The Long Snooze

When he was 90 author Ray Bradbury (1920-2012) commented that the biggest cultural change from when he was a child was in the everyday awareness of death. His childhood Sunday family outings often were spent visiting relatives; back then that meant the graveyard, which was likely to include a sibling. Losing young (or young-ish) family members always was tragic but it was also expected. It no longer is. It happens, but it is not expected.
 
This change is to be celebrated of course. Most of us get to experience life into our senior years, and that is a good thing. In consequence though, we probably go overboard nowadays in denying death altogether. About 1% of the population dies every year (some 3,340,000 Americans in the past 12 months) but you would never know it. Unless you personally participate in some funeral service for a friend or relative, you’ll see no signs of it in daily life. It’s all hidden behind doors. Even in hospitals the deceased, of which there are many at any given moment, are kept out of view of all but a few. This may leave us more unprepared for the inevitable than previous generations, but I don’t see this changing anytime soon. It is the new normal. We dislike acknowledging our own mortality so we keep death out of sight and mind while we live day to day as though we’ll live forever. Life events arrive, however, that disabuse us of this mindset, at least for a time.
 
A couple of things bring this to mind. One was a funeral service for an old friend a couple of weeks ago. (He was in my sister’s HS class [‘68] and one of her posse of friends.) I sometimes remark that I know more permanent residents of the local Hilltop Cemetery in Mendham (where he was buried) than I do Mendham-ites who are ambulatory. This is meant as a joke but actually it is true. One of those permanent residents is my mom (also my dad and sister), and she is the primary reason for these thoughts. My mom died 21 years ago today. One remembers those dates for close friends, spouses, and immediate family as well as one does their birthdays.
 
The passings of those close to us are transformative moments. (I can speak from experience that it is especially odd to find oneself the last one standing.) Parents in particular are so integrated with our sense of identity that finding a new balance after their loss can take a while. We all go through it, however, if we ourselves live long enough. Some face it early, which is exceptionally hard. In the US by age 24 10% have lost one or both parents. In the age group 35 to 44, 34% have. It is 63% of those age 45 to 54. By age 64 it is 88%. (It is surprising to me that 12% of 64-year-olds still have not, but rising longevity makes this less rare than it once was.)
 
There is a part of me that always will be (among other senses of identity) the youngest of a core of four. But that seems like a faraway and self-contained stage of life at this point, much like my prep school years and college years were self-contained stages – also the years of couple of serious romantic relationships. Those remain a part of me too, even though life has passed beyond them.

The core four, c. 1982

For those who remain, life goes on. We form new friends and connections. A large, though diminishing, majority of adults become parents themselves. (I never did though my household at present is not empty anyway, as those who know me personally are aware.) Every now and then, however, (especially on anniversaries such as today) I raise a glass to toast old friends, classmates, and family who have left us. Then tomorrow is another day.
 
 

Little Richard – Thinking about My Mother