Now that I’m properly medicated, I think I can write a better Dia de los Muertos post.
I think the US has a strange and somewhat unhealthy attitude towards death. As S frequently notes, we don’t even call it death, but refer to it with a variety of bizarre euphemisms.
Death is an inevitable part of life, and for good reasons. As humans, we have reproduced at such a rate that food production and land resources in many areas are not able to match growth rates. And our systems of governance are such that we don’t like to share our bounty when we have it.
That is not to say that death is not painful for the living. Loss is both inevitable and painful. But it is a part of life.
I often wonder if we have become too separated from death. Although the hospice movement is attempting to change this, death has become medicalized. It is something that occurs in sterile hospital environments with beeping machines and bright white lights. Not only is this unpleasant for the individual who is dying, but it makes the process of dying alien for those who survive.
That doesn’t mean I think death should be an everyday affair of no note. In the US we are lucky to have progressed beyond the point where many children died in infancy, and life was often short and brutal. No, we have moved beyond that, and this is a wonderful thing. But in our quest to conquer illness, we have made death a stranger–something to be combated, rather than an inevitable end to a life well lived.
And that is what we should focus upon: the life well lived.
Funerals should be a celebration of a person’s life. They should be a time for remembering joy and happiness. They should be a time for telling stories and sharing who the person was and what they meant to the teller.
…
I lost two people this year. My grandmother, Harriet Elizabeth, called Beth. And my cousins’ grandmother, Doris.
I was not close to my grandmother, which is a regret, and not what I want to focus on. What I do know is she loved football, especially watching the Washington Redskins. If our visit was on a Sunday in the fall, she’d be ensconced in her chair in the living room, pack of cigarettes beside her, cheering on the Redskins. Perhaps in some small part, my love of football (even if I don’t like the Redskins) came from her.
Doris, my cousins’ grandmother, had a stroke soon after my cousin Liz was born, and changed from the vibrant, outgoing woman of my childhood to a woman afraid to leave the house, even for her grandchildren’s celebrations. My favorite memories of her were at my aunt and uncle’s little farm outside Hancock PA. Celebrations there were always fun and joyous, whether it was a birthday or Thanksgiving. She was a joyful and loving woman, and I hope that in some small way I learned some humor and caring from her.
One last thought. My grandfather, Popbo, died days before my 5th birthday. My memories of him are few, but all are joyful. Even when he was in the hospital, he’d send the cookies from his dinner out to me. (Visiting rules were different I suppose, and so my memories of him in the hospital were of sitting in the car while my grandmother and dad would go into the hospital and visit.)
May you remember your loved ones on this day, with joy and happiness.
