“Hija, you have to go. You’re going to miss the wedding,” said my mom, weak but urgent. My husband and I would be hosting my niece’s wedding in our home that April afternoon. My son Michael was setting up chairs in the backyard; my husband Ian, a judge, was getting ready to perform the ceremony.

Mom and I were in the county hospital ER, where we’d been for over 24 hours since she’d fallen outside her home.

I didn’t want to leave. But then two of my tias—my 90-year-old mother’s cousins, themselves in their 70s and 80s but always in and out of her apartment to offer help and company—swept in. They turned the eerie quiet of a Saturday afternoon ER into a familial space, sitting by her bedside, handing her water she couldn’t readily reach, adjusting her pillows and blankets. Go on, they said, assuring me they’d call and put me on speakerphone should the doctor come by.

On the surface, the gathering that was about to begin in our backyard and the scene at the hospital had little in common. But maybe they’re not that different. Weddings and hospitals are both about showing up for people you love. Weddings are about standing witness to someone’s love, showing that you will be the community they can turn to in times of joy and times of sorrow. A hospital is a place of sorrow, where the people you love hopefully bring moments of joy through sharing stories, photos, comfort.

In my familia, we understand that family and true friends don’t only show up for the good times. They visit the hospital or the jail, and they don’t miss your funeral. My family is originally from the Mexican state of Nayarit, but since settling in Los Angeles they have grown into an ever-widening circle of kin—literal and fictive. My tias showed up for mom and me that day, but they also provided me solace in knowing that our community will stand by her, physically and emotionally, as she navigates the challenges of aging, sharing joy in each other’s company no matter what the occasion.

Weddings and hospitals, for our family, are also about food. When someone gets married, we eat beef, chicken, fish, or pasta dishes at the reception. But the meal we all anticipate is the posole or tamales we eat together the next day at the recalentado. In Spanish, recalentado means “reheated,” though in these cases it’s a specially prepared meal; only the gossip is a rehash from the day before as we reminisce about the good times. Others take the opportunity to nurse hangovers, a spoonful of posole at a time. When someone is sick, my aunts prepare hearty guisados—stewed meats—wrapped in flour tortillas as burritos or folded into corn tortillas as taquitos. We brought tacos to my Tia Chayo in the hospital that we ended up sharing with her roommate, too, only to discover the roommate was on a restricted diet. The contraband tacos didn’t do any harm, but the roommate’s family grilled her on where she got them while we sat mum, stuffing our bags and coolers under my tia’s hospital bed.

Hospitals, like weddings, can grow our circles and strengthen our bonds. When hospitals limit patients to two visitors at a time, the rest of us sit in the waiting room. There, where Spanish speakers can feel like outsiders, on unequal footing with doctors wielding authority, fellow Latinos bring comfort and community, and people to ask their questions to, even if they can’t get definitive medical answers. There, they compare experiences, share stories about their loved ones, discuss how the hospital staff and doctors are treating them.

When my uncle passed after a fall and a stay in the ICU this past January, we couldn’t all be with my tia, his wife of 54 years, because we were in consultation with the doctors. On our hardest day, it was the señora she met in the waiting room who sat with her, holding her hand, offering comfort as only a comadre could. Theirs was a bond forged not through sacraments like baptism or communion, but through the shared experience of life’s passages. This time, it was the sacrament of saying farewell. It was a profound connection in an unlikely place.

Two images from the day of my niece’s wedding are intertwined in my mind. Standing in the sunlight, my niece is radiant in her short white dress with a flared A-line skirt, long sleeves, and embroidered collar, her shiny waist-length black hair vivid against the bright white tulle. My mom, 90 years old, lies in a paper-thin gown under harsh fluorescent lights, her neck supported by a brace. On the surface, the scenes have little in common.

But maybe they’re not that different. The reception was in full swing when I arrived home from the hospital. I dashed upstairs to throw on a dress and as I changed, I could hear the laughter wafting up from the backyard. Just then, I got a text from my cousin Karla, younger than my tias by decades. She was at the hospital. I hadn’t asked her help, but there she was. “The whole gang is here,” she wrote. “There are five of us! We’re trying to keep the laughter down so that they don’t kick us out!” The message flooded me with gratitude, though I knew my family didn’t need it. For us, whether in a hospital, at home, or at a party, being together is reason enough for celebration.