I rewrote this many times, trying to find my heart in all this loss.

I wanted to see my uncle one last time before he passed. His cancer-riddled state didn’t matter; I would do anything to talk to him again.

Only, I didn’t get that chance.

In our anguish over fulfilling others’ final wishes and ensuring their peace, we often forget to address our own needs.

So here I am–this is me unwrapping the gift Uncle Rob left us–having meaningful connections with those we love.

My uncle had everything he needed to say goodbye to this life, but when I didn’t get that final moment, I took it hard.

Alex asked why it was so crucial for me to see my uncle.

“Wouldn’t having a great relationship with your uncle be far more everlasting than the sadness of not talking to him one last time?”

His question had no answer. I wasn’t just feeling sorrow; I was grappling with loss.

Loss is a universal experience with deeply personal interpretations. Explaining what it means to me can feel like a personal crusade rather than sharing a universal truth, and it can almost seem uncomfortable to even talk about.

For me, loss means a part of someone’s story is missing.

I have a knack for getting to the heart of anyone’s story. Give me a chance to talk to you, and I’ll understand you. It’s just something I do naturally. It can be off-putting, confusing, entertaining, intriguing to those on the receiving end, and fulfilling or disheartening for me, depending on how well I did.

Once, in college, I saw Rick Fox on campus—hardly the place for a heart-to-heart conversation—but that didn’t stop me. We shared a basketball connection; my dad and he both played for Dean Smith at Carolina, albeit in different eras.

It was a sunny, Carolina-blue afternoon, and we started talking. Before long, our conversation went so deep that Rick asked if I was recruiting him for my dad (who owned the Miami Heat at the time).

To me, that was a meaningful conversation.

I am always happy to give this gift of listening (maybe insight wrapped in a story, okay, there’s always a lesson smothered in there, too), and very few people can give it back. Though rare, I’ve come to appreciate it as a unique part of who I am.

Imagine my profound sense of loss upon realizing that Uncle Rob naturally did what I had unconsciously taken for granted.

I never even noticed how he pulled the story out of me, all those conversations. We talked about my writing, but I never pulled his story out. What about his?

All those Thanksgivings, I did most of the talking. I was young and finding my way. Uncle Rob always listened, offering gentle nudges.

He once told me, “To be a good writer, you need to be a good listener. I’m still working on that.”

“You’re such a good listener,” I retorted. “Listening is easy; writing is what’s hard.” He absorbed everything I said, even when he had already made his point and I had brushed past it in haste.

Uncle Rob knew that haste doesn’t make a good listener.

Every Thanksgiving, I’d share stories with Uncle Rob; he was my best audience. Once, I told him about my college professor warning me that TV was the death of creativity and advising me to skip TV, waitress, and write instead. We laughed.

Come to think of it, he laughed so easily around me.

We laughed at the idea of me waitressing for a living. I failed miserably at my only waitressing job at Bob’s Big Boy. It taught me that polyester (in the 80s) is itchy, hair nets are not a fashion statement, and you can’t use the first-day excuse with regulars. No one appreciates getting their silverware and drinks after the meal, even the old-timers at Bob’s Big Boy.

Uncle Rob was a veterinarian by day and a writer at every other moment.
He’d write before and after work, sometimes late into the night, and on weekends—whenever he could find the time. At least, that’s what he did back then.

One Thanksgiving, I brought Alex home to meet the family. Uncle Rob spoke to Alex about trading stocks with the same ease he discussed writing. He could converse about anything.

He also had a profound spiritual side. When I lamented about writer’s block, he told me how he meditated.

I initially dismissed that idea, much like the waitress-writer notion, and he sent me a framed note, “Stephanie, Trust me, I have everything under control. Jesus.”

He patiently waited until I grew old enough to understand his wisdom–we can’t control inspiration, or even life, for that matter, but we can be more receptive.

When I got cancer, Uncle Rob sent me a book titled “Walking With Jesus” to give me the words to comfort me in my greatest need.

The last time I saw Uncle Rob was three years ago at a family christening, shortly after I had recovered from cancer. I told him that I meditate daily, and we discussed my blog and how I stopped writing for myself and transitioned to writing for others.

I only had time for one story, so I made it quick. I proudly shared with Uncle Rob that I was a dog whisperer, thinking he’d get a kick out of it.

One day, Alex and I were walking Holly when a neighborhood dog charged at us, barking ferociously. I told Alex, holding Holly’s leash, to step aside. I stood before the dog, raised my hand, and commanded, “Stay. Go home.”

To my astonishment, the dog obeyed. I had never managed to get a dog to listen to me before. I was so pleased.

But Uncle Rob didn’t laugh. He very seriously said, “Stephanie, that dog could have killed you. That dog listened to you only because it knew those commands.”

When Uncle Rob spoke up, it was for an important reason.

I recovered from cancer, and Uncle Rob was diagnosed with his own.

I wanted him to send that cancer away, or perhaps it was just my desperate hope.

I never knew what had happened with his writing. He had mentioned he wasn’t writing anymore. But why? I never pressed him. I have a knack for digging deep, but I didn’t ask. I never had time to dig deep with him because he was always digging deep with me.

Now I know what Rick Fox must have felt.

Our conversations grew infrequent, relegated to text messages; the last one, all he could write was Love you.

Cancer takes a physical toll on us—somehow, even I forget that part. My hair grew back, and I “looked” healthy again. I wanted to believe I was okay so Uncle Rob would be.

But my uncle’s passing reminds me that life doesn’t follow my plan.

And now I’ll never know the one missing chapter of my uncle’s life–whatever happened to his writing? If I had only been more present and asked.

The point with Uncle Rob was that he drew the story out of you. The memorable parts weren’t about him; they were about you, your experiences, your growth.

He believed that everyone had a story worth telling and that those stories were what connected us. Uncle Rob had a way of making you feel seen, understood, and valued.

It’s what made his unpublished writing all the more pressing–it was one missing chapter. And yet, I’m wondering if Uncle Rob never intended for me to uncover his story so that I could be further driven to live out the ones he helped inspire in me.

His legacy continues through each of us as we share our stories–we’re the missing chapter of his life.

After the Thanksgiving cleanup, or sometimes we’d have stolen moments before, he would listen intently, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. Then, he’d quietly laugh, and I couldn’t help but keep talking.

In these conversations, I found a mentor and a confidant who valued every word I spoke and gently guided me to uncover my own truths.

I never got my last chance to see Uncle Rob, and I wanted that more than anything.

But we had already had all the conversations we were going to have.

I know you’ll always feel how much I love you, dear uncle. You listen better than any of us, and I know this because you shared your incredible gift with me.

And now, in Uncle Rob’s honor, let’s remember and share his gift of connection.

Make time for meaningful conversations and truly listen without judgment to those around you. Share your stories, be genuinely curious, and be present.

Come to think of it, Uncle Rob had a unique gift, and we do, too. Let’s foster these moments of connection with one another—it’s a gift, so let’s use it!