On Death and Loss

7 of 40

Hello, and welcome to essay #7 of 40B40. Today, I bring you a heavier topic than usual. I’ve been to a couple of funerals this year—which already seem like too many—so naturally, I started thinking about death and how I have dealt with it through the years.

I hope you enjoy it, and don’t forget to subscribe if you haven’t. Cheers!

---

Professional mourners

I learned recently that some cultures have professional mourners. These are people that are compensated to lament the deceased. I explained this concept to my wife and told her I thought my paternal grandmother was a professional mourner. You see, my abuela’s brother’s funeral was the first one I attended. She started weeping and holding on to me as soon as she saw me. I tried my best to comfort her, which meant holding her quietly. I was ten years old.

My dad had told me stories about women who would get hired to cry during the wake because, in northeastern Mexico, it was believed that the number of people weeping and the intensity were directly proportional to how loved the person was. I asked my dad if abuela was a professional mourner, and he said no. She just mourned very intensely and outwardly. This was my first experience with death.

Before moving on, can we acknowledge that some people make money crying? If it were me, I would take all the sad memories in my life and channel them into my labor. And let’s be real, we all need a good cry every once in a while. On top of the catharsis that comes with crying, you make money? I’m only half joking. I would cry for free, moving on.

Abuelos

Four years later, I experienced death closer. My maternal grandfather died of a heart attack. I remember my mom answering the phone and telling us that my dad would take her to my grandparents’ home because abuelo Cuco wasn’t feeling well, and then he would come back to get us.

My dad returned, and my two sisters and I got in the car. I tried to turn on the radio as soon as he started driving. My dad stopped my hand and broke the news to us. I didn’t take the information very well. I started pounding the passenger seat window.

The day abuelo Cuco died, it snowed in Monterrey. This was a once-every-decade phenomenon. Our school was closed, but my parents went to work, and my sisters and I stayed home and watched T.V. all day. Before she left for work, my mom told me, “Call your abuelo and tell him to stay inside.” In my head, I didn’t see the need to call him because the next day, we were supposed to see him at my uncle’s wedding. So I didn’t call him.

The next time I saw him, he was lying on the bed where he had a heart attack. All my aunts, uncles, and cousins were there. It was December twelve, the feast of our Lady of Guadalupe. I don’t remember the last thing he told me, and I don’t know if we would have had a meaningful conversation had I called him. I should’ve called him.

I remember crying a lot during the wake and the funeral and finding comfort in my cousins. My abuelo Cuco was the strong, silent type with everyone but his grandchildren. He would spoil us rotten. If we sat down with him in the living room, he would change the channel to whatever we wanted to watch. Half of his living room was a storefront where he would sell Coca-Cola, chips, and candy. And every Sunday, he would let us raid his stash. We did the same thing when we returned from the funeral, except he was no longer there.

A few years later, my paternal grandfather died. I remember keeping my composure better during my abuelo Israel’s funeral. Maybe because I was a bit older, it also helped that one of my last memories of my abuelo Israel was him and I shooting the shit in the kitchen of his home. I knew all the stories he told, some I could repeat verbatim as he told them. He didn’t hear very well, so I would shout nonsequiturs to whatever he said, and he would die laughing. He knew I was messing with him but loved it all. He seemed genuinely happy that night.

He died in the hospital after the doctors tried to resuscitate him. My dad and I entered the room to identify him since no one else wanted to do it. It was the first time I saw my dad crying.

Abuela Vero joined her husband about four years ago. I couldn’t attend her funeral because Diana and I had just had our daughter. However, when we visited Monterrey in 2018, we took pictures with her. She didn’t like smiling in photos because she was missing teeth and never got dentures, but she had the biggest smile while holding one of my boys. That was the last time I saw her.

Abuela

Explaining death

I recently had to explain the concept of death to my seven and five-year-olds. A family from our parish was in a car accident where their oldest son, unfortunately, passed away. Oliver and Emilio used to play with this kid and his siblings in the courtyard after Mass.

Oliver said he was sad he wouldn’t see him again. Emilio kept carrying around a picture of his friend, putting it next to a statue of Our Lady and laying down a quarter from his piggy bank in front of it. “I miss him,” he said. “I know,” I reassured him.

I told them that there is a possibility that their friend is hanging out with Jesus in heaven right now, and they could pray to him to intercede for them. I explained that missing someone they used to see frequently is normal and that holding on to the memories helps to deal with the absence.

Death is contradictory, in a way. It could be a cause of joy in heaven for a creature is finally united with His creator. Something that, as Catholics, we aspire to. But for those of us that remain on this side of the veil, death is a source of grief. I believe it boils down to missing the physical presence, the essence of the person you used to interact with and are no longer capable of.

Funerals are a sad affair. However, the word of God has served as a balm, especially 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18. St. Paul encourages us not to grieve like those who have no hope, “For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in Him.”

I’ll eventually introduce them to the concept of “Memento Mori,” which translates to “Remember that you will die.” It sounds grim and cold, but it’s quite the opposite. When we remember our mortality, we can truly begin living. It may sound like a cliche, but we don’t know the day or the hour we will be called to the presence of our maker. So it is in our best interest to be as prepared as possible.

Death is part of life, yet it can be a scary part of life. I’m thankful to have faith to navigate this and try to make sense of things. Practice Memento Mori, tell your loved ones that you love them, take more pictures, make that phone call, and have hope.

---

---

Before you go

I have some questions for you.

1. Have you lost loved ones?

2. If so, what has helped you mourn?

3. Is death scary to you? Yes/No. Why?

4. Would you be a professional mourner? Yes/No. Why?

5. If you’re not Catholic, what does your faith say about death?