Postscript

Postscript

My aunt passed away last night. While it wasn't exactly a surprise, we were all taken aback by the suddenness of her death. Only the day before, she'd been talking about going to eat in Chinatown when she got better.

It will be very strange not having her around. She used to call my mother every few days. My mother isn't saying very much, but I can imagine what she's going through right now. Every time the phone rings, she'll be thinking that it's her sister.

I may take a couple of days off from blogging while I see whether I can help my family with the arranging the funeral. It's not really the time to be making jokes, of course, but I would like to point out that I have some expertise in this area. When my other aunt died a few years ago, it was left to me to work out several crucial things, since my remaining aunts and uncles were in no state to do anything. Can I say that there's nothing more surreal than having to peruse funeral parlour brochures ("The white model is flashy, but I think the dark redwood US-8X is more in keeping with her character."). And then there's the matter of talking to morticians. They enjoy their job far too much.

Talking about death with others -- particularly those who've never dealt with the death of loved ones -- can be difficult, because it remains such a taboo. It was unfortunate that the book we were reading in class the week of my aunt's funeral was Evelyn Waugh's The Loved One, a grimly acute satire of the American death industry. The bubbly cosmeticist who was working on my aunt was frighteningly similar to the character in Waugh's novel named Aimee. "I've been working [at this funeral parlour] ever since I left college. I love it," the cosmeticist told me. "I never cop any flack from clients." In a very strange way, talking to her was more cathartic than any of the conversations I had with any of my family or friends.