Dis?honorable Deaths
My call echoed in the room where my friend lay, unable to answer. He had cinched a belt around his neck and lowered himself to cut off the flow of oxygen to his brain. It may have been to see if it would intensify the sexual pleasure as he aroused himself, or perhaps he chose to go out of the world as he came in, naked and vulnerable. The phone rang and rang, an unanswered call. Another voice in our circle had been silenced.
His mother said that one of the often repeated questions throughout his teens and twenties had been, “What are we going to do about Steven?” That fateful night in December made the question even more salient, as loved ones struggled to navigate his unthinkable “shameful exit.” No one had a clear answer.
The deaths in our circle over the last twenty or so years have been the result of a dizzying array of circumstances—a broken back from a fall into an empty pool, a heart attack, pneumonia, a plane crash, an avalanche while extreme skiing, an overdose of OxyContin, and miscarriages. I had a recluse great aunt who was found in her bathtub three months after she died, surrounded by the bodies of her 15 cats who had been living off her flesh but had run out of food. It was a chilling scene. Strangely, most of the deaths have been immediate and unexpected. The youngest was four weeks in utero, the oldest, ninety-three. Each one carries its unique emotional baggage.
Steven’s death was particularly difficult and his family felt a need to protect him. “A choking accident” was the first story, which morphed quickly into people saying that he had purposefully hung himself. This explanation is still widely circulated and the stunning part of it is that suicide seemed one rung above auto-erotic asphyxiation on the ladder of acceptability, so some left it at that. Of course, no one really knows. Perhaps he did enter willingly into the space of death. The question is, why does it matter so much to us?
In this death-denying, grief-illiterate culture it is difficult to talk about any kind of loss, but isn’t it curious that some deaths are considered “worse” than others? We have an idea of a “good death” which includes being ninety something and drifting off peacefully and painlessly in your sleep after a long and meaningful life. And a “bad” death? Really, anything else– which sadly, ends up being almost everybody else.
What a strange narrative.
The pain of loss is the pain of loss, and complicating it with layers of judgment makes it so much harder for those who are left. Steven’s parents couldn’t talk about the death for fear of shame—their own and his. His siblings lost their ability to speak as well. The death was deemed “unacceptable.” He had unwittingly mingled two of our most taboo subjects, sex and suicide.
As humans, we naturally sort and rank many of our experiences. Consider how “acceptable” or “unacceptable” each of these deaths are to you: An elderly Eskimo man “exposes” himself, or walks out onto the tundra to die of hypothermia, because he no longer feels of use to his community; A celebrity dies from an overdose of prescription pain medication; A 28-year-old soldier is accidentally killed by someone in his own platoon in Afghanistan; An extreme athlete dies in a base-jumping accident; A 24-year-old man is ejected from a car on impact. He isn’t wearing a seatbelt; A 33-year-old woman who very much wants a family experiences her fourth miscarriage; A woman in India commits Sati, the ancient tradition of joining her husband in the funeral pyre as it is being burned. She believes it is her duty and obligation to join her husband; A tree falls on a 30 -year -old bicyclist while she is riding in the park; An 82-year-old man is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and wants to spare his family the emotional and financial burden. He jumps off of the Golden Gate Bridge; A 10-year-old boy is killed by a police officer who mistakes his plastic, toy gun for a real one; After suffering from depression for nearly a decade, a husband and father of two hangs himself; A 42-year-old man dies of HIV/AIDs; A woman undergoes all the possible treatments for cancer, including repeated and invasive surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation, and dies at 54.
In each of these cases, we call upon our own unconscious metrics to decide how to situate the loss. We often begin with the core value that life is good and death is bad. For some, the decision stays quite black and white—anyone who fights to live is good (cancer patient) and anyone who chooses death is bad (husband/father hanging himself). Most agree that a younger death is worse than and older one (10-year-old boy versus 98-year-old in her sleep). For others, the ranking is more nuanced. We assess constructs: intentionality–did they mean to do it or was it an accident (jumping off a bridge, miscarriages, bicyclist); perceptions of stupidity, negligence, or preventability (Afghanistan soldier, seatbelt use, kid with plastic gun, overdose, extreme athlete); we consider how the death is supported culturally (exposure, Sati, HIV); and the level of self-absorption versus acting out of generosity for another (husband/father hanging himself, man with Alzheimer’s, Eskimo). Some of us make judgments about the deceased’s character. Did the celebrity “deserve” his fate because he lived a life of excess? Are we only allowed to be truly sad when “good” people die? Does anyone actually feel “good” when a “bad” person dies? It is a complicated ethical dilemma.
So why does our manner of exiting matter so much? Perhaps it serves the perception of control. For instance, I would not jump off a 750’ cliff, or travel in a car without a seatbelt, or have unprotected sex with an HIV-positive person, or mix prescription drugs, and therefore these fates will not befall me. We can carry on with the illusion that we are safe because we would not take these risks. Or maybe it is an attempt to make sense of the mystery– good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people. If I am “good” maybe I am immune. Or, maybe life and death are so overwhelming that we must decide, on a moment by moment basis how much we will feel, and for what and whom, because we don’t want to drown in the quicksand of overwhelming emotions. Perhaps there are other reasons.
