Last week my neighbor died. He suffered an allergic reaction to a common over the counter medication and he died. His ability to breathe was taken and kept forever by an effervescent tablet in a half a glass of water. He was 38 years old and in otherwise good health. He left behind a wife and three daughters; the epitome of tragedy. I learned the news from his 13 year old daughter two days after his passing and my body still freezes when I replay the memory in my head. On Monday afternoon, she was hovering around my drive way and as I pulled up with my window down she said she had something to tell me. "Sure hon, lemme just pull in the garage." I turned off the radio then engine, and hopped out expecting her to tell me about a new boyfriend or some other random junior high school drama. Instead she informed me that her father had passed away. I stood there in shock for a moment (mouth hanging open, eyebrows in a frown) then snapped out of it and instinctively wrapped my arms around her. She told me the details of the story with amazing composure, and in return I did my best impersonation of a grown up and assured her that everything was going to be okay. Later that evening the girl rang the doorbell and let us know the funeral would be on Friday. I told her the truth this time and said I would be there.
Friday came and I went to the funeral as I said I would. Much to my surprise, our 7 year old daughter wanted to come with me. I explained what the funeral would be like and asked if she was sure she wanted to go. She said she was sure because she never went to a funeral before and she was curious about what it's like. I decided that the experience would be good for her in the long run even if it upset her a little bit in the short run. After all, death is the only certainty in life.
We arrived at the funeral home 15 minutes early and the parking lot was packed. Every single space was taken. As I drove laps around the building trying to find a non existent empty space, it was impossible to ignore the growing crowd of gatherers. Figuring that the odds of getting a parking ticket at a funeral are pretty slim, I parallel parked in a drive way area that was not intended for such a purpose.
"Okay kiddo. You ready for this?"
"Uh huh."
"If you get too upset and you want to leave, just let me know and we can go."
"Okay mommy."
We held hands, crossed the parking lot and headed into the chapel. Weaving in and out of my neighbors friends and family we found a seat on the end of a pew about mid way through the room. The rest of our pew and all of the others in the chapel filled up quickly, and before long it was standing room only. The ceremony was nice. It was a full Catholic mass given by a Deacon who was very down to earth in the delivery of his message. Keira sat still through most of it which came as a surprise. Neither she nor I cried, and halfway through the mass, this fact began to bother me. Why didn't I cry? Could I cry if I wanted to? Sure I could, right? Right? For the remainder of the mass, my answer was 'no.' Then came the 'post mass personal remarks,' and just like that, my ocular flood gates were open and the question became, "How do I stop crying?" One by one my neighbors family and friends came to the microphone to share their grief. Some could only say two words, while others told lengthy anecdotes. The best friend who broke the news to my neighbor's parents, the brother who didn't spend enough time with him, the sister whose spirits were constantly lifted by him, the daughters who will never dance with him; for all of them I shed a tear.
Between the 6th and 7th speaker Keira was getting bored and antsy so we decided to go. On the way out (as we made our way through the overflow crowd in the lobby) we stopped at the guestbook to leave a future reminder of our support. There was a single pen on the table and a memory book that was filled with names. All of the lines on the present page were taken, so I flipped forward a few pages to try to find an empty page. Flip...full. Flip...full. Flip...full. I flipped backwards hoping someone may have skipped a line. Flip...full. Flip...full. Flip...full. As a last resort I decided I would just write our names in the margin. I grabbed the pen and began to write, only to find that the ink inside had run out. I smiled, put the pen back down and glanced once more at the various faces around the overcrowded chapel. Is there no greater testament to the impact of a life then an absence of empty lines and pen that has run out if ink?
As we pushed through the double doors and headed back to the car, I wished I knew my neighbor better.
Rest in Peace Andres Hidalgo
1973-2012
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