Journal 11

Brittney's Part:

Death, for me, is a very weird topic to have to write about. In the year two thousand and seven, I lost my Uncle Joe. He was the uncle that I had always been closest to, and his loss his me very hard. He found out in two thousand and six that he had pancreatic cancer. There was not much hope for him as he traveled from state to state, trying to find someone that could definitely help him. When he did find the treatment and care that he needed, it was very expensive. He went through with most of it, but when he realized the toll that the money loss was taking on his family, he decided that it was time to give up. His family set him up with a hospice, and my other aunt and her husband, both in the medical field, also helped to take care of him through his last weeks.

I was in a choir group called swinging sounds and we were having practice when my mother came in. She talked to the director and she told me that we needed to leave. Not understanding the severity of the situation, I fought with my mother. I loved being at the swinging sounds practice and because of that, I did not want to leave. My mom finally yanked me out of the room and we went out to the car. When we got out to the car, she told me that my uncle was not going to live for much longer and that we needed to go say goodbye.

When we got to my uncle's home, there were a lot of people there. Only my mother was with me at the time, because my father was working and my brother was not yet old enough to totally understand everything that was happening. We went inside and spent some time just chatting. When it came time to leave, I had no idea what I was going to do. I had practically spent the whole time crying, because I was so upset. I was coaxed to go over to my uncle's death bed and give him a kiss on the forehead and tell him goodbye. Only being in eighth grade, this was the most difficult thing I ever had to do in my entire lifetime. So I did as I was told, while bawling my eyes out, and we were about to walk out.

The last thing I saw, before leaving my uncle's home, was my first cousin once-removed, my uncle's grandson, saying goodbye to his pawpaw. James did not understand anything that was going on, but only the fact that he was leaving his grandpa's house. I saw him give Uncle Joe a quick kiss and say, "Goodbye, Pawpaw. See you later." Thinking back now, this is one of the most sad memories I have of my uncle and cousin, because, even though James did not know it, he would not be seeing his Pawpaw later.

Maddie's Addition:

I have been coping pretty well, but, in the year we learned he had cancer, we coincidentally moved to Missouri. My friend, Elise (back then, she was almost my step-sister), and I complied a set of books to mail to Uncle Joe. We knew he was sick, and that he loved to read. So I gathered up a bunch of books that I thought would be too advanced for me; just right for him. Adventures of Huckleberry, Tom Sawyer, and others were included. I taped a note to the top of the pile: 'Uncle Joe, I hope you get better soon and I can't wait to see you soon! I also hope you like these books. Love, Madison and Elise.'

But on the day we were going to send them out, we got hit with some horrible news.

"Okay, let's go!" I said to Elise, exuberant to send something to Joe.

"Where are you girls going?" My mom surprised us, coming up the stairs as we were about to go down. She looked sad, upset, distraught, but we couldn't figure out why. Furthermore, we didn't really notice it too much then.

"We got the books for Uncle Joe done! Can we send them?" Mom cringed at the mention of Joe. My heart stopped. "What? Can we?" I asked, my excitement quickly being replaced by fear.

"Um… Listen, girls. Uncle Joe… passed away. We… We won't be seeing him anymore. I'm sorry." She gave us both a hug, Elise returning it, but I was frozen in shock and hurt. I looked at the books in my hand. They once made me feel happy and excited: 'I'm doing something good for my sick uncle!' Now, though, all they held was anger and sadness. I trudged back into my room, still frozen. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks freely. Elise hugged me tightly, wanting to understand the pain I was feeling. She had never experienced death so close, being only 7 then. For that matter, neither was I. My great-grandma had died when I was 5, but I didn't-and still don't-remember it at all.

Presently, I shrugged Elise off, and she let go of me. She walked back to her room, this time understanding that I wanted to be left alone. I threw the books onto the floor, collapsed right next to them, and grabbed the Mark Twain book. I clawed and ripped and the note attached to the cover. My tears blurred my vision, but I kept ripping at the paper. I finally broke a nail and tore a hole in the cover, so I threw it back on the ground. My tears subsided as I remembered something. I sat straight up. Flinging open the closet door, shoving aside old bags, making an even bigger mess of my closet, my heart raced. Please tell me it's still here. I begged silently. Please, God, please, please let it be here. Finally, a tuft of yellow fur emerged from the heap of bags and paper. I grinned right through my tears and yanked it out. It was a stuffed animal. More specifically, it was a stuffed Woodstock (from the Peanuts cartoons). I knew its name was Woodstock; still I said, "Your name is now Joe. My uncle Joe gave you to me as a sort of gift, and he just died." There was an audible catch in my voice when I said 'Joe' and 'died'. I went on, despite the fresh tears pooling in my eyes, "You are named in memory of him. I will always keep you, forever and ever."

Still, to this day, I have the little stuffed bird. I was nine then; I am twelve now. Joe lies by my bed, blending in perfectly with all of my other stuffed animals. But this one in particular serves a purpose, and that is to remind me that, no matter how bleak things get, it will all be okay in the end. Take a rainbow, for example. To get a rainbow, you need rain. So, in order to find the rainbow of life, you need to go through some rain to get to it.