FINAL DESTINATION
A Journey in Finding Life in Death
I grew up fast and all too quick in a graveyard. Those little black dresses that all the girls around me wanted, had a completely different meaning to me and I probably wore mine more frequently than most.
I remember the very first time someone died. My grandfather (step-grandfather truly, but I love him like a real one and he loved me like his own) had been sick and my mother took me to the hospital to say our goodbyes. My small mind understood the environment was somber. My grandfather was latching on to my hand with tears flowing down his face muttering “I love you” over and over again. But I couldn’t understand why.
Days later he passed. I came home from school only to have my mother pull me into her lap and try to explain the final destination to every living thing on Earth. Death.
6-year-old me couldn’t quite grasp this jarring topic and thought, “Well if you say he is somewhere far away and in a better place, you must mean Australia. That’s pretty far.”
But just like that, life went on. 4 years passed and the beginning of the worst 3 years of my life happened.
Another death. 13 days later another death. Both my grandfather’s gone. Both my parents fatherless.
This was when I began to realize that no one around me understood the pain my family was experiencing. I read a eulogy at the first funeral, too scared to even do it because this time, I knew what death was and what it meant. I did it alongside my father but for the second funeral, it was his turn to sit in the pews and cry. This time, I wasn’t nervous, I had just done this, days before. While preparing for the ceremony, the funeral director came up to me and asked if I was ready. I told her I had I been in the exact same dress, reading the exact same eulogy one week ago, and I will never forget what she said to me.
“Great, you will be a pro then!”
No sorry, no sympathy, no comfort. But I was just at another funeral? For my other grandfather?
I was only 11 and already a pro.
1 year later. Another death. My grandmother died on Easter.
On the first day back from spring break, a girl asked me how the last week had been. I told her my grandmother died. All she said was, “Oh”, and the rest of my friends continued discussing their trips to the mall, the beach, or the movies.
6 months later. Another death. My other grandmother.
I officially had no more grandparents, and I was only 12.
That morning I had woken up at a friend’s house. I had a sickening feeling that something was wrong, and I refused to go home. After stalling and taking a detour to get milkshakes at a gas station, I knew I had to face coming home. Sure enough, both my parents were waiting for me in the front yard. Something they never did. I slowly walked up, and my dad blurted out. “Grandma died.”
My family started to become desensitized to death. I must have been too as I freely talked about my family passing’s and garnered lackluster reactions from my friends.
Death took a 2-year break, but it came back strong and unexpecting.
This time it was my 52-year-old uncle.
My family and I had to fly out to Los Angeles twice in a week, first to say goodbye and then for the funeral. My friends knew what was happening, I had to have an explanation for why I would be gone for so long.
I remember feeling an emotion I wish I never felt. Left out. Right as I was about to board my flight, my friends were discussing in our group chat when they will all hang out that day. I had to buckle up and prepare for take-off.
I missed as much class as expected for a destination funeral, yet when I arrived back at school the following week my teachers were less than happy. They knew why I hadn’t been in class yet lectured me in front of other students about how I shouldn’t be missing school.
I wished for my life to be normal. I became what felt like a renowned expert in death. It even got to a point where parents would refer their small children to me if someone in their family passed. This was a job I never signed up for.
6 months later my mother’s aunt passed.
A relapse of breast cancer was the cause. We watched the stages of death take over and witnessed her transform into a new person every day.
This time I didn’t bother saying anything to my friends.
7 years later and it’s the year 2020.
COVID-19 takes over the world and we are left with orders to stay at home. Schools close down. No groups larger than 15. No contact. No traveling. No gatherings. No funerals.
My uncle in Northern California was dying. Pancreatic cancer. Weeks to live.
My family couldn’t be there to support my aunt and I was furious. Here I was struggling and grieving because I couldn’t be with my family in a time where family is the most important thing. Yet when I turned on the news, people were out going to the beach. Yet when I went on social media, friends of mine were getting together to have photoshoots or parties. To them, this was a vacation. Time away from school or work. For us, this was the first time we had to part ways with a loved one through FaceTime.
I ended up making a post on my social media discussing how cruel and unfair this was. People needed to stay home because what gave them the right to gather while my family couldn’t even gather for a funeral. Turns out while making that post, he passed. I updated my post.
It wasn’t up for long but of the 15 people that saw it, only one sent their condolences because she too, was going through the same thing.
10 years with death by my side and the reactions around me never seemed to change.
Death was a taboo topic to talk about especially for a pre-teen. No one around me understood what I was going through. None of my friends had even lost a grandparent.
Death isn’t just about the physical loss of someone. It can manifest into a variety of emotions that are overwhelming for any person. As a child I became terrified of who would be next. Maybe my mom. Maybe me. I would rummage through my room every night making sure there was nothing there to harm me. That there was no one lurking in the shadows. I had to make sure I asked if we would be okay before I went to bed or if they were mad at me. I had to make sure they loved me and that they knew I loved them.
I felt alone and even now I still do.
Death has been a part of me a lot longer than most, but it is something that is a part of us all. My experience with death and the dying lead to a fascination of cemeteries and graveyards. No one talks about death because no one wants to. It's secretive and stealthy, but I wanted answers.
Why me? Why my family?
These are answers I will never find no matter how hard I look. Some answers have been stolen from me, along with memories I had wished to make. Like asking my elders our family history or having my grandparents watch me graduate college, let alone high school and middle school.
The more time I spent at a gravesite the more I found peace and solace. Death is enviable and everyone will have to experience it. Some more than others. Some sooner than others. But it is there, always there.
Death is the final destination in everyone’s storybooks no matter who you are or where you are. Each body gifted a plaque indicating their name, their dates and maybe something extra. All that is left is that plaque and their story.
The places in which these people are buried give way into who they were in their life and what people remembered them by. Spending most of my childhood roaming cemeteries and graveyards, I found myself exploring others around the world looking for others personal narratives.
This is about a journey in finding life in death.
“Death has a very black reputation but, actually, to die is a
perfectly normal thing to do.” – Joe Brainard, Death