This isn’t going to be in any particular order, and it probably won’t make much sense. But then, if you’re a regular reader you should be inured to this sort of thing already…

Uncle George is still dead, and I still don’t know how or when it happened. I’m hoping to hear from Uncle Pete some time soon.

For all that I knew George the least of all of my immediate family, his passing has hit me harder than any other I can think of. It’s the pain of missed opportunities, of staring down the barrel of mortality, and of knowing that our particular clan is dwindling ever smaller. Perhaps the unexpectedness amplifies the effect. I had a closer relationship with Hjordis, but also knew for years that her time was coming.

Plug all of this “mortality angst” into my already-troubled psyche and what you get is a blubbering mess. My moods, always on an irregular swinging pattern, now vary wildly from minute to minute. I’ve spent a lot of time this past week forcing myself to smile, to be cheerful, to cheat my brain chemistry into a semblance of a positive mindset. It works most of the time, actually. In groups I’m positively ebullient. Alone I’m fecking miserable, until I catch myself and force a change of mood. It doesn’t take pills, just self-discipline.

That’s right, go ahead and roll your eyes. “Karel has self-discipline?” Okay, not that much, but maybe just enough.

Is this unhealthy? Probably. I’m a world-class wallower, though, and a couple of years ago I determined that I would no longer behave like that if I could at all help it. The pain is there, but I’m not going to wave it around like a flag for everyone I meet.

“Concentrate on the good things in your life.” I have the world’s neatest, smartest, most adorable kids. I have a job that tens of thousands of people in this city alone would gleefully kill for. For the first time in my life I feel like I have more than just one friend. Some of these friends are new, a couple are returning old friends. I treasure them all so strongly it makes my heart burst when I think of how lucky I am to know these people.

Do you want to hear the funny part? Having several good friends is contributing to my internal struggles. I’m relaxing again. I’m no longer repressing all of my desires and ideals for someone else’s sake. Once again I’m feeling and thinking all of the things that put me at odds with my wife during the first half-dozen years of our marriage.

I don’t think I can go back again, though. Stuffing myself into a box and nailing down the lid worked last time; I had to learn and grow in some important ways these last few years. It really was the right thing to do. Now I have to figure out how to reconcile the man I’ve become with the man I really am. Whoever the hell that is.

And I don’t know if I can do it without hurting people I care about. There’s nothing quite like feeling like a monster inside, is there?

Meet the Kerezmans. Frederick and Hjordis had three sons, named Peter, Michael and George. Michael and his wife had a son and daughter, named Karel and Christine. Karel and his wife also had a son and daughter, named Alexander and Erica.

That’s my family tree, for the most part, at least on that side of things.

Fred passed away when I was quite young, I believe it was back in ’79 or ’80. Hjordis died on “nine-eleven”, albeit in Texas instead of New York.

And my uncle Pete contacted us yesterday to let us know that his brother George is no more.

Exactly how and exactly when is still unknown. Apparently Pete and George had been in steady contact for quite some time, and Pete became worried when emails and phone calls stopped coming.

Pete will be travelling to New York soon to deal with personal effects and various legal matters. Hopefully he’ll also learn more about what happened.

George was a musician, and the last of our branch of the family to remain in New York City. You might like to poke around the website of his band, Crazy Mary.

I surprised my father last night by telling him about my vivid recollection of a jam session in our New York apartment when I was very, very young. I remember the long hallway from the front door leading directly to the big room with the double doors past which Dad and his brothers and friends would gather to play. (My room, by the way, was a hard right U-turn at the end of that hallway. I had a record player, a small bed and toys ankle-deep at all times.)

I remember being told more than once when I was younger that I looked a lot like my father but even more like Uncle George.

It’s a shame I don’t remember the man better. Goodbye, Uncle George. Be well, wherever you are.