A few weeks ago, my great uncle died. He was in his 90s, and it wasn’t entirely unexpected, even though it was sad to see him go. When a guy is in his 90s, it’s not like you (should) think you have all the time in the world to hang out, but somehow I thought I’d have more warning of his coming death, at least in time to introduce him to my husband. My uncle was a theater teacher from the late-50s through the mid 80s. He took some breaks to try to produce shows professionally, and for a while, he had a radio show. He was way into photography too and had some success with it, but most of his time was spent teaching high school drama. I thought he would like my husband– they have that whole theater connection thing, and they could talk about staging shows, and they could talk about lighting and depression era plays. But now they can’t because Uncle B is dead, and even though J and I have been together for more than five years now, we just ran out of time.

I mean, I guess it doesn’t make sense to introduce my husband to my very elderly relatives just so that he can like them before they die. That seems pretty unfair to all parties.

But the funeral was held in Southern California at the theater that is now named for my uncle. Former students came out of the woodwork to talk about the impact that he had on their lives– the confidence he inspired, and the fear of his disapproval and the pride they still felt in the productions from this tiny little drama program. Everyone remarked that the true measure of a teacher’s success can never be determined, not even after his death.

Cyncially (because it’s February and I’m tired), I thought, shit. That’s the thing about being a teacher– they won’t even leave you alone when you’re dead.

And I carried that thought around for another week– one’s life’s work is selfishly taken up by those in whose service the work is done. I’m glad my uncle has a theater named for him, and I’m glad he has so many pictures of life through such turbulent times in the US and then such serenity in his retirement in the mountains just east of Santa Cruz, CA. But I wonder if he felt like he had enough time for his own family, for his own children, or if they felt (as I did with a teaching mother) that the kids at work sometimes got more attention.

Then, like a week later, my step mother died. She had my dad divorced in 1994 or so, and then she had a breakdown and took out a restraining order against my dad, and it was all very messy and terrible. She went off-map for a bit, and then she sent me a birthday card, and that’s how we’ve kept in touch since. Mostly by birthday/Christmas cards and the occasional letter or email. This last Christmas for the first time ever, she included her phone number for me to call or text. I thought about calling and sent a text instead. She texted for the last time on January 27– just short that she missed and loved me. And I returned the sentiment a few days after that. A week later, she was dead. Her sister emailed me a “Thought you should know” type message. Heart failure. Age 70. Signed a DNR. Now, 70 isn’t exactly young, but it’s not that old either. A DNR at 70 seems like… I don’t know. But she was more of a parent to me than my dad was while we were growing up, and I am sad that she is gone. She hinted that she was going to visit when she retired (she never retired), and now J won’t be able to meet her either.

She could be terrible. She open hand slapped my brother at one of my birthday parties, and at another one, called parents to come get their kids in the middle of the night because my dad was drunk and she had a migraine. She bought me school clothes one size too small as incentive to lose weight, so I always had a closet full of clothes that didn’t fit, and a self-esteem that was barely detectable. But that was how she showed me that she loved me, I guess. And it all doesn’t matter now because she’s dead, and it hasn’t mattered for twenty years because I haven’t seen her.

A week later, her sister emailed a follow up email that she had been diagnosed with lymphoma and had turned down chemo, etc. In light of that news and considering her age, I can understand the blessing of a heart attack. She lived alone, no children of her own, some casual acquaintences, no pets, and her life’s work was really reflective of her incredible organization skills– she did office work, mostly, and started over again so many times that I think her last job was one she had for less than ten years. She was cremated, scattered in the ocean. No service. No obituary.

And now I’m struggling with that. When I die, I want people to be super fucking sad. Like pulling hair out all ancient Greek style, and I want annual memorials to remind people that I’m still dead, and people will pull their hair out again, etc. etc. She doesn’t even have a headstone, and without descendants, it’s not like someone in the future is going to be on one of those shows in which they discover their roots that lead back to her, the Mother of All of California or whatever. When she was my age, her life looked a lot like mine (in terms of stability) but mine is without step children. She was married, owned a house, had a steady job and friends and a good dog and a working car. And then twelve years later, bam! Her life was all blown to tatters and debris, and she was in her fifties trying to find a new career in a new state, and ugh. And then twenty years later, she died, not unmourned, but not celebrated either.

I think I will take this life’s work over the one that includes the stuffing of envelopes, even if just for the mourners.