I was about 12 when I attended my first funeral. My grandpa died of heart disease, and despite being an agnostic, he was sent off in full Orthodox tradition.
I don’t remember much except the hours-long procession on foot, in the dead of winter, from my grandparents’ home to the cemetery through the village. And the loud wailing.
As it was custom, extensive wailing preceded and accompanied the journey to the final resting place. It’s not uncommon in their culture to bring in women specifically to wail for the dead — and for a 12-year-old child, witnessing that ceremony was quite dramatic.
Having lived far away from my family for nearly 20 years, I have been sheltered from death, in a way. I have attended funerals of friends and acquaintances here, but they do not compare with the intensity of losing someone you love.
My dad and I at the funeral of my grandpa (on mom's side). Having his comforting presence made all the difference.
I mourned the passing of my grandma long-distance, with a friend who took me to a local cemetery for a touching ceremony with just the two of us. I learned about my aunt’s death a few weeks late — she had died on my 30th birthday, and my family didn’t want to upset me.
It wasn’t until I went home for my parents, more than a year later, that I learned that her two sons — cousins I adored — both died within six months of their mother. I lost it at the dinner table when I visited my uncle, his widowed daughters-in-law and their children. Watching me cry uncontrollably must have been a shock to them, since they had done their mourning months before.
A college class I took years ago on death and dying talked about the topic matter-of-factually but I could never embrace the idea in that way. Thinking of someone close to me dying is enough to send tears to my face.
Watching my father daily has not made the thoughts of his death any less emotional. But as an impending fact — even if he lives a couple more years, it’s clear that he is continuously deteriorating– it has changed the way death is being discussed.
Recently, I was at his medical appointment, together with my mom, as we had to decide whether he should go through surgery to try to help his ability to stand and walk. When his doctor said my father is reaching his “end of life,” I didn’t even flinch. An idea that would normally make my eyes wet sounded like a simple transaction.
When my parents first moved to this country, my husband said I should discuss their final wishes with them — do they want to be buried here or taken back home etc. At the time, it wasn’t a comfortable topic, partially because of our culture and partially because it wasn’t something I was ready to contemplate.
But earlier this year, financial pressures made the topic of funerals a necessity. As my mother and I talked about options, it was like any other ordinary conversation, with no emotions or tears from either one of us.
I don’t feel emotional when my father brings up the topic either. Occasionally, he’ll say he’s tired of living and is ready for the “next life,” and my face remains unchanged as I try to redirect his thoughts.
But in my own private moments, when I’m not discussing medical matters or funeral logistics, thinking about this inevitable change doesn’t get any easier. Tears stream down my face as I type.
I caught a glimpse of a funeral procession when I visited my native country a few years ago. There are often a couple hundred people or more, carrying crosses, memorial wreaths and photos of the deceased, and pallbearers carry the open casket. A small band usually plays Chopin's Funeral March. In this case, since it's in the city, the procession probably only walked a short distance around the corner to a special vehicle, then everyone drove to the cemetery instead of walking.
More than 35 years after my grandpa’s funeral, I feel much like I did as the 12-year-old surrounded by wailing women. Only the pain is compounded by the memories of my father’s arms around me, bringing me comfort. The pain is intensified by the memories of a long-forgotten ritual we used to have: Every day he came home from work, he dropped everything and did nothing else until he found me and gave me a kiss.
Long gone are the days when I was daddy’s little girl. My father is more like a child himself now, and his Alzheimer’s has robbed us of the ability to reminisce over those happy times.
I am glad to have been able to be closer to him physically at this time of his life than I was for the 13 years after I left home — when our only contact was through monthly telephone calls. I don’t know how this physical proximity will impact me when his time does come, and I may be the one to break the news over the phone to the rest of the family on the other side of the world.
But I do know that when it happens, even without a dramatic funeral, the miles-long walk to the cemetery and the wailing women, it will be a moment that burns into my heart right next to those memories of his arms around me, sheltering me from the rest of the world.
This was beautiful. It made me think of when I lost my own grandpa, who was more dear to me than almost everyone else on earth. Americans work so hard to avoid the topic, I think to our detriment. Thanks for the reminder.
Thank you for your comment. I agree that it’s not a commonly discussed topic, which is why I decided to share it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to post this after writing it but my husband said people need to think about these things when many avoid it instead.
I agree with Kat, and would add that in America we don’t seem to allow for mourning – or understand it is a long process. We tend to say ‘take a week off then get back to being your normal self’ when in reality your life will never be the same again. I am glad you posted it, it is definitely a topic people should think about more.
That’s an interesting observation about mourning in America. In my parents’ culture, which is tied to the Russian Orthodox church as the predominant form of religion in the old days, there is a “celebration of life” after 40 days, and then subsequent ones on various anniversary dates. Not sure if that specifically acknowledges that it takes time to mourn but I think it does give people permission, in a way, to allow themselves to publicly grieve and talk about their loss.
Beautiful blog Rodika! My father-in-law died last winter. We knew it was coming. He had been sick for decades. In and out of hospitals for years. We saw him on his deathbed and yet, when it really hit us that he was gone and he wasn’t coming back, it was a very emotional moment.
Thank you for sharing. I know a few people with similar stories as you, whose parents were quite advanced in age and sick for years. Losing their parent was not any easier for them, even if they themselves were much older than me (ie baby boomers). I do wonder how our cultural backgrounds, life experiences etc. impact the way we grieve and if it’s different for those who’ve had to provide around-the-clock care for the person, then are faced with this huge hole.
Rodika, Very nicely written post. I sympathize with your situation as my mother of 94 years is showing more physical disability than ever before. I notice “burps” in her memory, whereas she was as bright as any fifty year old. She is going through changes, though. Working in the care giving industry for 16 years, and seeing people and loved ones suffer through these health disorders, I feel that mental health deterioration is more difficult to watch than physical deterioration. I learned last year, that writing is a wonderful therapy.
I wish you well with this challenge in your life.
Your friend, Margi Kenny
I agree, Margi, mental deterioration is really tough to watch, especially since we can’t communicate at the level I’m used to. Being in the industry, you probably hear a lot too that this is going to be a growing problem. I appreciate you sharing your thoughts!
Great post with really helpful info.