It is evident, though, when we rank deaths this way that Steven’s death filters to the very bottom on the list of acceptability and his family’s grief becomes one that receives little expression or sympathy. His death may have been intentional, preventable, and it was certainly not culturally supported. It is hard to see his actions as a gesture of love, though maybe he thought they were. There have been judgments about his character. And yet it still hurts, for all those who love him.
It. Still. Hurts.
And instead of being offered a safe place for the expression of those feelings and a warm reception of the emotions, we receive awkward looks from well-meaning people who don’t know what to say.
Sensing the discomfort, we feel protective of our loved ones and withdraw further.
I believe that Steven waits, in the corners of our imagination, for us to re-write his story. He deserves more. And his loved ones deserve more. Steven was intensely bright and a little shy. He had discovered the band “YES” well before they became mainstream and went to as many shows as he could. He loved conspiracy theories and believed that we never landed on the moon and that 9-11 was an internal job. He played the electronic keyboard and had a voice like Bob Dylan. He believed in angels. His favorite Sundays were spent talking with his grandmother and he knew how to make amazing meatballs. Steven was hesitant about letting you in his circle, but once you earned his trust, he was generous of heart and spirit. He was a loyal friend and a good person.
The question remains, “What are we going to do about Steven?” And further, what are we going to do about all those other dead who populate our imaginations—those who are gone but still so present psychologically– who have been disenfranchised and judged? Those we miss but feel unable to talk about–the woman who overdosed on heroin, the teenager who got in the car with the wrong person, the uncle who drank himself slowly to death? Everyone who did not experience a socially sanctioned, “honorable” death. What to do?
Well,
We could just love them.
And we could just love each other.
We could tell their stories. And our own in relation to them.
We could consciously let go of judgment and forgive one another.
And we could allow mourning to be an opportunity to be more human to each other.
We could do that.
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Kim Bateman, Ph.D. is the author of Crossing the Owl’s Bridge: A Guide For Grieving People Who Still Love (Chiron, 2016) and “Symbolmaking and Bereavement: The Temples at Burning Man” in And Death Shall Have Dominion (Interdisciplinary, 2015). She presented a TEDx talk called Singing Over Bones (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P3hibkFcld0) and serves as the Executive Dean of the Tahoe-Truckee Campus of Sierra College. Visit her website:http://www.kim-bateman.com for information on speaking/workshops, blog, and client services.
Thank you for sharing your brave post. I especially appreciate your comments about our “death-illiterate” society. It’s true, we’re all so afraid of losing our loved ones, of our own mortality, of facing suffering at its most painful and difficult. When I was a teenager, one of my friends committed suicide in a similar way: he hanged himself at the SF Art Institute, wearing a dress and with a record playing. Obviously he wanted as strong a statement as possible, and none of us who were his friends will forget it, certainly won’t forget him. My mother also attempted suicide a number of times, but I was lucky in that she didn’t succeed and lived to a ripe elderly age.
Re a “good death” vs. a “bad death”: yes, they all hurt, and it almost always feels too soon – even when the person is elderly. But suicide devastates survivors like no other death; the thought of our loved ones suffering that much pain – well, it IS unbearable.
Sometimes it is possible to counsel those who try it, or are thinking about it – mental health professionals advise not being afraid to bring it up with the person, as it is often a temporary state of mind that can pass. Suicide hotlines and supportive networks like friends and family are invaluable – though not successful every time, of course. Discussions like yours are so important in bringing these tough topics out of the shadows, stigma, and getting help to more people who need it the most. I can’t think of a more loving tribute to your friend!
Hi Irene- Thank you for your thoughtful comments. Sounds like you know firsthand the pain of loss. I agree that prevention is very important and I serve on our community wide suicide prevention coalition. It is very meaningful work. Glad you got to enjoy your mother for many years. Be well. Kim
Thank you Kim for exploring in your work what so few are willing to expore. It is interesting how certain manners of death can be easily dismissed as “not me” experiences, whereas others touch us deeply. As Kim proposes, the ways we die can elicit in us judgments that fuel the shame we all experience when we approach our own death, whatever the manner of that death. But what of the death that cuts through the judgment and captures our heart. What is different about that one?
I remember watching this film several years ago called “Wrestling Hemingway” with the late Richard Harris and Robert Duvall playing two old men who embarked on an unlikely friendship as both men were so different. The bombastic character of Richard Harris always claimed he had arm-wrestled Ernest Hemingway in a bar down in Cuba and would tell the story over and over again, particulalry when he was drunk. The Robert Duvall character was much more reserved and the two men were as shadows to one another and forged a bond. Toward the end of the film, Richard Harris was getting dressed to go to an imprtant event with Robert Duvall, he had a sudden heart attack and when Duvall arrived to get him, Richard Harris was laying on the floor with his pants off. Robert Duvall, realizing his new friend was dead and before calling anyone, lifted him onto the bed and finished dressing him. I was so moved by that gesture, I cried.
