Families logo

A Tribute to Angus Michael Tett

By Alexandra Tett

By Alexandra TettPublished 4 years ago 8 min read
Like
A Tribute to Angus Michael Tett
Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

I woke up groggy the morning of Angus’ death. My eyes still had sand around the edges and my hair was jutting in one hundred different directions. I didn’t wake up by choice. I rolled over to my bedside table where my mom’s face had popped up on the phone screen. The time said 7:28 in the background. It was the only thing I could see in the pitch black. The violent buzzing from the call was a brutal sound for my headache. The sass in my head is a ruthless being, “What do you want?” I say in my best teenage attitude. My mind flipped through the past week thinking about every scenario that I could have possibly warranted a lecture at 7:28 in the morning. In the moments right after I answered, I damned myself as the most self-centered person in the world.

“Hey, honey. Did I wake you up?”, she said in her sweet voice. She only used her sweet voice when she needs to let me down easy.

“Yeah, but it’s okay. What’s up?” I tried to not sound annoyed.

“I just need to tell you...Angus took himself out this morning.” I waited to respond for an eternity. I couldn’t grasp her wording: “took himself out”. What do you say to something like that? All I came up with was,

“Are you serious?”

I wanted to cry so bad I even scrunched my face in an attempt to squeeze out a tear. It felt like I should be balling, but instead, my brain kept replaying my childhood memories of Angus. When I was nine, my family visited my uncle’s family in Zambia. Their home looked out over the Zambezi River. A deadly hell lay underneath the peaceful blood orange reflection of the African sun. “Angus, you mullet, get away from that fence!” scolded Uncle Christopher. Angus was the ripe age of six when he tried to touch their 10,000-volt fence surrounding their property with a stick. The purpose of the fence was to keep elephants, hippos, and crocodiles from the Zambezi River out, but really it was to keep Angus in. “Mullet” is a term that my uncle bestowed upon Angus which is an affectionate synonym to “idiot”. The name suited him, especially when he was attempting something stupidly dangerous or irritating. I remember watching him try to touch the fence with that stick. I remember thinking to myself, being friends with this kid is like seeing who can hold on to a 10,000-volt fence the longest.

I came back to the shattering reality I had entered. I tortured myself by envisioning the hole that he left in so many people’s lives. Angus is my cousin. The eldest of three that belong to my beloved Aunt Sam and Uncle Christopher. Venetia and Sebastian’s big brother. Venetia’s best friend. Sebastian’s role model. My father and mother’s crazy nephew. The cousin I was closest with. He was a self-made scientist. A daredevil. A free spirit, afraid of nothing.

How did it happen? How are Sebastian and Venetia? How are Chris and Sam? They must be devastated. I’m devastated. How long ago did this happen? Why did it happen? My poor mother. Did you know that you can nearly kill a messenger with questions? My questions only led to more questions. I know that he was riding his dirt bike and it happened at midnight. I know he had been drinking at his father’s best friend's funeral. I know he went out on his bike when his parents told him to go to bed. He deceived them after he told them he would go to bed and got his dirt bike out anyway. I know that I am angry, sad, confused, and numb, drowning in so many newly discovered emotions. Then, in an effort to process my emotions, came the ugly cry. Mankind’s first and continually effective form of therapy. I sat on my bed, holding my knees and rocking back and forth. I screamed, “It’s not fair!” in what sounded like a different language. I howled for him. I couldn’t understand why I was here, and he was not. I felt an overwhelming rush of guilt for making it this far while in life while he was, at that exact moment, in a crematory. What did I do any differently to deserve to be alive longer?

