Death can be sad, but it's also a time to celebrate a life
I did not attend my first funeral until last December. I am nearly 24 years old.
It’s not an activity I’d like to be repeating anytime soon, but it’s looking like I will be.
A family friend has been in the hospital fighting for her life for the past few months. And boy, was she one tough old bird.
My Tante (Aunt) Else was the true embodiment of a third grandma.
And even though she had been in the hospital for the past few months, and even though I prepared myself for the dreaded phone call from my dad, hearing the news of someone’s death is never easy to hear, especially someone I have known all of my 23-plus years.
She was an old German woman and, when I say German, I mean really German. Her accent was thick and, when she got excited, it was hard to understand her. But that was one of the things that was so endearing.
She played the accordion and could never offer me enough food or beer, things I will miss.
But, in the end, it is better that she has passed away — she was an octogenarian with a bum hip and two bum knees. Her time had come.
In the past six months, I have dealt with more death in my life than ever before, learning to cope and that it’s okay to lean on someone else’s shoulders.
Everyone deals with death differently. Some people retract and just stay inside themselves, others are overly emotional and there are some people like me that appear unaffected.
But don’t misread my lack of public display of emotion.
It isn’t that I am not sad. I am — very much so. But I refuse to let this ruin the rest of my day, week or month.
As Master Yoda said, “death is a natural part of life,” and the deceased’s life should be celebrated, not mourned.
Everyone has a story to tell and, when someone dies, that story should be told by family, friends and confidants. This is why the death of a family member or friend doesn’t affect me the way it does some other people.
My Tante Else came to the U.S. in 1953, with little more than a few dollars and a truckload of determination.
She worked her way up in the world, eventually owning
several storefronts and living in the cozy old-money neighborhood of Grosse Pointe.
But I will remember her for the little things she did: the undying effort to make me eat more food than should be possible, or to drink more coke or beer than is ever necessary.
She was a beacon of generosity that outshined many people in my life. And though we didn’t always agree on some issues, she still fed me chocolate.
Like everyone else, she has a story to be told. And it is my job to tell that story.
