. Maybe less that that.

I threw some clothes into a bag and tossed it in the trunk of my car. I tore up the Interstate from Charlottesville to New Jersey, faster than I’d ever driven before. It was a seven-hour trip, 400 miles. I didn’t stop until after 300 miles, and that was only to get some gas and a candy bar before hopping back on the road.

I got to the hospital around 7:00 that night. It was Easter, and there weren’t many people around. I went up to a reception desk and said, “I’m trying to find my uncle. He’s a cancer patient.”

Then my dad appeared in the lobby. He saw me, too. He came up to me and put his arm around me. “Uncle Frank died,” he said. He’d died less than an hour earlier.

Jewish funerals are supposed to happen within 24 hours of death, but my uncle had died in the evening and there wasn’t time to prepare for a funeral the next day. So instead we did it the following day, April 1. It snowed on the day of his funeral. I thought to myself, wouldn’t it be funny if this were all an elaborate April Fool’s Joke? Imagine if we’d invited all these family members and friends and members of two congregations (my aunt and uncle had since joined a different synagogue) and assembled them all here, all of these sad, teary people, and then my uncle jumped up out of his coffin? I wonder how everyone would react.

I wonder if they’d all hate us.

I’d lost a grandfather before, but I’d never seen him all that much. My uncle, on the other hand, had been a regular part of my life. Forever. My aunt and uncle were inseparable in my mind — auntmarianandunclefrank. But not anymore. Our group of nine was broken. No more stability. No more balance.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. In fact, it wasn’t supposed to happen. Some things weren’t supposed to change. Right?

My family structure developed a crack that day. Sicne then, it’s only gotten messier: my cousin had a baby out of wedlock, then got married, then divorced. Last year my other grandfather died, and we’ve just put my grandmother in a nursing home. There are all these holes in my family now. Scars of people who are missing.

That’s how life works, I guess.

I just didn’t realize it until my uncle died.