Later that day I received news that Angus did not kill himself. It was an accident. I wasn’t sure which way to go was better. I’m a sick person for wanting to know the answer to that question. The funeral was held soon after Angus’s death. This presented a major issue for my family who all reside in the United States. Zambia is a full 24-hour travel time away from any part of the U.S. My dad was already on a flight by the time I learned that my mom, brother, and I were not going to be attending. I couldn't comprehend what justified this course of action. My mom said,

“You have school.” I wanted to reach my arm all the way across the U.S. and deck her in the face. I wanted to say,

“Just in case you didn’t realize, mother, death does not happen twice. Death is not like a birthday. He won’t be around next year to celebrate. But you know what will be here when we get back? School. That’s the thing about school. School doesn’t die. It literally can’t be dead. It’s more of an abstract idea, really. And you know what is cool about that? It can’t die! So, I think, since Angus has run out of birthdays and is officially in the ground, attending his last celebration of life would be the least we could do.” I chained my words down to the bottom of my throat. I knew what she meant. She meant that even if we all rushed to the airport, we would be too late. She meant that she didn’t want to overwhelm the family when they were already accommodating hundreds of family and friends pouring in. She meant that we need to deal with this when we aren’t living our own lives at one hundred miles per hour. But deep down I still my confusion and frustration clawed and cried to be answered. If it were me, I would want people to come. I would want them to drop everything to hold each other. Not going is a regret I have to this day.

Two years ago my family and my uncle’s family went on a skiing trip over Chirstmas in Whistler, Canada. I remember the burning and aching sensation on my shins after a full day of skiing. I stripped, leaving a heap of wet snow clothes in the middle of my room. I didn’t even feel my fingers tie the strings to my bikini due to the disappearance of my circulation and heat. I then tiptoed on to the icy porch crossing my arms, flipped open the hot tub, and plunged into the middle. Hot tubs and snow are a fascinating combination. You are nearly naked in sub-zero temperatures, but the hot water cocoons your body. Why would you ever want to leave?

“Let’s play a game!” Angus grinned from the corner of the hot tub, “Whoever can stay outside in the snow the longest gets to pick all the ski runs tomorrow.” I rolled my eyes. I would have preferred to play it safe in this instance, but I couldn’t turn down his smile. Before any of us opened our mouths to consent, he was flying out the hot tub, slipping on the ice-covered deck and flinging himself into the deep flurry of ice. We howled with laughter as his lips started to turn blue and his teeth started to chatter. He let out a squeal and leaped back into the hot tub, splashing the rest of us with boiling water. Everyone let out the typical cry,

“Angus!”. But really, we were all in awe. He never hesitated.

At the beginning of summer, only a month after Angus’ funeral, my mom asked if I wanted to go to a celebration of life for him in England. Before she could even get the words out, I said yes. This was my chance to heal and reconcile with what had happened. My wounds were open, bleeding, covered in dirt, and infected. They needed to be washed, stitched, and medicated. The celebration did just that. I cried in the church as I watched Chris, Sam, Venetia, and Sebastian walk to the front pew. I cried as I asked God for guidance when I had such a lack of faith. We sang his favorite song, we prayed and processed. And after, we all got drunk. We watched hilarious videos of Angus being annoying, wild, and daring. We cried, again, and then hydrated with alcohol. I promise that my family does not endorse drinking to numb pain, but in this instance, it seemed to be a necessary part of the process. Angus loved a good party. We stayed up until five in the morning dancing with blisters on our feet in his honor. We had been dancing since noon the day before. To round out the night we lit up a twenty-foot bonfire fueled by gasoline and wood pallets. Angus lived for fire. I could see him at the edge of the field. Hands in pockets, cheeky smile, watching over us. To honor his love of blowing things up, we watched a twenty-minute fireworks show. He would’ve wanted to set off every single one by his own hand. Sadness stains. It may fade but it will always be there. But I at least had some closure.

The bonfire embodied so much of his personality. The flames were ruthless, daring, and limitless. I reflected on moments throughout my life when I was scared. Fear is a waste of your life. Angus lived more in seventeen years than most people live in one hundred. He didn’t hesitate before he jumped, ever, and I vow to do the same. I wish he didn’t have to die to show me the value of valor, but it is a gift for which I am eternally grateful.

grief
Like

About the Creator

Alexandra Tett

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.