I can't start my day without reading the New York Times obits. It's my favorite part of the newspaper because I know that the people I'm reading about won't ever have another opportunity to disappoint me. I'm always in awe as I read about the world's most accomplished people. To be sure, if you make the Times' obit page, you were somebody! But not all the people who get written about are heads of state or billionaire inventors; others who have led interesting lives or pursued quixotic goals find their way into the obits. Take Daniel Flores, aka Chuck Río, a member of the 1950s musical group The Champs. In September 2006 I read about his demise. The group was basically a one-hit wonder with their popular song "Tequila." Remember that one? By calling out "Tequila!" at the end of each instrumental refrain, he made it into the New York Times obits. Imagine that!

The New York Times also features an online obituary archive that goes back to the turn of the last century, so I can read about all the people who died before I was even born. You're probably thinking, "That Ana needs to get a life." But I truly enjoy reading their obituaries, and I'm in agreement with film director Francis Ford Coppola, who said, "Death is what makes life an event."

I certainly had an eventful end to the year 2007. My father, Jesús Pacheco, whom I wrote about in the winter issue concerning his Jewish DNA, died on Nov. 24. Death being as cavalier as ever, it didn't give us much warning. We played poker with my dad on Nov. 4, and 20 days later—poof, he was gone. He wasn't even sick at the time, but all summer long he kept saying to me, "I hope I live to see the article." Alas, he didn't live to see it.

My father came from a large family; his mom had 17 children and died giving birth to the last one. Six of Grandma Juanita's children died at birth, but eight daughters and three sons survived, so my dad had lots of nieces and nephews. Just about all of them came to say their goodbyes the week of Thanksgiving. I saw relatives that I hadn't seen in a long time. Nowadays it seems that the only time you get together with family is at a funeral. It was a week of exhaustion bordering on delirium. Death is no joking matter, but people's reactions to it, at least in my family, reached an almost farcical level.

My dad's three children—my older sister, Angela; my younger brother, Martín; and I—took turns sitting with my dad as he lay in a morphine—induced coma. As visitors came to pay their last respects, they all spoke very loudly, some even yelling, "Uncle Jesús, we love you, it's OK to go now!" The hospice folks, who work with the dying, say that hearing becomes more acute at the end, but I guess most people don't know that, so they think that by speaking louder, they'll be heard better. After a couple of days of witnessing this yell—a—thon, my brother and I were convinced that my father had grown tired of all the commotion and was going to sit up in his deathbed and holler, "I'm not deaf—I'm dying!"

Then, on Thanksgiving Day, we couldn't leave my father's side, so my aunt brought Thanksgiving dinner to us. We had a family gathering with a makeshift table in the living room of my father's small apartment. We made sure to include my father in the occasion. All of us—yes, in loud voices—proceeded to tell my father of the events of the day. Suddenly my aunt started to choke on a piece of turkey; she turned blue, and chaos ensued. Fortunately, there were people present who knew how to administer the Heimlich maneuver. For a moment, though, those present at the table were all envisioning a double funeral. Thankfully, those thoughts dissipated as fast as that dislodged piece of turkey that was spun into orbit.

I'm only now starting to catch up with my life, which had come to a complete standstill during my father's passing. Yes, indeed, death is quite an event for the living!