Last night was the one-hundredth-year celebration of the Greek Orthodox church in my hometown. I showed up with my parents and my aunt and uncle from the east coast. All of our relatives from that town came to celebrate, including my uncle from near San Luis Obispo.

We stood inside a banquet room, talking, gossiping, and eating appetizers like hummus, pita, kalamata olives, and feta cheese. I mostly ate because I didn’t know anyone there besides my relatives. They were busy talking to strangers, and I was shy around people I didn’t know. I’m socially awkward like that.

Not too long after we got there, my uncle from near San Luis Obispo began shaking as he stood at a table. People noticed him, so they hurried over to help him. He’s in his seventies, and he carries a cane for his bad knees. I knew earlier there was something wrong with him by the look of his blue nose. Actually almost his whole face appeared blue. I thought he might’ve been drunk because he liked to drink. People tried to help him from shaking. They even brought a chair over for him to sit in, but he collapsed and fell to the floor, passing out. Everyone gathered around him and watched him.

We called 911 to come pick him up. The fire truck showed up not ten minutes later because the fire department was only a few blocks away. They pumped his chest, broke one of his ribs, and hooked him to a monitor. His vital signs were okay, but I heard later that his heart had stopped. It was tragic watching him on the floor because I’d never seen him that way.

The firepersons rolled him on a stretcher to the nearest hospital, although my uncle was protesting not to go. He’s the type of person who says he’s fine even when he isn’t.

After they carried him away, the festival went on. There were about two hundred and fifty people who’d shown up. The price was a hundred dollars a plate of Mediterranean food. We sat at round white-clothed tables. My favorite cousin sat next to me. We’re the same age. Of course the main topic of discussion was my uncle. I was still shaking after what had happened. It could’ve been a heart attack, or it could’ve been a panic attack. I know after years of experience with anxiety. But after I heard from my father that his heart had stopped at some point, I realized no, it wasn’t a panic attack.

I looked at my cousin and told her, after she said she couldn’t believe everything, to get used to it because now we’re old enough to where people close to us are going to start dying or ending up in hospitals just like my poor uncle. She agreed.

But the festivities continued as if nothing had ever happened. It was strange. The Greek dancers started dancing in a circle. We ate Greek chicken, lamb, more pita, more hummus, and drank more wine. I thought about my uncle for the rest of the time I was there and about what I’d said to my cousin.

My mother sat at the next table over with her sisters, and I kept looking at her, thinking someday I’d have to take care of her. She’s fine now, but she’s in her late seventies.

“When my mother goes,” I told my cousin, “it’s over for me.”

And I meant it. My mother is my world. It was a morbid celebration. No one expected that someone like my uncle would collapse, even with a lot of elderly people there.

The older I get, the more I’m preparing for funerals and hospitals. I didn’t dance. I just ate. The food was excellent. Now it’s Sunday morning, the morning after the festival. I’m still full from the chicken, lamb, and baklava, and I’m wondering about my uncle and whether he’s still at the hospital. I’ll drive back home today, a three-and-a-half-hour trip back to Palm Springs, and tomorrow will be another workday. But I’ll keep him in mind.