Cancer And I Need To Have Words.

So listen, I’m super duper sick of writing about cancer. Because it sucks and it’s awful and it’s evil and I want it to stop affecting my loved ones (and their loved ones).
But I’m gonna need to go ahead and ask for some more of those Hey Internet, Let’s Beat Cancer vibes.
Because my Uncle Felix- an extremely good friend of my family’s and my sister Rachel’s godfather- was just stricken with cancer. And it’s bad. Like, wicked, wicked, inoperable bad. And that’s just wrong. Like, wicked, wicked this can’t be possible wrong. Because Uncle Fe is the guy who makes the rules. He doesn’t depend on the calendar to tell him when Christmas is; he is Christmas.
Case in point: Whenever he’d visit us as kiddos (multiple times a year), he’d bring a carload of presents. Because (he’d say) that he missed Christmas (he never missed Christmas) or that someone’s birthday was coming up and he didn’t want anyone else to feel badly because he wasn’t sure if he’d celebrated their birthday (he had), and “Dave and Debbie, are you trying to tell me what to do?” (They didn’t stand a chance.)
One year, during our vacation to Cape Cod, he decided that he must’ve missed everyone’s birthday because he arrived with four birthday cakes. One for each Flynn girl. We couldn’t possibly be expected to share, could we? (We agreed that no, we could not. Not for something as sacred as an individual birthday.)

I love this picture so much, because a) my Nana is giving her signature “don’t take my picture” scowl, b) my Dad looks tanned and happy, c) Emily is stopping for nobody, d) Rachel is up to something, e) I cannot believe the sheer volume of cake on the table/(not pictured) on the countertop, and f) Uncle Felix is giving his signature “I didn’t even do that much” look.

One time, we visited him at home and were greeted with presents and beach toys in every part of his backyard- because we needed something to do, right? (One of those presents was a miniature patio set with sunbrella and padded chairs for my little sisters. Because- outdoors.)

Another year, as teenagers, he took us all out for ice cream. And there just so happened to be a candy store attached. Did we want any candy? (We did want candy.) So Uncle Fe legitimately bought out 75% of that store. Actual quote: “Look, they have penuche fudge. What’s penuche fudge? We’ll take two pounds.” At the end of that jaunt, I had penned a song entitled “Uncle Fe For Mayor.” (My sisters joined in with their titles for him, i.e.; “president,” “overlord,” “tsar.”)

When I was six and told him I dreamed of acting, he called me his star and told me he’d be my manager. And, since then, he’s never failed to send roses to every dressing room of every play in which I’ve ever performed.

He’s one of the most amazing, generous, and kind souls I’ve ever had the honor of calling family…and he deserves better than this. I want my girls to hear his laugh and listen to the dryly hilarious responses he gives my mother. I want him to live to be 107 so that I can hear him tell my father to “Wait, just wait.”

I want more time.

We adore you, Uncle Fe. Get better, feel well, and know how very, very loved you are.



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