Mexican ethnic holiday takes on greater meaning for me these days

I am of Mexican ethnic origins (three of my four grandparents were born there, along with one set of great-grandparents) and always have found my background to be of personal interest.

My brother on a baseball-themed trip to Pittsburgh

Yet I have to confess, the concept of the Day of the Dead isn’t one that ever caught on with me. Until now, that is.

FOR THOSE WHO are uninformed, the holiday being celebrated Wednesday night into the early hours of Thursday is a Mexican one whose serious point is that we pay homage to those of our loved ones who are no longer with us – as in they have died.

There are those Mexicans who go so far as to build elaborate tributes to their loved ones. There are others who literally will spend the night tonight at the cemetery, visiting with their loved ones in gravesite picnics that turn into semi-festive celebrations.

I don’t plan to go that far, largely because both of the loved ones who are popping into my memory these days were cremated. I don’t have cemetery plots to visit, and in fact I have my mother’s remains with me.

In my case, my loved ones to remember are my mother, Jenny, and my brother, Christopher.

My brother and mother, in a happy moment

AS IT TURNS out, the anniversary dates of both of their deaths come up around this time of year. In the case of my brother, Sunday was the second anniversary of the aneurism he suffered that almost instantly killed his brain activity, and Monday was the anniversary of the date upon which he was pronounced dead.

As for my mother, it will have been seven years on Nov. 10 since the day she suffered a complication related to her diabetes treatments that caused her to bleed to death.

Meaning this early autumn time period that I otherwise would think of as the conclusion of the World Series and the end of the baseball season in this part of the globe (it’s just kicking into gear in professional leagues that play across the Caribbean) is one in which I find myself remembering my brother and our mother.

One of my mother's favorite family photographs

In that sense, the Day of the Dead takes on a certain convenience factor in that I can remember both of them at once – and know I’m not alone in thinking about death. Although I’d prefer to think of it as remembering the lives that used to exist – and not the piles of ash that they have been reduced to these days.

MY BROTHER (HE was younger than me) only made it to age 45. His was a case of his blood pressure reaching such high levels that he was on medication that doctors were fiddling around with at the time we lost him.

If anything, my brother’s experience has been an educational one for me, since I have developed blood pressure issues and doctors have described my own condition in ways that make it seem I’m at an earlier stage of what ultimately took down my brother.

His life may well be the warning of what could happen to me if I slack off on my own medical routine.

My mother as a child, long before I ever existed. She's with her Uncle Aurelio "Spinx" Salas, and a part of me likes to think he's keeping an eye on her these days

Although I actually feel the need to keep living in part to not embarrass the memory of those before me. Yes, a part of me feels like my mother’s spirit is watching over me, and is prepared to give me a smack or two upside the head should I ever encounter her again for everything stupid I may do with what remains in my life.

MY MOTHER ONLY made it to 66 at the time of her death, and the final decade of her life was a not-so-pleasant experience of constant medical treatment. Being that I’ve barely past the half-century mark of life, I know it won’t be all that much longer before I can say I’ve lived longer than she did.

Unless I’m amongst the ones unfortunate enough to suffer an early ending. One thing I learned a long time ago from my reporter-type person work is that there are no guarantees about life. One can go at any time, and perhaps I should view myself lucky to have survived this long.

These are thoughts passing through my head on this Day of the Dead, and perhaps this essay is my remembrance of family whose absence still leaves me longing – even though I’m fortunate enough that my father remains and is in a place where he can continue to be a pain in the behind. Although I’d give just about anything if my mother could be around in an equally annoying way these days.

But I also suspect my mother would be bothered by this commentary, particularly since I recall she used to get all creeped out at Day of the Dead imagery and thoughts – she’d probably want her memory to be the last thing possible to be associated with Wednesday in any way.

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EDITOR’S NOTE: On a not-quite-so-related point, I’m still amused by this use of Day of the Dead imagery in this animated sequence from the 2002 film “Frida” that explains just how badly bashed the body of Frida Kahlo was from a bus crash she suffered as a teenager that left her crippled through much of her life.

Disposing of a loved one’s life

There are going to be some very well-dressed gentlemen who choose to shop at Goodwill, on account of my brother.

My brother, in one of the many shirts and ties I disposed of

That’s the conclusion I must come to on account of all the items I disposed of by donating them to the place that operates those second-hand shops meant to help the less fortunate find worthwhile goods at an affordable price.

MY BROTHER, CHRISTOPHER, passed away the day before Halloween last year. While some of his belongings were given to various friends and relatives, I must admit to not rushing into disposing of the bulk of his stuff.

Until now, when I’m forced to. On account of the fact that I’m going to be moving out of the apartment I was sharing with him.

Which is why I spent a good chunk of my day on Monday going through his closet to decide which of his clothes have potential for someone else, and which were merely worn out to the point that the garbage man is the only person who will see them again.

I actually wound up finding some articles of clothing, particularly several pairs of pants, that had been purchased, but never worn. They still had the tags on them, indicating how long ago they were purchased.

