On December 2, 2010 my uncle passed away. On December 2, 2010 my heart broke. I used to think that “you broke my heart” was just an expression, but that was only because I had never truly experienced a broken heart before. By that time I had broken up with more than a few boyfriends, shed my fair share of tears — probably more than my fair share, actually — and sworn multiple times that life could never be the same, that I couldn’t possible keep going on without them. I was wrong.
People don’t seem to understand how I felt when my uncle died. Even though no one says it, I can feel them thinking “he was only your uncle, not like he was your dad or grandad.” But see, I don’t think people usually have a relationship with their uncles as close as ours was. For years we were inseparable. He would take me everywhere with him. He taught me how to ride a bike and that you should always read before going to bed, he taught me the importance of exercising and that smoking is not that great. He taught me that you should be open-minded and not judge, because you never know the story behind everyone else around you. He taught me that you should treat people with respect, everyone. He taught me that my opinion mattered, and that only I could make decisions for myself. He taught me to follow my dreams, to keep going even when things don’t go my way, to never give up. He taught me how to always see the bright side of things, and that my future is mine to shape in any way I wanted.
He was an adventurer, a lover of life, and that was what he was doing on his last day. I remember getting a call at work. He was caught in a storm in Patagonia, where he was doing an expedition. The bad weather was keeping the helicopter from getting to him and the rest of his group. They were trapped.
I left work without saying much. I rushed home, praying and crying, and hoping for the best — like he had taught me all my life. A few hours later, bittersweet news. He had stopped breathing, but was revived. There it was, my sliver of hope, my light at the end of the tunnel. My stepdad woke me up in the middle of the night. He hadn’t made it. I cried more than I’d ever cried before. I jumped in the shower at 5 am just to drown my tears. I got out and then we headed to my grandma’s house.
The following days were a blur. My mom and stepdad went with my grandma and my uncle’s wife to Argentina. I stayed behind to take care of my younger brother and sister. My mission was to keep them from feeling sad, so I planned fun days and adventures for us to take our minds off of things. A lot of junk food and movies were trying their best to cover the sun with one finger. I still felt sad all day, everyday, but I didn’t let it show. My uncle’s body was trapped on top of a mountain because rescuers still could not reach him. The rest of his group had made their way down. The new plan was to have all the family down there to say our final goodbyes.
So there we went. Me and two kids on a 12-hour flight, then another 3-hour flight, then a 2-hour bus ride. 24 hours later we finally made it to the small town in Patagonia where my uncle was last. We were prepared to say goodbye, to come back with nothing but empty hands and lots of tears. But a true miracle happen. The skies clear the very next day just long enough for a helicopter to make it all the way up there and bring him down.
Between the taking care of the kids, the traveling, the excitement of having his body with us and not stuck in a mountain for eternity, and the coming back home, I didn’t have time to grief until I was driving to work the day after we got home. That’s when I felt it.
My heart was broken. I could feel like someone was stabbing me over and over again with a dull knife, one that doesn’t kill you but hurts like fucking shit. It took me months to pick up the pieces, to try to patch it together. It’s been 7 years and it hasn’t fully healed. I can occasionally still feel that dull knife stabbing my heart. Sometimes it makes sense, like when it’s his birthday or the anniversary of his death. Other times, though, it’s when I least expect it. When I’m incredibly happy and I wanna call and tell him — stabbed. When I’m incredibly sad and I wanna call and get him to comfort me — stabbed. When I’m just having a regular day and I wanna call him just to check in — stabbed.
Even though it still hurts, I’m still heartbroken — I do believe that it gets better as time goes by. Because that’s what he taught me — to never lose hope. I’ve learned to live with the heartbreak, I’ve learned to live without him, but mostly because — as corny as it sounds — I do feel like he never really left me.