My Uncle Bruce’s body, or what was left of it, was found by my father on February 16, 2016 in Coffeyville, Kansas trapped under a cistern on his own property. He had been missing since September 2015.

Well, maybe missing is the right word. No one in our family remembers talking to or hearing from him since September.  And no one even knew he was missing for months. Yes, months.

Maybe this isn’t a sad story to you. But it’s the saddest story I know. A story of loneliness.

I’m not a monster; of course, school shootings make me cry uncontrollably and I donate all my money. Children diagnosed with cancer is heart-breakingly sad and forever life-altering. A teenager dying in a car accident is devastating. Addiction rocks your world. An entire town devastated by a natural disaster is anguish.  But when we hear about those stories in the news, from friends, neighbors; we gather together. And lift each other up. And ask what we can do to help. We read books and pray. And make a meal train, and talk over coffee and cry over a bottle of wine. We celebrate the struggle. Their life. Their death.  We miss them. We share their stories and photographs. We try to do something positive in remembrance of them. We help others from going through this in the future. These people are all loved. And will be supported. And will be missed. And will be remembered.  There is a sense of community and connection around them. In happiness and sadness, stress and relief, people come together.

But who thinks about Uncle Bruce?  Who misses the people who disappear in plain sight? Everyone wants to know they matter, to love and be loved.  Was Uncle Bruce loved? Can you disappear for 5 months and not be missed? If no one misses you when you die, did you feel loved?

Death is what makes life precious. That life ends. Death can be quiet, tragic, drawn out, quick, or the merciful end of horrible suffering.  But most of the time death is marked by a ceremony. A prayer service. A funeral.  A cremation. A burial. Dinner, drinks and storytelling. Something. Not just 5 months of indifference.

This story of Uncle Bruce encapsulates my relatives quiet well, actually. Monumental, life-changing events happen all the time and no one talks about them. My mom literally responds to any questions of benign inquiry like “who did you go to prom with?” with an answer that would shut down any curious child “that’s none of your business.”

I have come to understand that none of this is my fault. That my parents can’t engage in a meaningful conversation with me. Even if I really need them to. It doesn’t mean they don’t love me, or I don’t love them. It just means I’m still lonely. I often wish I had someone to talk to. Bi-annual phone conversations with my mom condescendingly end with “you sound busy, I’ll let you go”. But all she ever asks is “what are you up to today/this weekend”. As a busy working mother of two active boys, the answer is rarely “nothing” and what a conversation-ending-answer that is anyway.

My family’s expression of love seems to be withholding emotion, and my survival mechanisms have become impediments to growth. I cram food, drinks, experiences, unbelievable busyness and helping others into my life to attempt to fill the gaping hole of emotions that no one will discuss with me. I ravenously consume until I feel like I found the answer. But now that I’ve found writing, it’s like my therapy… life is much better.

Even at work, everyone sticks to their own life, or doesn’t want to be intrusive. But at what cost? People may ask “how are you” and “fine” or “good” mumbles out after the person has left earshot. I recently broke my elbow and arrived at work in a sling. For one month, not one person asked how I broke it or if I was okay. They didn’t even notice all the extra hours I was there typing slowly one handed awkwardly bent over my keyboard.  I’d love to tell the story of my broken bones, and that I’m fully living! I don’t find it an intrusion of privacy. I felt extra invisible that month.

We are physically around other people, but no one is mentally, spiritually, humanly available to connect with. Our phones are just an illusion of friendship. We are alone; together.

Connections and helping are the only reasons to be here on Earth. But technology is changing that. Need to change your tire? There’s a service or app that will show you a video how to. Need a ride to the airport? There an app for that. Need directions? There’s an app for that. A Facebook news article is how I found out details about my Uncle too!

I crave connections to a fault. I help other people TOO much. I sign up to volunteer at everything I can get my hands on. I always RSVP yes to invitations. I’m trying so desperately to be seen, heard, noticed, to matter. To make sure people miss me when I’m gone. I’m loud, I overshare my life details.

I’m on the MBSA and PTO board of directors, I volunteer at PADS … I keep seeing these injustices. I keep seeing people who are ignored. I’m trying to make it right and hope other people don’t feel as lonely and disconnected as I sometimes do.

I keep my commitments almost to a fault. I give away too much of myself for public gain and private wreckage. I am trying to be the best person I can be, but the person I drag home from my over-committed days is the pathetic ghost of the mother and wife I want to be.

Loneliness has turned into aggressive independence. I can do anything without needing someone else (permission from a parent, approval from a spouse, or encouragement from friends.) I guess it’s a cycle; operating in loneliness has perpetuated my loneliness. I’m working hard to break this cycle. 

I just want to matter. I want people to say “I helped” after I’m gone. That’s why Uncle Bruce’s death affected me so much. My biggest fear is having no one miss me when I’m gone.

After all of this reflecting on death, the meaning of life, and what really matters …I think the point of the human experience, is just to be human. Express creativity, emotions and ideas. Sing, Dance, Paint, Write, Play, Read, Love, Laugh, Cry, Run, Talk … Share more of that.  That’s how we matter. That’s how we can connect. That’s how we can feel our authentic feelings and not be desperately lonely. That’s how we can honor the Uncle Bruces of the world.

I do not grieve Uncle Bruce because we were close. I grieve him because he helped me get to know myself and what is really important. Just like an artist or musician that passes; we don’t grieve them because we were intimately involved with them or they were part of our daily lives. But they helped us know ourselves which is maybe more important.

Hopefully Uncle Bruce can rest in peace. He helped me figure out some of my dysfunction. I hope he felt loved. But he for sure made a difference in the meaning and clarity of my life, and now that you’ve read this, hopefully he’ll make a difference in your life too.

words to live by: Be Kind. Be Brave. Be Curious.