Those Who Mourn

by Carron Silva, Ph.D.

Isn’t it funny how, when a close friend dies, memories of other deaths surface? I experienced this phenomenon recently when a long-time friend passed away. It brought back memories of another friend’s death when I was just 23 years old and living in my native country of South Africa. These two deaths were like bookends of grief. One sudden loss, and one slow, drawn-out period of waiting for death. One a wake-up call to re-orient myself, the other inspiration to keep living. Both, the profound loss of a friend. 

Let’s rewind…

In 1989 I got a job teaching English as a Second Language at a high school in Stellenbosch, South Africa. Much to my mother’s dismay, I decided to move into my own place instead of commuting from my hometown like the other teachers who taught there. The only problem was, I couldn’t really afford to pay for a place on my own so I put out the word that I needed a roommate. Not long after, a young woman dressed in motorcycle garb showed up unexpectedly at my door. Without much of an introduction, she immediately started negotiating a price for the room and move-in date. No time for niceties and wondering if we would be compatible as roommates. Within days, Ashlene moved into the second bedroom in my backyard apartment and this vivacious, intelligent, beautiful motorcycle riding college student became my roommate. 

For exactly three months. 

Looking back now, those three precious months seemed like an eternity as we got to know each other sharing meals, attending protest marches, entertaining friends and just staying up late dreaming about our respective futures. She had received a full-ride scholarship to study in the United States, and was engaged to be married. I had hopes and dreams of traveling through Europe or living in a kibbutz in Israel as soon as I had saved up enough money and could take a sabbatical from teaching. 

Ashlene wasn’t one for religion, but strangely enough, one day she asked me if she could accompany me to church. I had returned to church after a long hiatus and downright disobedience. I used to attend the Wednesday evening service. She went with me that night, and the next night my friend Colin came over with his guitar and we sang songs and read poetry together. Ashlene chose melancholic poems, like John Donne’s “Death be Not Proud,” and Emily Dickinson’s poem “Because I Could Not Stop for Death.” I read Shakespeare’s sonnets and Colin read “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time,” by Robert Herrick and the like. And so, the night passed joyfully, just the three of us enjoying each other’s company. We thought nothing of it. That night is still etched in my memory, the fragrance of spring wafting in through the window as dusk turned to darkness.

A couple of days later, I would weep until I could weep no longer. She was gone forever. On November 8, 1989, she died in a motorcycle accident. We buried her two days before my 23rd birthday. 

Even now, 36 years later, when November rolls around, I am reminded how fleeting life can be, and grief visits my heart for the years that she never saw on this side of heaven. I sometimes wonder what happened to her fiancé. We lost touch after I left the country.

When we’re in our twenties, it feels like life will go on forever. Nothing can touch us. I had experienced death many times before, especially of close family members like my grandmothers. Ashlene’s death was my true wake-up call. It propelled me into a state of deep reflection about my life, but most importantly, about my soul. God was speaking directly into my heart as I surrendered my future to Him in the midst of my deep grief. In this period of mourning, doors were opened. I left South Africa within six months of Ashlene’s passing. 

Graveyard Scene, Gottfrid Kallstenius, 1890.

Now let’s fast forward…

Recently, 90-year-old Rose Brinks, a dear friend of over 28 years, died of ovarian cancer. The fact is, Rose was given just six weeks to live after her 88th birthday.

Upon hearing the news, my husband and I and our two adult children started the death watch. You know, that niggling thought in the back of your mind that you have to be ready to get in the car or take a flight at a moment’s notice. We kept an eye on the calendar and checked in with her kids regularly to see if it was time to come and say goodbye. Every night since that day, we included her in our Divine Mercy Chaplet, and every so often I sent her email updates about our lives and pictures from the times we were together in Colorado. 

Initially, Rose believed that the end was imminent too, but it wasn’t long before she decided to live, and live, she did, until Monday, August 25, 2025, at 3:00 am, the Hour of Mercy, when she breathed her last, surrounded by her family.

