Despite what people say so often, family isn’t defined only by blood relations. There are parents who aren’t there for their kids, aunts and uncles who come around only when it’s convenient for them, grandparents who favor one set of grandchildren and treat the others as being lesser. These relations are technically family, but there are so much healthier, more fulfilling relationships people can make between their friends or friends of the family; these relationships should be and often are, considered family in the eyes of those in these relationships. I am no stranger to these sorts of connections and treasure them with all that I am.
For example, I was born into one of these relationships due to my parents’ mutual friendship with an old friend, whom both of them looked at like a brother. From my earliest memories of him, he was always Uncle Sac.
October 7, 2016, we lost Sac after a long battle with cancer. I hadn’t seen him in years because he’d moved to Texas, but when I found out I felt like my whole world was tilted on its side. I was so shocked at first that I couldn’t even cry, despite how badly I wanted to.
Ever since the fall ushered itself in, I couldn’t help thinking of him, and I wanted to pay him tribute somehow, and it only seemed right to do it with one of my passions.
Anyone who knew my uncle knew he was a man who spent as much time as he could do what he loved, from playing music to riding motorcycles to just spending time with the people who meant something to him; if he could combine some of those together, even better.
My dad used to throw these parties in the summer, and Uncle Sac would always play with his band at them. They’d set up in front of our garage, and we’d ride around the neighborhood just to make sure the amps weren’t too loud as the band set up. They’d play for hours, and you could bet that I would be perched at the top of our front steps, right behind the left speaker, rather than playing with the kids my age. Every so often, Uncle Sac would look up at me and smile, and it made me feel so special and loved. He always knew just how to make those around him feel like they mattered.
He was loved no matter where he went and was always inclusive. I never saw him anywhere near angry, and so many of us were touched by his positive, carefree attitude. He was a friend to and loved by so many.
Even after years without contact outside of phone calls, we were devastated at the news of his diagnosis, considering it was stage four by the time news made it back to Rhode Island. I remember talking to my dad and saying something along the lines of “The ones who deserve nothing but sunshine are often met with rainstorms,” and he agreed. The statement meant so much to me that I wrote it down, and looking back at it still brings me that feeling of helplessness.
He fought hard, living months longer than he was expected to, the fighter that he was. But the end of the battle was inevitable, and all of us knew it. As devastating as the news was, it was also a sort of relief because someone who deserved so much was no longer suffering.
A year after losing him, there are some things I still wish I could say: I love you, and thank you for being the best uncle a girl could ever ask for. You’re the one who inspired my love for music, even if I never came up with a song for you to learn to play for me. You’re one of the people who inspired me to follow my passions because I saw how much it fulfilled you to follow yours. I miss you. I love you.
