I recently went to a funeral. The deceased was a young man, only 29 years old. I had only met him once (more on this later). But I knew his parents. His father and my wife have worked together at the same small company for well over 10 years. I did not know the exact details in regard to the death of the young man.

The funeral was on a Friday, at 11 am . It was a beautiful day outside. The chapel was modest, but with a lovely view of San Francisco bay. My wife and I went inside and greeted the parents of the deceased. We hugged. “Thank you so much for coming. It means a lot,” they said.

There was a large wooden coffin in the front of the chapel. Next to it, a basket of rose petals. We placed some of the petals on the top of the coffin and took our seats. There was a slide show with pictures of the young man. A very cute baby and toddler, and very handsome in older photos. In every picture, a broad smile. He appeared to be enjoying life. Playing over the PA system was a chant, in a low baritone voice, in a language I did not understand. It reminded me of the mourner’s Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the deceased, which I know well. A number of people stood up to offer some personal remarks.

We were then invited by a staff member to accompany the young man’s parents into the crematorium. The coffin was placed on a dolly and was wheeled into a room with a large steel oven. A few prayers were made, again in the language I did not know. The door to the oven was opened and the coffin was gently pushed inside. The staff member pressed a button, and I could hear the roar of the flames. The young man’s mother ran from the room in tears. The father was a bit more stoic and remained until the process was completed.

We then regrouped in the lobby of the chapel. More hugs. I then went to start my shift in the ER.

Friday is usually very busy. This was no exception. I saw all of the typical patients, including the worried well, minor acute illnesses, chronically ill people with exacerbations, a few very sick individuals, and the folks with substance abuse or mental illness. Made it home around 11 pm , totally drained.

Earlier in the year, the young man, the deceased, had been a patient of mine. He had been brought in by ambulance, having been found lying on the sidewalk, intoxicated. I recognized his name and, after reading his chart, confirmed that he was the son of my wife’s colleague. He was a “frequent ER visitor,” presenting with either alcohol intoxication or alcohol withdrawal. He also had mental health issues. He was relatively clean-appearing for a homeless person and had an almost new-appearing backpack, which I think contained all of his possessions. He was very articulate. He told me he had been going to college, but left because of problems with alcohol. He had been to many rehab programs but could not stop drinking. I spoke to him only briefly. I did not tell him I knew his father. It was another very busy day. I told the nurse to discharge him when he could safely walk.

At times, I might find myself at a party or sporting event in the company of people I do not know. Sometimes during conversation, I might mention that I am an emergency physician. Most people tend to find that rather interesting. Occasionally, someone might ask me the question, “Hey, doc, what’s the worst thing you have ever seen?” This question always makes me angry. Usually, I try to avoid answering it. But perhaps, if asked again, I might say, “I recently went to a funeral.”