My aversion to choreographed mourning began more than three decades ago. A friend’s sister was stopped at a red light when an automobile being driven by someone impaired by alcohol hit her from behind. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt, went through the windshield of her car and died at the scene. The accident occurred less than a week after she had earned her nursing degree from a local university.

The memorial service was held in the biggest church in the girl’s hometown. The priest did his best, but there was no justifying the death of a thoughtful, kind and hardworking 22-year-old honor student whose life goal was to help others. The church was packed to capacity with weeping, suffering, wretchedly unhappy people. I was struck by the unfairness of it all, and when I returned home I angrily declared I’d never, ever go to another funeral.

My mother, a patient woman, empathized, but also suggested that perhaps I might reconsider my boycott if a situation ever arose when my non-attendance at such an event could cause some already grief-stricken people to become even sadder.

It was a good point. Sure enough, some years later, a scenario similar to the one she had described came up. My mother’s father had passed away, and several of my relatives and I were asked to be pallbearers at his memorial service. I remarked to one of my cousins that day how sad it was that none of Grandpa’s friends had been called upon to carry his remains into and out of the church. It seemed wrong that we had been assigned the job simply because we were family. My cousin paused, then whispered in a tone which suggested he was talking to a total moron that perhaps we weren’t bearing that casket because we were family, but because none of my 96-year-old grandfather’s friends were available to do any heavy lifting (or anything else) that day.

After the brief service, we retired back to my mom’s house, where a surprisingly large number of people brought food, took part in a Wiffle ball game, and shared pleasant and/or uproarious reminiscences about my grandfather. When I remarked to my mom that Grandpa’s sendoff seemed more like a celebration than a funeral, she explained that was because that was exactly what it was.

It took about five hours to drive to my mom’s house in southern Connecticut, which was why our family’s trips there weren’t always as frequent as we’d have liked. But five years ago this month, I drove down there (and back) on three consecutive weekends. The first time was for a high school graduation party for my cousin’s daughter, Meghan, who had grown up next door to Mom and was a wonderful de facto granddaughter to her. It was a blast, with lots of family, plenty of food, and some late night card games, for which Mom lived.

The following Saturday afternoon, I got a phone call just as I was finishing up my weekly grass-cutting duties. It was my cousin, who told me my mother had suffered a massive stroke and that things were looking grim. The subsequent trip down was far less joyous than the previous week’s, although I suspected that Mom would have been proud that her oldest child was multi-tasking effectively en route, processing and reflecting while simultaneously driving safely for the entire trip. I never could confirm that though, since she died about 10 hours after I got there.

The following weekend, I drove my family down to my mother’s house on a sunny, breezy and utterly humidity-free day. We visited with friends and family, some of whom I hadn’t seen in decades. The eldest of our three children was 6 at the time, and understandably upset he wasn’t going to see his grandmother again. But his sadness lessened when we explained to him that we weren’t going to a funeral; we were going to Grandma’s last celebration.

For some time after my mother’s death, things would happen that I’d want to tell her about, and there were times I’d actually pick up the phone to call before remembering that the option of verbally informing her of her beloved grandchildren’s escapades was no longer available. Those moments occur less frequently as time goes on, but they still haven’t stopped. One day last month, one of our children did something which immediately made me want to call Mom; it actually took me a second to remember I couldn’t.

Not long ago, a friend of mine who had recently lost his father asked me how long it takes to fully adjust to the loss of a parent. I told him I’ll let him know just as soon as I find out.

— Andy Young’s mother passed away five years ago this week. His two siblings have told him that they, too, still get the occasional urge to call her.