Acting Around Death
- 18 hours ago
- 3 min read
The sudden death of a family friend makes me reflect on how we learn—or fail to learn—to deal with grief. Looking back on several losses throughout my life, I realize that death was always present, yet rarely discussed.
When the Phone Rings
The brother of a good friend of mine died suddenly a few weeks ago.
He felt sick after eating lunch, and by the next day his liver was failing. A week later, he was gone.
There was no warning. No chronic illness. No pre-existing condition. No death wish. Just a normal man who went to work every day and had been happily married to his wife for thirty years.
Our families spent many summers together growing up on Long Island—barbecues, pool parties, board games. I didn't know him as well because he was older, but he was always around and always had a kind word for me.
Now, the brother my friend was supposed to grow old with after their parents passed, was gone.
Her losses made me think about dying.
Acting Strong Before We Know How
The first death I remember was Aunt Clarita. My father got the call that she had died of an aneurysm when I was eight.
I remember sadness enveloping the house like one of those heavy velvet curtains in a theater that muffle the sound.
"La tía Clarita se murió."
I cried, but I don't know if I understood what was happening or if I was simply responding to my father's tears. I'd never seen him cry before. Silence followed and she wasn't discussed again.
Everything Except the Pain
When my family learned my older cousin had shot himself while playing Russian roulette, we all flew to Colombia to be with our relatives. He left behind a wife and two young sons.
I remember watching the boys play in my uncle's house in Ibagué and thinking how untouched they seemed by the devastating news.
Throughout the day, women arrived for una visita to offer condolences. My aunt sat in the living room crying for her son while neighbors brought her tinto—the Colombian version of black coffee—and plates of food.
They talked about the weather.
Politics.
Neighborhood gossip.
But no one discussed the one question on everyone's mind.
Why?
Why would a young man point a gun at his head?
I talked to his wife years later and she said he was drunk out of his mind that night. I still think about Mario, young and good looking, reading a book on the diving board at the farm.
I keep in touch with his children via Facebook. They are hard working, capable adults with their own families. He would have liked that.
A Different Kind of Wake
Years later, I attended the wake of the son of a coworker in Bogotá.
I had been performing five days a week in Y Se Armó La Mojiganga, a Colombian musical. Leonor Gonzalez Mina, one of the stars, had a son, who was a gifted musician. He died in a car accident in Italy during the run of the show. Our Sunday performance was canceled so the cast could attend the wake at producer Fanny Mikey's home.
I remember sitting with Leonor on Fanny's blue velvet sofa, listening to her remember her son. She spoke about how much she missed him, what a wonderful life he had lived. She didn't shy away from the pain she was experiencing, alternately laughing with tears streaming down her face.
What If We Taught Grief?
Dying wasn't mentioned at home or in school when I was growing up. The message seemed to be: stuff your feelings down like everybody else and keep going.
Wouldn't it be better if we taught children about death early on, so they wouldn't grow up fearing it quite so much? Growing older and dying are part of life. Maybe talking about it should be too.
When I first heard the news, I called my friend and sent texts.
She replied with voice memos, not ready to talk on the phone yet. I wrote her that it's ok to respond however she wants to. I'm here to listen.
JM, I hope you've found peace. I'll keep checking in on your sister.
You can watch over her from your end.
