Death knows no difference of race, age or vulnerability.
Death knows no difference of geographic boundaries or personal boundaries.
As many hear while they weep for the memories of their loved ones, death is a part of life.
Here I sit in a beautiful city where I feel safe, yet I am a foreigner looking for my place. Therefore, I am vulnerable and scared.
First, I must explain that I left last week to study abroad in Morelia, Mexico, for a semester. I arrived in Morelia on Sunday.
I did not plan to write my first column about a subject as dramatic as death, but as you sit in your dorm room or apartment feeling sadness for the recent and tragic death on campus, I sit in this Internet cafe in Mexico weeping for a man I had barely known - I had met him only an hour before.
On Monday night, death knocked on the bathroom door of a Quality Inn in Morelia, where our group of 16 students was attending a welcome party with our host families, professors and program directors.
After the welcome speeches, the wonderful dinner and many laughs, one of the host fathers left the room for a reason I am still unsure of.
His host student and my fellow classmate, Joey, also left, but he left in order to smoke outside.
Several minutes later, Joey ran into the room pointing, saying that his host father had fainted just outside the doors of the room we were in.
Within seconds, there was screaming in Spanish, and my host mother ran to his side with a fan. His wife was my host mother's best friend.
Then, suddenly, everything was fine - he was sitting up and communicating with those who came to his aid.
That's when two of my girlfriends in the program and I decided to leave to use the bathroom. The bathroom is right next to where the man had fainted.
Here, I listened as death took hold of his life, and I saw us trying to take that life back, but to no avail.
During the heavy sobs, the screams of "breathe, breathe!" and the eerie sounds of him choking and trying to allow air into his lungs, my friends and I remained in the bathroom, hearing every word. The door was closed, but just as a blind man sees through his other senses, our ears painted us a picture of fear and the fragile line between life and death.
The image of him receiving CPR has burned in my eyes. This was my first experience of being so physically close to death. I still hear every word in my head as I write this to you.
Later, my host mother told+â-¡ me+â-¡ that his death was due to a heart attack - but that he was a happy man when he died. He had just returned from visiting his ballerina daughter in Paris, and he had a new job he was happy with.
She and my host sister left very late that same night to comfort the family and visit the body already in its casket. In Mexico, funerals happen very quickly, usually within 24 hours of death, and within a day's time, they arranged mass for him. His name was Lu+â-â-¡s Fernando.
The important lesson here is that death has the same grip on my heart in Mexico as it does at home in the states - and being so far away from home truly gives you perspective on life.
As you comfort each other in this time of grief and tears, I offer you peace as the family I have only shortly become close to also deals with the death of a loved one.
And I urge you to give those near you hugs, to tell them how much you care for them and to take advantage of being so close to your loved ones at a time like this.
May peace be with you, as it is with me in Morelia.
Write to Michelle at
mllong2@bsu.edu
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