It can feel like death is all around us

Death is seemingly everywhere. These days. Death from COVID-19.

Death from alleged police brutality. Death from freakishly random car accidents like the one that happened right outside my condo complex. On Mother’s Day. Death from cancer, suicide, addiction, gunfire. Death at the hands of a foreign enemy.

Pandemic related fatalities — body count if you will — are tabulated daily, displayed nightly on TV screens across America. Shades of Cronkite, Vietnam. The anticipated 100,000 death toll — marketed as a cautionary tale — was reached during the week of a Memorial Day to own our dead.

What is it about death these days that shock us, sicken us, shame us like never before? Do we credit “news” repeatedly replayed 24-7? Our morbid fear of the unknown? Death’s capricious hand? Or, is it us? Have we humans become more sensitive? Squeamish? Self-absorbed?

Because death has never been predictable, presentable, pretty. Death has always been pretty awful. Pretty awful because it happens at the drop of a hat.

Happens when there is no time to gather family, summon a priest, pray the rosary, say good-bye. No time to mourn, even. No time, whatsoever. No time to orchestrate the ritual-infused send-off that, according to Elizabeth Kubler Ross, grants closure.

Because the perfect death — the “good death” as it was termed mid-nineteenth century — does not exist. Likely, never did.

On May 30 I received word that a close family member unexpectedly passed away. In his sleep. In his California home. On the same date (more or less) as his older brother. Who died in the blink of an eye. As well.

Frances Pulle Bethel