A client told me recently, “I didn’t expect how many times I would have to say that my husband died.”
When my mother died, I remember looking at the “To Do” list and thinking, “I can do this.” Then I was confronted with notifying dozens of people or institutions that my mother had died.
You make the call and someone answers the phone and asks “How may I help you?”You have to say it for the first time:
“He/She/They died.”
There’s usually a pause on the other end, followed by some form of, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
No matter how genuine the person sounds, the words can feel perfunctory and impersonal. They didn’t know your mother, father, husband, wife or friend. There is business to conduct, and the person needs to move on.
“What is the full name of the deceased?” or “What was the date of death?”
In that moment, when the conversation moves on to the next question, it can feel as though a loved one died again.
Conducting the impersonal business of the call can hurt deeply because a person is beginning to shut down the practical pieces of a loved one’s life.
Often, people stop after the first phone call.  
It can take days, weeks or months to make the second call.
As the time between calls increases, a person’s ability to control when the phone calls occur diminishes. Each institution has its own process. The longer we wait, the more urgent some calls become.
The utility companies, financial institutions, service providers, doctor’s offices, customers, friends, neighbors and many others eventually need to hear the same news: “He/She/They died.”
And the calls are rarely clean or easy. People get transferred, placed on hold, told to call another number, submit paperwork, etc. 
The client who inspired this column told me, “I’m not sure I can say it again. I know my husband died. I consider myself a strong person, but I find myself crying after each call.”
For other people, the words begin to lose their meaning. Repeating them almost without thinking, yet every time they are said, the person is forced to confront the loss again.
The repetition of loss is built into our legal and financial systems. The systems we rely upon to manage our lives are not built to absorb death all at once.
The responsibility to close accounts often falls upon one person—the executor, trustee, surviving spouse or next of kin. Other family members may help, but the person with the necessary authority carries much of the burden.
For some people, repeating the words becomes exhausting. The calls get spaced out. Accounts go untouched for weeks or months, not because they are unimportant, but because making the call requires more than time.
It requires the willingness and ability to say, “He/She/They died” again.
Eventually, the calls must be made. Leaving accounts and financial obligations unattended after a death can have serious consequences. Foreclosure, repossession, mounting debt, financial fraud and identity theft are all possible.
We may grieve, but the systems we rely upon do not.
When I work with families and loved ones before a death, I often say, “Every decision you make before you die, each account statement you save in one place, each password and phone code you write down is an act of love for the people you leave behind.”
We cannot spare the people we love from grieving us. We cannot make it so they never have to say the words, “He/She/They died.” But we can decide how much work will be waiting for them when we do die. Perhaps one of the last acts of love we can give the people who will mourn us is giving them fewer phone calls to make.

John Kohlhepp is the owner of A Secure Plan, LLC, an End-of-Life Planning and Death AfterCare company. After the death of his mother, John chose a new career path to help people and families making end-of-life plans and completing the paperwork after a loved one dies. Previously, John worked in progressive politics for labor unions, immigrant rights and marriage equality.