Second Thanksgiving gig

My Aunt May (at left) was the oldest at 86. That’s Gary at the other end. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

(Second Thanksgiving gig for me.)
“I wonder who it will be this year?” I thought to myself as I cruised down the Northeast Extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
Every Thanksgiving my cousin Gary holds a giant Thanksgiving gig for all-and-sundry, namely relatives.
He lives in south Jersey — not far from my brother in DE.
Last year it was my Uncle Al, Gary’s father, my Aunt May’s only husband.
He was all bent over and barely able to walk, but no walker.
He had come with his second wife Carol, who has since become a friend of my Aunt May.
Gary is one of two children by Al and May.
His wife is named “Bette.”
My cousin David, who lives near Washington DC, would be unable to attend — he usually does. He would be in Illinois with his significant other and her parents to celebrate Thanksgiving.
David is the only child of my Uncle Rob, my father’s brother.
I met David last year, first time in eons, and he walked just like my Uncle Rob.
My father and Uncle Rob are all gone. My Aunt May is the only one left — she was the youngest.
Getting to this gig means a long motor-trip for me. From home to my brother in DE is about seven hours = five-and-a-half hours driving, the rest widdle stops, lunch, etc.
Down to Williamsport on I-99, etc. Then across PA on I-80 to the Northeast Extension, then down to I-95 into DE.
Not too bad, mostly limited-access expressway. But traffic near Philadelphia.
I stay with my brother in DE, then drive to my cousin Gary’s.
This year it was Gary and Bette themselves.
Gary had a heart-attack in the hospital and almost died. It was lucky he was in the hospital.
I may not have this right, but he was there for an operation against cancer.
A lot of his pancreas was removed, along with his prostate (I think), plus other stuff.
(My prostate was also removed.)
All this prompted question whether there would be a Thanksgiving at Gary’s this year.
But they changed their minds and pulled it off.
Bette e-mailed me they both had health-issues, “So what were yours?” I asked.
“Depression,” she said reservedly. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
Of course not. Depression is a no-no in our society.
I get this all the time.
“How ya doin’?”
“Okay I guess.”
“Whaddya mean ‘I guess’?”
“My wife died. I’m not a bundle of joy.”
“What a stinker,” they mumble to themselves.
“I take Venlafaxine,” I said; “but am about to try stopping. Venlafaxine is a generic Effexor®. My doctor prescribed it a few years ago because I was weepy.
We’re gonna try stopping because it might be making me tired.”
“I take (whatever),” Bette said, and that was the end if it.
This Thanksgiving gig may have done her good.
Part of the reason I do this gig is to socialize. I’m told I need people.
Thanksgiving can be a distraction from continual sadness.
The other reason is my Aunt May.
Aunt May is the unwanted Depression baby, always excoriated by her mother.
We both have tortured childhoods; May was unwanted, and I was “of-the-Devil” to both my parents. Although I think in later years my mother was saddened I was lost.
So May and I always share a very good time, recounting our dreadful childhoods, etc.
May was 13 when I was born — soon to be 14; I’m 1944, she’s 1930, the depth of the Depression.
“I dragged all the way down here just to see you laugh,” I kept telling her.
And I had her laughing: wise-cracks, snide remarks, that’s my Aunt May.
“Oh, a wise guy, eh?” (Three Stooges.)
“Don’t get smart!” (My mother.)
And “Will you stop making me wet my pants?” (Me.)
As a result of my prostate removal I’m slightly incontinent; worse at first.
“Next time I see you, I’m wearin’ a diaper!”
My Aunt May seems fairly solid, and even my Uncle Al seemed slightly better.
I sat next to Al, and “Do you remember me?”
He looked at me and said “Well I’ll be darned.”
“He recognized me!” I shouted. Alzheimer’s, dementia, multiple strokes (I think), but he still recognized me, probably my voice.
His voice was my Uncle Al, a crumpled mess, but him.
His pants fell down taking his coat off. “I’d help, but it’s so hard for me to get up. Others beat me.”
Gary and Bette’s Daniel was there with his cute young fiancé, whose name I can’t remember. Apparently they will soon marry.
My wife always cried at marriages: “Those young kids have no idea what may happen.”
I tried to say the same, but fell flat.
I bet Daniel/fiancé work out okay. They don’t get the parental disapproval we got = “They’ll never last a year.”
Um, almost 45.
But they have no idea what may happen. With me it was my stroke, and now I’m the last one standing.
Madness, jealousy, bad craziness. I hope he can make her laugh.
I used to tell a young friend at the newspaper “Marcy, yer gonna get married some day. Whatever ya do, make sure ya marry someone that can make ya laugh. Do that, and yer in it for the long haul.”