The Willow Glen Resident

Dressing in black lets people know

By Sue Fagalde Lick

The American way of dealing with death is quick: the announcement, the tears, the funeral, the return to work. In a week, it's all over. But it isn't.

When my father-in-law died recently, a Portuguese friend compared the American system to what she remembered from the old country. Everyone in the village gathered for Mass and a procession to the cemetery, then a meal together. The bereaved wore black for months, a clear sign to everyone that this person was still grieving. During that time, they curtailed their social activities, spending their days remembering the dead and praying for his or her soul.

Here in the 1990s, it's ditch the black clothes right after the funeral, and hey, you're still coming to the potluck next week, aren't you? Oh yeah, sorry about your loss.

It's not that people are mean or insensitive. It's just that they want to stay as far away from death as they can. Being with the recently bereaved is like hanging out in a doctor's waiting room full of flu patients. You know you'll probably catch it sometime, but you want to get out of there fast so the germs don't get you today.

Life really does go on. The church potluck committee still needs your ambrosia salad. ER is still showing new episodes on TV, and would it hurt anything if you watched? Death goes on, too. At first you think about the loved one's death constantly. The first week after he died, I repeatedly relived that final scene in my father-in-law's hospital room: his body covered with tubes and machines, doctors asking when we wanted to turn off the respirator, my mother-in-law saying goodbye. Gradually, it came back to me less often.

After a couple of weeks, I stopped waking up with the realization that Dad is dead. But it still comes to me at unexpected moments in the middle of ordinary life. I see a woman with her father at church and feel it like a punch in the stomach.

The dead rarely have time to prepare. Dad certainly didn't. He left half a roll of film in the camera, a paperback book with the marker a third of the way through, his false teeth on the bathroom counter. Medical bills, IRS forms and club notices will all keep coming, addressed to a man who doesn't live on Crestview Place anymore, except in the box of ashes delivered by the mailman 11 days after he died. Every time Mom has to mark "deceased" on a paper, the death will come to her with the force of a 7.1 earthquake.

Because we don't live in a small village, it was impossible to tell everyone who ever knew Dad or his children what happened. At Christmas time, cards addressed to Mr. and Mrs. flooded the mailbox. People making conversation ask, "How's the folks?" and we will have to tell them. They will grieve, and we will grieve again.

Bereavement gets easier, but it fades in half-lives like nuclear waste; some of it always remains. Each new death reminds us of the ones before, until we wonder sometimes how anyone can bear so much sorrow.

The only people who truly understand are those who have experienced it themselves. These are the real grownups, members of a fraternity for which the dues are high and the initiation is almost unbearable. We share our grief, but we also savor the comforts of this life because we have seen up close how suddenly it ends. Even as we weep, we realize a hot shower still feels good, and a glass of wine still warms you all the way down.

If we wore black for a year, would death be any easier? No. But at least then people would know why sometimes we act as if part of us has gone on to the next world along with our loved ones.

It's so American to want to dispatch the dead and get on with things, so Portuguese to drag the grieving out for months or years. The truth is that we can look around a room and never know who has recently experienced a loved one's death. Perhaps we should assume we all have and be that good to each other. Just in case.

Oregon resident Sue Lick is a former feature writer for the Los Gatos Weekly-Times.

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