Upon reflection, I understood my experience of that gesture of dressing this man before others arrived to take the body, was partly influenced by the recent death of my father-in-law. He was in many ways similar to the character of Richard Harris and we had forged an unexpectedly close relationship. My father-in-law had been suffering from leukemia and wished to have surgery to reverse a colostomy that had been done a year before for a perforated colon. He was depressed and felt himself to be less of a man because of this colostomy and on a deeper level could not face his own approaching death from leukemia. He was able to find a surgeon willing to perform the surgery despite the underlying cancer. After the suregry, my father-in-law’s white cell count exploded and turned his blood into sludge and he remained in a coma until he died. I will never forget the experience of being with him after all other family had gone home. He was struggling in his stupor and seemed to be talking, or arguing with others only he could see. His eyes had been closed since returning from surgery. Suddenly, still with his eyes closed, he asked. “Dan, am I dying?” I was dumbfounded. How did he know I was there and how do I respond? I had worked in hospice for many years and witnessed many similar kinds of difficult to explain experiences but this was with me as the family member. My first reaction was to turn the question back to my father-in-law as I believed at that moment he had more information than I did. I also suspected the people he was talking to in his coma were dead relatives or friends, something I experience in many a dying patient. Instead, I said “Pa, I dont know”. He died shortly after that.
The gesture of Robert Duvall putting on Richard Harris’s pants touched me deeply because in that image he was demonstrating his love and respect for his friend. He was not willing to let others see him as somehow less a man and to judge him accordingly. I could not make my father-in-law’s death more meaningful. I could not protect him from the utter humiliation of descending into death, being seen as vulnerable and weak. But he died with the integrity of his body restored following the surgery, and that was what he wanted. I wish I had said, “Yes Pa, you are dying and you can let go now. You’ve lived a wonderful and full life and there are many people who love you and have learned from you. You have earned your peace. Whatever world you are being invited into, you are fee to go with them.” I didn’t say that but would have if I was more prepared. It would have been a gesture of respect. It would have been like putting his pants on before others came to take him away. The ways we die and how we react to them can teach us a great deal about ourselves. And there is in all of us a propensity to heal the breach we experience when someone dies without acknowledging, in a respectful manner, the value of the life they lived.
Thanks for sharing this poignant story with us, Daniel. It reminded me of a book I finished yesterday, Tuesdays With Morrie. Album was so blessed to have time to practice once a week with helping someone close to him die and being comfortable with the intimacy that comes with that experience. Without that practice, how can we be expected to get it right the first time? I believe Pa knew very soon what you wished and deeply felt. In his last days Morrie tells Album that “Death ends a life, not a relationship”(174). I thought of Kim’s work when I read this, and now it reminds me of your story, too.
Daniel- perhaps you have a title for a new piece–“On putting eachother’s pants on” (or some version of that)–about gestures of love small and large, about protecting someone from others and sometimes one’s self. So important that you were present for your father-in-law’s death. And you bring up the different role of serving someone as a hospice provider versus a family member and the blurring of lines. (another title–“Blurred Lines” about being a participant/witness to so many deaths and the factors that make some personal and others not)…so much to think about. Thank you for your heartfelt response. much appreciation.
Kim – Thank you for putting this together in a very beautiful but powerful manner. As I mentioned to you when we discussed this, my wife’s nephew decided to leave just after he tuned 30. He had a difficult life, but his father was always around to support him. The subject of death and leaving has again come to my life in this song by Ari Hest and performed with Judy Collins – Strangers Again – https://www.bing.com/videos/searchq=strangers+again+judy+collins&view=detail&mid=126B56CDDD8681DE2396126B56CDDD8681DE2396&FORM=VIRE
I knew you could put our discussion into a beautiful form
David-
I am so sorry I am just seeing your response now.but I am SO glad that you found this blog. Our conversation is what inspired it!!! It is so important and this piece has received quite a response of resonance with people. With respect, Kim
I am mystified by the ability of use of language to summarize deaths with out official opinion!! Excellent to provoke thoughts on a taboo like subject.
My attachment through the loss of many people close to friends to the just met is more simple.Death is the end of a life say a story sorted in many ways,but it has its own meaning to each individual who loved hated relished or any emotional attachments.
Most important to me is a simple dialogue about good and evil,the good go to a peaceful place and the bad to a less desirable punishing place, with ssimple rules it keepsme on the straight and narrow in this world.
As far as suicide again simple yes many people are ashamed asif a wrong was dione. In total suicide is the highest point a selfeshnes no matter how the person thought they were protecting others as all to often the out come would be the same. Its a way out anyone can choose ,self mutilation means to me self hate privecy means ones want to be free of our world,i cannot see condoning the act .I can condone for someone to commit the act of suicide if lifes road has taken them there
In the Dr. Bateman your words were some how beautiful to me and warming a they open a door to closeted world we all live in and death must be a part and acceptance through dialogue is grest