LAST Tuesday, my uncle died. It was lung cancer, not Covid-19, but it’s the changes compelled by this pandemic that are keeping us from flying to Laguna to be with his family.
The name he shared with his father was Jose, although I had always known him as my Uncle Dodoy. He was 63, a full decade younger than his oldest sister, my mother. Dodoy was what she had always called him. In all the years when she spoke with or about him, whether in exasperation or fondness, that was always the name he went by.
It’s a mark of how far apart we had drifted that I only got to meet his daughter, my cousin Jackie, for the first time last year. It was a lovely visit, though all too short. We talked about seeing one another again soon but had yet to make firm plans. I had met his son Jason only once before, when my uncle brought his small family to Cebu for a visit. That was more than 30 years ago.
We were not always distant, though. My uncle had an irreverent sense of humor and a talent for mischief. When he was younger and lived with us, his friends often sought him out. He was a real life-of-the-party type. On some nights when he went out drinking, he wouldn’t make it home.
It occurs to me now that I have no idea how much my mother must have worried, on those nights. The person I remember isn’t exactly the same person my mother knew. Even within families, individuals never fully reveal themselves. What we have at best is the view from one angle, seen under limited light.
I have not had the chance to grieve my uncle’s death. It has not quite sunk in. Perhaps if we could observe death’s familiar little rituals, I might feel something. But for now, my most urgent emotion seems to be worry. I worry about how this loss might weigh on my mother.
There’s an emerging sense of loss, yes. Mostly it comes from knowing this was one more relationship that will always be beyond repair. One more person I should have invested more time in but now will never know.
My clearest memory of my late Uncle Dodoy comes from when I was a teenager (in other words, it was a very long time ago). My mother had to rush from her office to the church where a friend’s wedding was to take place. It was my uncle’s job to make sure that I made it to the church on time, as I was one of the junior bridesmaids. We got there with plenty of time to spare. No muss, no drama. He kept making me laugh so there was no time to get nervous.
It was only later, when the pictures arrived, that we realized something had gone amiss.
In the photos, I looked like the five other bridesmaids, in a soft pink gown, a garden party hat, way too much makeup and a general air of awkwardness. Only one detail reminds me that it was my uncle in whose care and supervision I had been placed that day.
There, just under the hem of a delicate satin and tulle skirt, my espadrilles peeped out. They were ratty and old and clashed with the rest of the outfit. They were also, that summer, my most beloved pair. Either my uncle wasn’t paying close enough attention to see them, or he just didn’t care how the shoes looked because a higher priority was to make sure I felt at ease.
I will never know now. So it’s the latter I’ll choose to believe.
As of this weekend, Covid-19 has claimed more than 275,000 lives. No one knows how high those numbers will rise. It sounds trite to say it, but it’s not too late to reach out and repair some relationships—with a sibling, a parent, a friend we’ve lost touch with, a partner we’re at risk of outgrowing.
Time is not promised us. For all our precautions, some of the relationships we’ve shunted aside or taken for granted could end soon. It’s a terrible thing to admit but I never got to know my uncle well enough. It’s one of this pandemic’s lessons I hope to truly learn.