The Day of the Dead
A Point of View © 1996
By Paul V. Montesino, PhD, MBA, CSP.
Today I want to write about a difficult subject. But trying to be honest, what’s so different about me? On November 1 and 2, other days as October 31 or November 6, holidays that depend on the locality, families and friends gather to pay respect and remember friends and families who have died.
We remember our dead with ceremonies on an individual basis, and those ceremonies are usually private, but multitudes follow these yearly calendar date-based holiday mass ceremonies, particularly in countries like Mexico where those dates are “The Day of the Dead”(“Dia de los Muertos”) in Spanish. There are similarities between our October 31st Halloween and the Mexicans’ Day of the Dead: close on the calendar and dealing with afterlife as well.
Trying to remember those close to us and particularly those we knew is not difficult, actually our social and economic lives are full of supporting examples. Doing it with those we never met makes it special and usually difficult to explain to others who don’t share that belief . It’s easy to become victim of ridicule, racial or intellectual. The length of human life is short, and knowing who our parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, or great-great-grandparents were not an easy proposition. I ask my readers to please try to recall those relatives in your past and raise your hand if you remember them.
On the other side of the equation, I ask you to think of your children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, or great-great-grandchildren if you have them. Here the case gets worse because it has not happened yet.
But I am not trying to judge that aspect of the reality of life. It’s obvious that nature is not concerned with the various generations. As the old saying goes: Grow and Multiply. I suppose that the old mandate of planting a tree, authoring a book and having a child is a great achievement in life as well, but who has the time?
We inherit the assets and often the characteristics of our ancestors. Their lives, whether through their DNA or their legacies, become our lives. When we smile or cry, there may be a part of one of those who came before who is smiling or crying. “Like father, like son,” is not just a saying. Neither would be “like mother, like daughter.” I am not sexist.
Simply because we were not witnesses to the pains and tribulations, or the happy moments and activities of those who came before, should not deprive them of our gratitude. We inherit physical resemblance and moral resemblance as well. There are moments in our lives that have tremendous repercussions in the lives that follow us, even the possibility of life itself.
I have two children, both grown and parents themselves, male and female. My son Paul was born prematurely at a Boston hospital in the nineteen seventies. He wasn’t more than seven months and needed special care in the preemie section of the hospital. I used to visit the hospital any time I could.
One particular day, as I watched him through the glass separating the babies from the visitors, I noticed that his breathing was laborious. I attributed my concern to the normal preoccupation of any parent and went to visit my wife in her room. But something was bothering me. Something I couldn’t define, so I decided to return to the preemie section. When I arrived, I approached the window and looked at my son one more time. I noticed that his pinkish color was changing to blue, and he wasn’t breathing. I hesitated for a second and realizing that my son might be suffocating, I punched the glass noisily with my hands. The nurse on guard heard my racket and came to see what the fuss was all about. I pointed my finger at Paul. She looked at him and realizing that he was indeed in trouble, opened her eyes in horror and got him from his crib shaking him in the air. The baby had his breathing blocked by his own fluids, but the strong shaking dislodged whatever was troubling him and he breathed again. The nurse raised her hands thanking heaven, and me, for his recovery and put the baby back in the crib. From that moment, he would wear an alarm belt around his waist that would sound if he stopped breathing again.
My wife’s doctor went ballistic when he heard what happened and every baby in the preemie section wore an alarm belt from that moment on. My being alert not only saved my son’s life, but It may also have saved many others.’ As I went home that night, I was wondering what could or would have been the consequences of accepting an invitation to have a couple of beers with my work buddies. It is a thought that occasionally comes to mind when I celebrate the birthdays of my son’s children, now my teenagers grandchildren.
We celebrate the past and the future at the same time as we must. It’s possible that one of your ancestors did or didn’t do something that made your life possible. Thank that ancestor the next time you sing one of my favorite songs: “Guantanamera.” What is it going to be, Trick or Treat?
Happy Day of the Dead.
And that’s my Point of View today. So long.
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