My husband passed away in his early fifties. As a part of the grieving process, I made a habit of visiting his grave every weekend, taking care of the plot, and having silly one-sided conversations with him about how my week had been.

After a few months of this, I noticed that the grave next to my husband’s didn’t seem to have anyone looking after it. There was a woman’s name on the gravestone that I did not recognize, and she, too, seemed to have passed away relatively young.

My husband was one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I’ve ever met, and I figured he’d appreciate it if I took care of his “neighbour”, as well. I started also keeping this unknown woman’s grave tidy, planting flowers in the spring, lighting candles for All Hallows, etc.

This went on for about three years. Then, one weekend, I arrived to find a man standing in front of the woman’s grave. He looked pretty worn and shabby, and he stank of cigarette smoke. I introduced myself, and when I explained who I was and why I had been looking after the grave, he started crying.

It turned out the woman was his little sister. He’d been estranged from his family for a long time, due to a combination of alcoholism and general bad luck. He hadn’t been invited to the funeral, and no one had told him where her grave was.

Now, his parents had passed away, as well, and as he was the last living member of his family, he’d decided to try to track down his sister’s last resting place.

He was just so touched and grateful that I, a complete stranger, had cared enough to look after his sister.

We started meeting up almost every weekend after that to take care of our lost loved ones, and I got to watch him gradually get back on his feet, get an apartment and a job, and get healthy again. Once he had a solid ground to stand on again, he turned out to be funny, smart, and charming, and we began spending time together outside of the graveyard.

This weekend, he’ll become my second husband. I guess we both had someone looking out for us, as well.

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In 2020, sadly, one of my coworkers passed away. Because of the global health crisis, the official funeral was very small and family-only, so his department threw him a celebration of life/informal funeral at a park with some of his friends and family over the weekend. I wore a simple black dress and a black face mask.

I got to the park, and right out of my car, I felt eyes on me. I quickly headed to my group, but about halfway there, a guy walked up next to me and started sweet-talking and complimenting my a**. I knew this guy; he was a coworker who clearly didn’t recognize me with a mask on. I pulled my mask down and tried to embarrass him.

Me: “Hey, [Coworker], great weather we’re having.”

Coworker: “What the h***, [My Name]?!”

He shouted so loudly that most of the party looked at us. I rolled my eyes and continued into the funeral.

After about an hour, he found me again.

Coworker: “You owe me a date for embarrassing me in public.”

Me: “Really? You’re using [Departed Coworker]’s funeral to get a date? Suck my d***.”

I made sure the surrounding people heard me. [Coworker] got a bunch of nasty looks and left shortly after.

He doesn’t work in my building, and I’m a little higher up on the food chain, so I literally have zero f***s to give about our interactions.

My aunt lives in a retirement home, where the residents like to meet up for coffee in the lounge. 

The week Pope Francis died, it was naturally one of the biggest conversation topics, even for non-religious people, but one day it got an unexpected twist.

Non-Dutch people probably don’t know this, but around the time the Pope died, a famous Dutch Michelin-star chef also passed away quite unexpectedly. These two deaths, so close to each other, were talked about one morning over coffee, when one of the residents said, dry as dust:

Elderly Lady: “Well, I guess the Pope decided to take the best chef up with him.”

My aunt nearly snorted her coffee.

CONTENT WARNING: Pet Death (Old age), Death of relative

Last year, I came home from my granddad’s funeral — already an emotional wreck, needless to say — to find my dog very ill. He was pretty much in a state of collapse, and as he was almost fourteen, I was terrified, but I knew what it meant. It was time to say goodbye.

It was almost 11:00 pm, so no regular vets were open, only emergency ones. I called a number for my normal vet’s office, and the automated system gave me the normal “We are closed” spiel, so I selected the option for an emergency. I was put through to what seemed to be a call centre of some sort. A woman answered.

Woman #1: “Hello, [Company], [Woman #1] speaking. How can I help?”

Me: “Hi. I found this number online, so I hope it’s right. I’m looking for an emergency vet for my dog. He’s registered with you at [Vet], and I believe he needs to be seen urgently. He’s almost fourteen and has taken a massive turn for the worse.”

Woman #1: “I am so sorry to hear that. Unfortunately, we’re not affiliated with [Vet]. However, please hold; I can transfer you to someone who can help.”

I agreed, confused that the number my normal vet transferred me to had absolutely nothing to do with them. I waited to be transferred and then spoke to another person at another local vet.

Woman #2: *Rather abruptly* “[Company], how can I help?”

Me: “Hi. I called your colleague before and was transferred here. It’s about my dog. He’s almost fourteen and has basically collapsed. He won’t stand, and we can’t get him to eat or drink. I can’t get through to the vet he’s registered with; it just sent me to this number. I’m not sure what to do now. I’m going in circles, and I know my dog needs to see someone.”

Woman #2: “Right. Well, we obviously can’t help you. Your dog isn’t registered here, is he?”

Me: “Well, no. I called the vet he’s with. They’re closed. The automated system put me through to another woman, who then transferred me to you. So, I was hoping someone here can help? I don’t believe anything can be done for my dog. He’s nearly fourteen and cannot stand at the moment. But I’m going in circles here trying to find someone to help him.”

The woman responded without a single flake of compassion.

Woman #2: “He’s not registered, not our problem. I’ll put you on hold and transfer you to someone else.”

At that point, I was feeling despair. Utter despair. The woman was so short with me, so abrupt, and I was confused. I was standing in my living room shaking my head in disbelief at my dad, who’d come over to help, with my poor faithful friend lying between us on the floor.

Thankfully, the next person who answered was a young-sounding lad who was immensely helpful. He was able to book us an appointment at an emergency vet about thirty minutes away, and they were able to help relieve my poor dog. 

To this day, I can’t drive past the vets who that woman worked for without feeling anger. I haven’t complained, though perhaps I should have, but I couldn’t even remember the woman’s name. In fact, I’m not entirely sure she even gave a name. I am just grateful that I found someone who treated my boy with dignity and respect, right up to the end and beyond. I just don’t understand why someone with no empathy would work in a place like that.

My mother-in-law recently passed at the age of ninety-six. She was a force to be reckoned with to the very end. This story took place about thirty years ago when my father-in-law lost his battle with cancer. They had been married for over forty years.

The family gathered and distributed the tasks to be completed. I accompanied [Mother-In-Law] to the house to gather [Father-In-Law]’s clothing for his final rest.

[Mother-In-Law] entered the closet and returned with a nice blue suit, shirt, and tie. She showed me the suit and asked my opinion.

Me: “I think it’s very nice.”

Mother-In-Law: “Me, too. He would never wear it.”

She pulled out a garment bag and began to pack the suit.

Mother-In-Law: “Well, by God, he’ll wear it now!”

I miss her.