SO NO, I’M not going to try to return them to the stores where they were purchased from to try to get a refund. That would just be tacky.

I must admit to having some help from my father, who got a little emotional at times going through his younger son’s belongings. Although I must admit he took it well when he was the one who stumbled across a backpack filled with, what could politely be referred to as, dirty pictures.

Those went into the trash, along with certain other items that just weren’t likely to be in demand. But there were some suits and rather stylish shirts that were totally usable. I got to pack those away for future purchase by someone else.

It makes me wonder if I’m going to stumble across my brother’s clothes on total strangers who, somehow, just won’t carry them with the same sense of style as Chris would have, if he were still with us.

NOW IN MY brother’s case, he had accumulated quite a collection of recorded music, particularly of the pressed vinyl variety. The LPs and a turntable or two are among the belongings I plan to keep.

Perhaps I’ll even learn to associate the song “Little Latin Lupe Lu” with my brother’s memory – on account of the fact that I know he has a copy of the 45 rpm recording. In fact, he has several hundred singles, to go along with LPs and CDs accumulated through the decades.

Yet I’ll admit it is the stuff that I had to make the decision to give away or throw away that most caught my attention on Monday.

While I wasn’t operating under any delusion that my brother was still amongst us, it seemed like on Monday that he departed me yet again

IN FACT, THIS now puts another decision solely into my hands. When our mother passed on, she was cremated – which was her wish. Yet we never could decide the proper way to dispose of the ashes.

We figured we had time to think about this and come up with something appropriate. Now, it’s my call – particularly since the scattering urn is also amongst the possessions I have inherited.

So I’m going to be busy for the next few days, what with trying to move my belongings, weed through my brother’s possessions and decide the final resting place for my mother’s remains.

Which is why I’m taking the rest of the month off from the duties of publishing commentary on this weblog. Somehow, the ineptitude of Gov. Bruce Rauner and Illinois House Speaker Michael Madigan, D-Chicago, to put together a state budget seems a little less important during the next few days.

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Life way too short for some people

My belated condolences to Illinois Senate Minority Leader Christine Radogno, R-Lemont, who this week lost her daughter, Lisa – who suffered a massive pulmonary embolism.

RADOGNO: Our condolences

What makes her death particularly tragic was not because of who her mother was. Or even her boss – she worked on the D.C.-based staff of Sen. Mark Kirk, R-Ill. It was her own age, or lack thereof.

SHE WAS ONLY 31. Lisa should have had a full life ahead of her.

Although the real question is to wonder what exactly constitutes a full life. It can be so short, or so long, or anywhere in the middle. And nobody knows exactly when their “end” will come. We truly have to appreciate every single minute.

Personally, I’m a little more sensitive to this issue these days on account of my brother, Chris. My younger brother has actually spent this week in an area hospital (we think he might wind up being released on Friday).

I had my own scare this week thinking there was a chance I could lose my little brother (he’s barely 44), even though every time I’ve seen and spoken with him this week, he’s claimed he felt fine – not at all out of the ordinary.

YET WHEN, BY pure chance, he had his blood pressure taken at a clinic on Monday (he was hoping to get some sort of medication for a sty that had developed on his eyelid), it registered way up around 240-something.

That’s hypertensive crisis territory. That’s where someone calls the ambulance and insists you go to the Emergency Room because they’re afraid you can’t drive yourself to the hospital.

He wound up spending a day in intensive care, and has since been put in a regular hospital room where he spends his days watching trashy television programs and reading the newspapers to keep up on happenings of the world.

While also complaining about how out-of-his-skull bored he has become, yet can’t go anywhere.

NOW DON’T GET the impression that I’m comparing my brother’s situation to that of Lisa Radogno. She died suddenly, while it seems my brother’s potential for a life-threatening situation was caught right at the exact moment before it became a stroke or a heart attack or something that could have caused me a lot more grief.

In fact, when I happened to be visiting him at the hospital on Thursday, I was present when a nurse took his blood pressure yet again, and it came out at a level that almost constitutes normal and healthy by American Heart Association standards.

 

Not ready to lose my brother yet

I’m fortunate. I’m likely getting my brother back – and suspect I have to be on call Friday to pick him up from the hospital when he’s finally discharged.

But if I think about it too closely, it becomes a near-miss. My brother isn’t ready to depart this realm of existence at age 44. Actually, I don’t think anybody is.

THEN AGAIN, LIFE isn’t fair. I know people I went to high school with who died at ages 19 and 22 – the former when his car was struck by a drunken driver and he went flying through the windshield because of the impact, and the latter because police said he was impaired while driving from having smoked too much marijuana.

It makes me think how they had too much still to do in life, just as my brother is in need of many more years of life to ensure he accomplishes all he wants to do.

Just as we’re going to wonder how much more Lisa Radogno would have accomplished with the extra 40 to 50 years that statistics indicate she might have had a chance to experience.

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