The first time I learned about grief

I could hear my mom screaming on the phone in Arabic, “Bilal! Bilal! What do you mean he died from a heart attack? People in America walk away from heart attacks!” I was 16 and trying to process what couldn’t possibly be true. How could my uncle who leaped with boundless energy be dead? How could my uncle who wasn’t even going to turn 50 for a few more years be dead?

It didn’t make any sense.

The grief and loss my mother and the rest of my family felt for my Uncle Bilal were tremendous. Khallo Bilal was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of person. I’ve never met anyone with as much charisma as my Khallo Bilal. He was a physician by training but worked in public health and hospital administration. Bucking familial expectations as a young man, he had fallen in love and married a beautiful and kind Tunisian woman and started a family with her in Tunisia. His work meant he traveled all over the Middle East and that usually meant that we’d see him for short bursts when he visited Kuwait for his work. I loved these visits as a kid! They always felt like a whirlwind hurricane had come into town. We were going out to dinner on a school night!? Wait don’t I have homework!? Do I have to go to school tomorrow!? Shouldn’t I be going to bed soon!? None of it mattered because Khallo Bilal was in town and we were going to maximize every minute of fun with him.

Despite his hectic travel schedule, he would somehow manage to always find time to bring me gifts as part of these visits. And these gifts were always so…