A Pretty Good Trip

When I was two years old, we moved from San Antonio to Denver. All of my mom’s siblings (six of them to be exact) lived within a 15 mile radius of one another in Denver and it was the first time I was around my mom’s side of the family. I’ve never been shy so bonding with the family wasn’t a problem…except for Uncle Brad. I’ve been told that he terrified me. This isn’t really hard to imagine as most people were afraid of my uncle when they first met him. He was an imposing figure. At well over six feet tall and, at times, over 300 lbs. he was a big man. He had many tattoos and had no problem telling you exactly what was on his mind. He’d had a wild youth and though he had done very well for himself in adulthood, he never really lost his thug/pimp persona. We used to laugh that you can take the boy out of the Northside, but you can never really take the Northside out of the boy.

As my family was sitting around chatting on Sunday, my Aunt Carol told a story about how hurt my uncle would get every time we had family dinners because I wouldn’t go near him. I’d crawl up on everyone’s lap but his. I’d giggle and play with anyone who would approach me but I’d run to my mom when Uncle Brad would come around. This went on for nearly two years and he would always comment about how much he hated that I was scared of him. I’m not sure what the turning point was for us but somewhere around the age of four or five I stopped being afraid of Uncle Brad and fell in love with him.

He became my most favorite relative. I used him as my personal jungle gym, climbing and jumping all over him. He would throw me up on his shoulders and run me around the house as I screamed and giggled at ear-piercing levels. His house had a pool in the back yard and he would stand at the bottom of the slide and catch me when I came down. He would toss me through the air over and over because I loved splashing into the water. He would let me swim for hours and hours in the summer and long after everyone went into the house for the evening, Uncle Brad would turn on the lights and sit next to the pool just because I loved swimming so much.

When my cousins Bradley and Jordan were born, I vividly remember being jealous because I had to share the attention he once lavished on me alone. As I grew up, nearly every birthday I had was celebrated with a bbq at Uncle Brad’s house. He spoiled me with lovely gifts and treated me as if I was his own daughter. Before my dad moved back from California, Uncle Brad was absolutely a father figure for me. And even when my dad moved back and we began to build a relationship, Uncle Brad was still a central figure in my life.

I was thrilled when I was accepted to Creighton but I was also aware that the cost would be much higher than attending a state school. At my high school graduation party, Uncle Brad pulled me aside and told me he would pay for whatever I needed. He did the same thing at my college graduation party when he found out I’d been accepted into law school. Though I never took him up on the offer, the gesture meant the world to me. My education was so important to him and he always made sure I knew how proud he was of me.

We spoke on the phone two weeks ago. I honestly don’t remember what we were talking about but our conversation ended the way they always did…
“Ok, I’ll talk to you soon. I love you, Uncle Brad.”
“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Last Thursday I was headed to the airport to go to Emily’s wedding when my cell phone rang. I’d just dropped Barley off at my Bradley’s house and he was calling my cell. I picked up the phone expecting to hear my cousin tell me that Barley had dug up the yard or run away. But as we all know, life is never really what we expect.

I was at the hospital fifteen minutes later. I walked into the same ER where I had been admitted not too long ago. I gave the charge nurse my name and explained that my uncle had been brought in by ambulance a few minutes earlier. She asked his name and when I told her I noticed her eyes drop.

And that’s when I knew.

She told me she needed to call someone and suddenly a security guard was taking me to the “quiet room”. The chaplain showed up a few minutes later but didn’t want to say anything until the rest of the family arrived.

I sat in that room for over 15 minutes by myself.

My family arrived and everyone got the news I already knew. The ER doctor spoke to us but I don’t remember everything.

Massive heart attack...very quickly...he didn't suffer.

I called my mom. In my entire life, the hardest thing I’ve ever done was to tell my mom in Michigan that her brother had died. The fact that I had to do it over the phone made it even worse.

I don’t remember exactly what happened in the days that followed. There were lots of phone calls and arrangements to be made. Bouquets of flowers arrived at my house and my refrigerator quickly filled with food from family and friends. I collected pictures from everyone in the family for a video. My mom and step-dad flew in over the weekend. We all got together for Sunday dinner/Mother’s Day celebration. Tuesday night we had the wake and Wednesday was the funeral.

I gave the eulogy. I wrote one out but didn’t end up using it – I decided to wing it because that felt more natural. I don’t remember a lot of what I said but I want to share the story I ended it with.

When I was 16, Uncle Brad asked me to take a road trip to Yellowstone with him and the kids. Bradley was 9 and Jordan was 6 and as a 16 year old, I had no interest in 10 days in an RV. Somehow Uncle Brad talked me into it. The entire trip was a comedy of errors. Uncle Brad thought we had reservations at an RV camp the first night but when we arrived we found out that no such reservation existed. We spent the night in the parking lot of a Burger King. Bradley was going through a phase in which he wore this horrible beret everywhere and it made me crazy. Jordan was just old enough to copy everything I did the entire trip. I thought I was entirely too cool to be hanging with my family and everything Uncle Brad did embarrassed me to no end. We took stupid touristy pictures everywhere and did stupid touristy things. Several times I thought about hitch-hiking home. On the drive home, the RV started making odd noises. About 50 miles outside of Denver, it coughed and sputtered to a stop on the side of some back road Uncle Brad insisted we take. “The Scenic Route” as he called it. He spent some time under the hood and spewed forth a buffet of curse words as he tried to fix the problem. We didn’t get back on the road again until the following morning. The sun was coming up and I was awake in the front seat as my cousin slept soundly in the back room. I was sat fuming about the awful trip and how I’d missed a week of summer vacation with my friends. As we pulled into the driveway, Uncle Brad looked over at me and smiled.

“It was a pretty good trip, wasn’t it?”

I scowled. “What trip were you on?”

He laughed and turned off the ignition. “Yep, that was a pretty good trip.”

I think if he were here today he’d be saying the exact same thing: his life - despite all the ups and downs, the forks in the road, the unexpected twists and turns - was a pretty good trip.