On mourning

A friend’s mother died suddenly just over a week ago. This friend is from Syria and had not been home to see her mother in three years, and her mother had come here to visit only twice, years ago, both times staying close to a year after the birth of her grandsons. I met this friend through our kids, of course - her sons are friends with my older boys. But she is also a part of a circle of friends who are expats living in coastal Mississippi: one from Mexico, two from Columbia, two from South Africa, and this friend who is from Syria. Somehow, I’ve been included – I guess being a Midwesterner is foreign enough.


After I heard the news, I called and left a message offering condolences and food. She texted back, saying thanks, but no thanks. If it weren’t for the urging of one of the Columbians, a psychologist, I wouldn’t have taken her a lasagna last Sunday. But my psychologist friend was very adamant that we “make a drama” so that she will have a good bereavement.


I was a little nervous about entering the house of mourning, and planned to just drop off the food and run. But my friend invited me in and seemed to welcome the opportunity to talk. So for close to an hour she told me stories about her mother and their relationship: The suddenness of her death from a pancreatic stone which was misdiagnosed initially as food poisoning; how her brother scheduled the funeral for the next day, knowing she couldn’t get there in less than 36 hours; that she does not plan to return to Syria, although the other expats are urging her to go back to visit her father, to whom she is not as close.

I called my mom after the visit.

Now I think I would rush back home, if I were in her situation. I would want to see my mother’s grave. I would want to stand where she might have stood last, to see the places she loved. I love going home. I do feel expatriated in many ways.


One of the things my friend mentioned was how she talked on the phone to her mom everyday; if it weren’t for her mother’s encouragement and advice, her marriage would be faltering, her health would be in decline, her sense of self would be crushed. She apparently has formed few friendships here, even after living here 15 years. So not only does she feel orphaned because she has lost her mother, but though it is trite to say, she also lost her best friend.


More than one person relocated here has commented how difficult it is to make friends with the locals, despite the reputation of Southern hospitality. Everyone is friendly and helpful, but few invite you over for coffee or Sunday dinner. And I understand that – as much as I need friendship and helpful neighbors, I also know I’m going to be moving again in six months. So I don’t blame the people who have grandparents and cousins around for not making our family a part of their fold. But this friend from Syria, and my other expat friends, are here for the duration. Fortunately, they have each other to rely on. But you do sometimes feel sorry for the kids. They get invitations to birthday parties that include the whole class, but not invites to come over after school on Fridays or to play on Saturday afternoon. My 8 year old daughter is the one who feels this most keenly. She would love to spend more time with some of the girls in the class, but their mothers are friends in Junior League together, so they spend time with each other.


On Sunday, my psychologist friend arranged a memorial mass followed by a potluck at the parish hall. The mass was a regularly scheduled Sunday evening mass, and the priest told a tactless joke at the end about 3 souls who were asked by St. Peter about what they wished they heard at their funerals. (The last one answers that he wishes he heard “Look, he’s breathing!” Groan.) But it was well attended, and many people offered condolences and stayed for the supper.

As people finished eating, my friend stood up to offer her thanks for this outpouring of sympathy and assistance. She commented how she thought she was so alone and was full of fear after she heard the news of her mother’s death. But what she discovered was this wellspring of affection and friendship: the presence of friends. Now she wants to give back more and invited everyone to a meal in a month in honor of her mother, a Syrian tradition. Tears were flowing from all the sentimental types. It was a moment of real fellowship. And my Columbian friend was right – the drama had made her bereavement better.