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Personal narrative death of a loved one
Personal narrative death of a loved one
Experiences At A Funeral
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What a Funeral Is Really Like I have never been an emotional person and I don’t do funerals. I had never been to one before until G.G. died. G.G. was my Great Grandma Hazel Bertsch. She was such a special person and lived for her family. She was full of grace and love. Her hands were wrinkled and soft . They showed her age and hard working spirit. She had tiny little eyes that looked at you with a sparkle in the dark pupils. Hazel was a beautiful old woman. She passed away on a cold January day like the earth seemed sad to see her go. The wake was small. Her massive family came and some others from the small town of Menno, where she lived for pretty much her whole life. She would have loved it. There was stunning plants and flowers that
Though most have a desire to leave earth and enter eternal life peacefully, without any sorrow, the departure of a loved one can be despondent. Previously in 2011, my grandfather passed away due to heart failure. It was an arduous battle, not only for my grandfather, but also for the close knit family surrounding him. His battle with heart failure enabled me to create unforgettable memories with him, even in his final days. Laughing together, playing together and learning significant values about life together made me grow to become a more mature and wise person. Therefore, my personal experience is entwined with empathy because the death of my grandfather has made me realize how dismal it is to lose someone important. It also interplays with self-interest because I have grown as an individual to deal with the ache that is attached to losing a family member. It has helped me to realize how beautiful the gift of life is. Stephen Dunn, the poet behind Empathy and my story are connected because they both involve the feeling of empathy for others and the self-interest of an individual. They help us to grow and learn about ourselves and the emotions of
“Bereavement is not a one-dimensional experience. It’s not the same for everyone and there do not appear to be...
My first experience with death as a child happened when I was eleven years old. My grandfather passed away in his sleep from heart failure. I had spent that night at a girlfriends, when I came home I asked my father where my mother was. He replied simply that my grandfather had passed and she was with my grandmother. It was not discussed any further and I went to my room where I awaited my mothers return. My mother proceeded to explain what happened. I was more concerned with her well being than the death itself. At the time I knew what death was. I had a fascination with death as a child, it was something that greatly interested me. My grandfather had a very traditional funeral. I was very timid and curious at the viewing. I felt uncomfortable
A moment in time that I hold close to myself is the funeral of my grandmother. It occurred a couple of weeks ago on the Friday of the blood drive. The funeral itself was well done and the homily offered by the priest enlightened us with hope and truth. But when the anti-climatic end of the funeral came my family members and relatives were somberly shedding tears. A sense of disapproval began creeping into my mind. I was completely shocked that I did not feel any sense of sadness or remorse. I wanted to feel the pain. I wanted to mourn, but there was no source of grief for me to mourn. My grandma had lived a great life and left her imprint on the world. After further contemplation, I realized why I felt the way I felt. My grandmother still
For most people, becoming a parent is one of the greatest moments in their lives. I never understood the true meaning of love until I became a father. Little did I know; I would also learn the tragedy of loss.
As we pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home, I felt the knot in my stomach tighten. Just a week ago, my ex-husband Rick, had brought our children back from a fun-filled vacation. They had spent two weeks exploring Tennessee, visiting amusement parks, and flying over the Smokey Mountains. He had brought them back to Ohio, dropped them off at my new house, and had asked to see the dog that my daughter adopted at the humane society. I had taken him to see the dog, she seemed uncomfortable with his presence and growled. Still he had lingered, talking about their trip and his plans for the next time he saw them. The conversation and pleasantries were hard for me to force. Years of living with someone who was manipulative and had abused
If I had a ticket in my hand, I would take the next bus to Highland Memorial Cemetery in Weslaco, Texas. At this resting area lies Miguel Vallejo, my grandfather, my papa, my hero. Throughout my life, my papa raised me because my parents were not yet ready for the commitment of a child. My papa was a kind and hardworking man. He had rosy cheeks and rough hands from working in the field.His laugh could brighten a dark room, and he taught me to be kind to all and to never stop striving for something I want. When I moved to Harlingen to better my education, I was sad to not live with him anymore but visited him every weekend.My education became a goal, and he sat with me late at night helping me with homework and my studies.
I, of course, knew my mother as a mother. As I have reached adulthood and become a mother myself, I have also known her as a friend. My mom shared much of herself with me, and I saw sides of my mother as she struggled with her cancer that I had never seen before, especially her strong belief in positive thinking and the importance of quality of life. I was privileged to know so many facets of my mother, but certainly I did not know all. There were parts of her life that I didn’t see, relationships that I didn’t know about. Last night, at the wake, so many stories were told to me about my mom’s strength, courage, humor, kindness, her quietness, her loyalty as a friend. It was so special to hear of these things that my mom said and did, to know some of these other parts of her life. I hope that her friends and family will continue to share these stories with me and with each other so we can continue to know and remember my mom.
During the last moments of my mother’s life she was surrounded by loved ones, as she slowly slipped away into the morning with grace and peace.
First, let me start off by saying, It’s my pleasure to be able to give her Eulogy. Allie and I promised each other at the age of thirteen that we would go at the same time, so that we would never be alone. But you know Allie was always competing, and she had to be the first one. That little jerkface, always having to one up me.
I have been very fortunate to have known my maternal and paternal grandparents and great-grandparents. We enjoy a close family and always have. Sadly, my first experience with a close death was when my paternal grandma died at the age of sixty-four of colon cancer. I was in the ninth grade when she died and hers’ was the first wake and funeral I had experienced. I remember having nightmares for weeks after the funeral. As I grew older, I lost my
...t losing my grandma, my only comfort is to know I will see her again. Being some one who forgets past ill feelings easily over time, I don't dwell on her death, but I do think of her often. Also, not being an overly emotional person, I seldom cry. However, it felt renewing to cry as I remembered my grandma as I wrote this paper. I think now I would love to go to the temple and be baptized for her. That is the best thing I could do to show my love for her. It would also give me a better chance of seeing her for a long time when I join her on the other side.
My father passed away in 1991, two weeks before Christmas. I was 25 at the time but until then I had not grown up. I was still an ignorant youth that only cared about finding the next party. My role model was now gone, forcing me to reevaluate the direction my life was heading. I needed to reexamine some of the lessons he taught me through the years.
“I don’t know if I can do this.” I said, the heat of my tears leaving behind a dirty path of makeup down the sides of my face. “I can’t see him like that, I -- I can’t go in there.”
The summer of 2013 was a summer that would be locked in my memory storage for quite some time. Jordi was a friend of mine for five years. He left Belmond in 6th grade to go to Britt. After 8th grade he came back during the summer. Jordi and I hung out almost every day of that summer. We had a lot of fun and scary memories, here’s one of them.