I Wish I Didn’t Know the Spanish Word for “To Bury”

There is so much death in this place. Last week, we lost one of our abuelos. He was the father of two of our girls here. He had emphysema, so we knew it was going to happen, but it was hard to take. He passed on Father’s Day, and we buried him on what would have been his 73rd birthday. Mourning here is so different. The coffin is brought up to the church for mass, and everyone who wants to can view the body and say their goodbyes. I can’t begin to explain the reaction of the family, the wailing and abject sorrow. We all then made the hike up to the cemetery to bury him. The fact that we have our own cemetery is in itself upsetting for me. During the burial, I was frustrated with the reaction of the Ranch kids. Several of them were upset and crying, but others were laughing and playing around. It seemed so strange to me for them not take it seriously when virtually every one of them has personally experienced the loss of loved ones. I suppose it must be something of a defense mechanism, but it felt disrespectful to me. The reality for me is that my life has been relatively untouched by death. And then I came here. In December, we lost Glenda, one of our special needs girls, Krisly, an 8 year-old with Down Syndrome, and Juan José, a young man in Casa Angeles receiving care for diabetes. On New Year’s Eve, Rosa Lilian David died in a tragic accident. In January, one of our psychologists died suddenly. It just feels like too much, but it also serves as a reminder that I am indeed in the third world as well as a rude awakening of just how the other half lives.