We scrambled to make it to her funeral just two days later. She did not want to be embalmed and insisted on a speedy burial. She died and was buried on her terms. 

The ribbon on Rose’s casket, which she had purchased a couple of months before her death and had delivered to her home, stated: A force to be reckoned with. 

Everyone who ever interacted with her or had any kind of relationship with her would agree with that statement. Case in point: she purchased a casket and tried it out before death, which certainly rubbed some people the wrong way. A macabre memento mori of sorts, one could argue. 

Rose was one of those people who could get under anyone’s skin, for good or ill, depending on the cause. We often had a tempestuous relationship, but there was always a sense of connectedness, and mercy always prevailed. 

Rose had a knack for knowing just what made people tick, and you always knew exactly here you stood with her. At times I wondered if it was even worth having her in my life. After all, we were not blood-related and I certainly didn’t need anyone to dictate how I should live or what I should believe. She never hesitated to point out things she didn’t like about people. Much of what she said came out of her mouth unfiltered. Over the years, I’ve forgiven many a careless statement or rash judgment as she held firm convictions on many things, mostly based on her interpretation of the Catholic faith.

Contrarily, she spent much of her time helping people. A couple of blocks from the farm where she lived, resided a mentally ill woman, a hoarder who believed that taking a bath was going to expose her to terminal illness. Rose never flinched when she visited almost weekly, made sure the utilities were on, and once in a while convinced her it was okay bathe and put on clean clothes. Rose ensured there was always food on the table, and when that woman became incapacitated, Rose stepped in and brought the authorities in to finally institutionalize her and give her a dignified end. This is only one of many, many stories that made me want to keep being part of her life. 

In the 1950s and 1960s, Rose loved to fly, accumulating some 500 hours in her Piper Cub and other small planes. She had ‘284 successful takeoffs, and 283 successful landings.” At age 24, serving as co-pilot in a Piper Apache being delivered to Vaasa, Finland from Lock Haven, PA, she took spectacular 16-mm film footage of icebergs, and amused herself by chatting on the radio with sailors on navy ships below. Other travels included Germany, Andorra, Czechoslovakia, Israel, Egypt, Greece, Bali, Costa Rica, Italy, Spain, England, Wales, Scotland, Hawaii, Alaska, Croatia, Turkey, and most recently, Iceland.

I met Rose at a women’s retreat in 1996. It was my first weekend away from my firstborn toddler, and I was deep into recovery from sexual abuse. Rose gravitated toward me, spending time listening to me and offering support and prayers. When I told her that my husband wanted to become a beekeeper, she invited us to keep the bees on her property. That was the beginning of many adventures on the Brinks family farm and a friendship bordering on unofficial adoption into the family. My children called her Grandma Rose. She taught them about life, like what’s inside a chicken egg by cracking open an abandoned fertilized egg and carefully pointing out the stages of development of a chick. Together they rode and cared for horses, jumped on the trampoline for hours, spent nights sleeping on it during summer, and blew up Peeps with firecrackers at Easter. 

This woman lived. She was not a spectator. 

I want to grow up to have that kind of courage and fortitude – to live, not merely exist, to participate, not merely spectate. Rose was not perfect. None of us are. She left woundedness in her wake, but she was real. 

My grief for her comes in cycles. At times I feel intense sadness. It feels like not only the end of Rose, but the end of an era, the idea that “they don’t make ‘em like this anymore.” Rose was a part of the Greatest Generation – people for whom nothing stood in the way of dreams and desires. I can only hope to accomplish half of what she contributed to the world. 

At other times I feel a sense of relief; her suffering was great, and she fought death with every fiber of her being until her body could no longer tolerate another poison-filled needle.

I miss them both. 

Two women, one young and one old, bookends of grief. One loved riding motorcycles, the other piloting small aircraft. One was taken much too soon, and the other battled it out until the end. 

I am blessed to have been called their friend. I hope and pray that someday, we will meet again and pick up where we left off. 

For now, tears will have to do. 

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