By Moriah Vazquez / Herald Forum
I write this today on the anniversary of my Uncle David’s death, because it’s taken me a long time to form words and thoughts to talk about him. My Uncle David; the guy who runs toward fun, has a very serious side related to craftsmanship and sentimental objects, and reserved a twinkle in his eye for the best moments.
Reflecting on his life, I’ve realized my Uncle David is hard to talk about because he’s a paradox. He skipped school to go skiing, but would also let you know when you took the wrong route from point A to B. He loved fun and was also known for years in my family as our beloved grumpy bear. He had dear, dear friends and pushed some of his most loved people away. He was complicated.
My earliest memories of Uncle David were of him floating in and out of my grandparents house. When I went to Grandma’s I never knew when he’d pop through the door for a bite and a chat with my Mom, or when he’d float on to his next place, which was usually Ellensburg. As a child it didn’t occur to me to question how and why he came and went. He just did.
As I got older he’d invite me to be part of special things. I got to ride in his Bronco with the top down, which I hated because it was windy. I cried and my little fit as a kid made him pull over to have me ride the rest of the way with my grandparents. But it also made him giggle with the usual twinkle in his eye at a baby not ready for adventures in the elements. While working on various projects for my Grandpa, Uncle David would take a moment to show me why he was sanding something, or the proper way to caulk. He had a method and precision for everything that was an expression of art for him while driving the rest of us nuts.
I don’t remember what started it, but when I got older we made a tradition of meeting at the pass to ski on my birthday. We went for a few years, and it was something I treasured. We’d talk about my Mom, the guy in front of us on the ski lift, anything. He’d also bring his close friends he skied with all the time while his daughter (my dear cousin) Kourtnie was in school. He would buy me lunch and coffee, and one year he even bought me a fancy ski mask I still have. We’d talk all day about anything and everything. I loved it.
I don’t remember why we stopped this tradition, but it fell off with the rising ski lift prices and his failing health. I treasure those memories. Those days, combined with other random projects, led to so much laughter and mischief. And if something was going weird at a family event I could always look to my uncle David to share my sentiment and a giggle.
When he got sick the first time I was young. All I knew was that my Aunt Stacie’s research and vigilance saved him, and this was how we met the family dermatologist I still see today. We started wearing sunscreen all the time and checking our skin for signs of trouble. His scare helped us avoid more cancer.
The next time he got sick I was older and didn’t know what to do. I heard the news by accident (thanks to my brother who knows I need to know these things) and had to leave work that day. The first cancer round you feel hopeful and we were rewarded. I knew we couldn’t escape a second diagnosis for him. The day I found out I couldn’t stop crying.
As he fought that fight, I waited. I felt a strange mix of doom and denial. I knew we wouldn’t be lucky. I knew he wouldn’t get through this. But I couldn’t imagine a world without him. My mother dove into his care needs and carefully tracked what doctors told us so she could relay it to the family. She drove him to appointments, worked to help Kourtnie and my Grandma and Grandpa wherever she could, and did it with a drive that still makes me cry.
At the time I shut down any thoughts that he wouldn’t survive. I convinced myself he’d pull through and blissfully hung onto that, to the point that I ignored all signs he was fading. I have many regrets that I didn’t bother him, text him, and make him spend more time with me even when he was tired of talking and in bear mode.
I got to say goodbye. In a strange combination of my husband insisting I stay home from a planned trip, to my Mom being prohibited from returning to his room because of covid protocols, I got a whole day with him. The day after, he told my aunt that he didn’t need to talk much or go over family memories because I’d made him do that.
Our last day we talked about all the happy memories I could think of and present nonsense. We giggled about our family members and our ski trips. We complained about the inconvenient covid protocols. We reminisced about our favorite place; the lake. He got annoyed at my chatter, and I fussed over his blankets and weird habit of leaving one of his feet half out of the sock. I brought him a Snoopy blanket he loved and flowers that made him sneeze, so I threw them out.
I hated and loved our last day. I hate that we lost him. I love that he got to see his dear daughter and some of his most beloved ones on the last day.
I’m stuck and can’t say more.
Don’t delay saying I love you.
Moriah Vazquez lives in Ballard with her husband, Marco. She grew up in Monroe and visits her parents and grandparents there.
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