I got the shopping cart for Xmas when I was 3 years old. Immediately, I began planning a shopping trip to 7-11. No, not a grocery store. Just as I would later insist as a stoned teenager craving a Super Big Gulp and risky nachos, it had to be the goddamn 7-11.
The adults informed me I could not just wander off on a convenience store expedition on my own. This annoyed me. Stupid adults.
Opportunity struck when I was left in the care of my Uncle Jay one afternoon. As soon as he turned his back, I grabbed my shopping cart and made a hasty exit. I still remember when he found me. Red-faced, panicked, and angry, my uncle pulled his car along the curb as I merrily strolled down the sidewalk, pushing my cart, with no idea how to get to 7-11 or anywhere else.
“Get your ass in this car.”
I got my ass in the car.
Uncle Jay was 6’4” and I told people he was a giant. Like, an actual, real-life, chillin’ at the top of a beanstalk giant. My husband is a big dude. He’s a 6’2” hirsute teddy bear man and when our niece was still tiny, she used to stare up at him with wide, fascinated eyes. I understand exactly what was going on in her head.
It didn’t occur to me until years later that when I went rogue with my shopping cart, my giant uncle was still a kid himself. A terrified 20-year-old who thought he’d lost his big sister’s toddler.
My Uncle Phil wasn’t a giant. He was slight enough to fit through doggy doors and some storm drains. I never pulled any shopping cart stunts on him, but if I had, he would’ve come searching for me, too. I know this because I was looking through some old text messages and the last chat we had was me thanking him for having my back followed by an exchange of I love yous.
Over the past few weeks, they both went away. Uncle Phil rolled end credits, then Uncle Jay exited stage left 12 days later.
I learned about Uncle Jay the morning I was getting ready for oral surgery. My husband was on his way to the Czech Republic for work, so I was on my own, savoring my last bits of crunchy food for the next couple weeks.
The night before, we went to Brighton Theatre to see the comedian Tig Notaro. If you’ve read my book, You Don’t See Any of This, then you know how important I think she is. We laughed ourselves silly at the show. I forgot about my uncle and that tomorrow, my husband would be on a plane while I was getting a tooth removed one jagged shard at a time.
In the theatre bar during an intermission, we made single-serving friends with a pair of besties from London. One bestie stepped outside for a cigarette and the other remained indoors with us. Her face twisted in an expression of pain. “I wish he’d stop,” she said. “He has COPD and shouldn’t be smoking.”
My uncles shouldn’t have been smoking.
The next day, I stared up at the light hanging from the ceiling of my dentist’s office. The cacophony of cracking teeth and buzzing drills filled my head as I thought about my uncles. I thought about the woman at the Tig Notaro show, terrified by the COPD consuming her friend. I thought about the COPD that brought down my giant of an uncle. I thought about how much my cheeks and stomach hurt the night before from laughing. I thought about the time Tig did a stand up set topless after her double mastectomy and made everyone laugh to the point of tears.
After about 90 minutes, the dentist held up the fragments of tooth and said, “Look at this. It looks like something you’d pull out of a 6 and a half foot rugby player.” And I laughed through the mouthful of blood because I carry some of the same DNA as giants and funny dudes who crawl through doggy doors for a laugh.
And because even the painful things can be pretty fucking hilarious.
I walked to the bus stop like David Banner as rain soaked my jeans. In the bus, the taste of blood filled my mouth and soaked the spongy gauze squished in the place my molar used to be as I stared out the window, thinking about how it’s bullshit there’s no 7-11s in England. Those risky nachos were sounding pretty good, if only I’d been in any condition to chew them.
(I originally wrote this piece in October, 2023. Over the past year, I’ve lost more than a tooth and a pair of uncles. I’ve said goodbye to a parent, an aunt, and a couple of old friends. But some things never change. I still get a hankerin’ for risky nachos and get annoyed when stupid adults offer reasonable advice.)