"Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion to death."

Grief strikes at the most unexpected times.
I'll be doing fine, and then the tears will start.
Just because we've been distant for years does not mean that I did not care deeply for my uncle.
Time and distance do not erase love, or the bond formed in childhood.

And then there’s the guilt.
The guilt of how he lived, the guilt of not checking on him more, of not being there for him the way I should have.

I know he was almost 80, and people don’t live forever. 
But I never thought there’d come a day when he wasn’t just a text away.
Stupid of me, I guess.

Cowboy has never handled grief well. 
I learned that when my mother died.
He fusses when I cry, reminding me that guilt won’t change anything.
But it isn’t just guilt. 
My uncle was the only father I ever had.
So I grieve for him as an uncle, and as a father too.

I sent a text to one of Mom’s cousins to let her know Uncle had died. 
I didn’t want her finding out in the paper.
Her brother messaged back and said she’d died on January 1st.
We don’t keep up with the extended family.
Death comes in threes: Cousin E, Aunt L, and Uncle J.

I was not particularly close to the second cousins, as they are my mother’s age.
One mentioned that he had attempted to stay in contact with Uncle, though Uncle rarely responded to messages.

I posted a general announcement on Facebook, where some of those second cousins are on my friends list.
They may share the information with the family if they choose.
Additionally, Cousin placed a notice in the town newspaper.

I contacted the gastroenterologist’s office. 
They already had the referral on file but had not reached out to schedule. 
At 65 years old, Cowboy can’t afford delays, so I arranged the appointment myself. 
It is set for June, which feels far off, but at least it is confirmed.

I finally tackled the mountain of laundry, six loads I’d been putting off, and for once I put the blimey things away.
Right where they belong.
Not crammed into some dark closet, out of sight and out of mind.

I checked to see if I had Uncle’s Purple Heart, as Aunt and the children were searching for it.
What I do have is his Bronze Star, which he gave to Badger in 2018, noting her interest in history and remarking that no one else would care.
I do not have a Purple Heart. 
If he did in fact earn one and given the inconsistencies we continue to uncover about his life, then he must have placed it elsewhere.
I recall seeing a newspaper article indicating he had received one, but that has likely been discarded.

As we risk tetanus every time we touch my old file cabinet, I volunteered Badger for a clean out.
I guess we were in that bedroom a good four or five hours.
I apologized to Badger.
I didn’t realize, look, the entire family are hoarders, okay?
There are a few exceptions.
Very few.
I’m a hide‑everything‑in‑boxes‑and‑neatly‑stack‑them‑in‑closets hoarder.
I threw away a ton of schoolwork, and those things you get from your insurance saying what they’ve paid. I had receipts and warranties, and buddy, they’re gone.
Badger is wanting to find bankers boxes and go through whatever else is still in the closet.
After seeing Uncle’s house, after having to literally take a shovel to get through what Mother left behind, I am not really against a huge clean out.

We finally managed to dig our way out.

Heron went fishing for a bit, then Badger, he, and I watched a movie until late.
I’m heading to bed. I still feel wonky.
Going to the store tomorrow is pretty iffy right now.