Remembering death helps us in making very best of life

LATE last month, I found myself descending stone steps into a chilly, darkened chapel.

Being the daughter of a Presbyterian minister, this wasn’t a rare occurrence for me — I grew up attending church at least twice a week. But this chapel, the Sedlec ossuary in Kutna Hora, was different — strikingly, bonechillingly so. It was decorated with the bones of around 60,000 people, with four gargantuan mounds of skulls resting in the corners. I wandered around, gazing up at an enormous chandelier of bones hanging from the centre of the nave. Gristly coats of arms decorated the walls, and garlands of skulls draped the vaults. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. All these bones — the last, material remains of thousands of people — made me reconsider how I thought of death.

In our technologyobsessed 21stcentury age, wherein almost every glossy magazine spread and artfully shot advertisement promises us eternal youth, it’s easy to forget the truth: we are all going to die one day. I’m sorry for the brutal honesty, but it’s inevitable. Despite all our surgical, technological and pharmaceutical inventions, we will someday shuffle off this mortal coil. Death has become somewhat taboo in today’s culture, shoved into the lonely corridors of resthomes and spoken about in hushed tones on the playground. But this wasn’t always the case. Instead of masking grief and denying the reality of death, our ancestors thought about, meditated on and discussed death frequently.

Memento mori literally means ‘‘remember death’’, and is the medieval Latin Christian practice of reflection on mortality. It’s a concept that involves reflecting on the vanity of earthly life and the transient nature of earthly goods and pursuits. Memento mori tells us that although we can eat, drink and be merry, death is just there, hovering in our peripheries. It’s a concept deeply rooted in art, ranging from paintings of decaying food and sculptures of crying angels to garlands of human skulls hanging from a chapel roof.

Although memento mori traditionally focuses on heaven, hell and the salvation of the soul, I like to consider it in a wider context. A typical Christian interpretation of memento mori might conclude that earthly pleasures and achievements are empty and fleeting. But I firmly believe that our earthly experiences are rendered no less important by the fact that one day they might be forgotten. The knowledge of my own mortality instead spurs me on to make the most of what time I have on this floating blue and green sphere.

There are numerous reasons to have discussions about death. Avoiding our own mortality only perpetuates the silence and numerous misunderstandings surrounding the end of life, leaving us distraught and confused when confronted with the bleak reality of death. It’s important that we critically discuss and research death, so that we know and understand the process when it happens to us and loved ones.

Moreover, ignorance breeds fear, which in turn can lead to enormous anger and outrage when people make decisions about their own deaths. Consider, for example, the furore surrounding the euthanasia debate unfolding in our country. It amazes me that such vitriol can be directed at those who are terminally ill and want to face death on their own terms. A lack of understanding about death also brings about deep shame and awkwardness when confronted with difficult conversations, or the terminal diagnosis of a loved one. When my brother passed away three years ago, it took me a long time to confront and erase the guilt I felt over his death. I couldn’t bear to visit him in the funeral home, and I tried to forget he was no longer there.

Death might be awkward and confronting, but we should never turn a blind eye. Rather, we should have open discussions about our own mortality and expectations in life. We should sit down with our children and talk about the loss of loved ones in a gentle but honest way. Being well educated about our shared fate is far more comforting than the shock of being suddenly confronted by death. After all, it’s a concept as integral and fundamental to our lives as birth, love, and happiness.

To me, the Sedlec ossuary was a space both hopeful and morbid. The exquisitely structured chandeliers and garlands spoke of mortality and the transitory nature of life, reminding me that my days on this earth are limited. I doubt my bones will ever be used to decorate a church, but I hope the legacy I leave behind will be just as powerful and important. I’ll leave you with this quote by Jake Bailey: ‘‘Here’s the thing — none of us get out of life alive. So be gallant, be great, be gracious, and be grateful for the opportunities that you have.’’