Perhaps it’s just me, but deaths seem to come in groups of three. In the last couple weeks, I’ve been informed of the deaths of a fellow I worked with on several political and cultural projects, the daughter of friends who was stillborn, and the death of my cousin M.
All were terrible, as all deaths are. The fellow I worked with was only sixty, a lawyer who had put his skills to work to make our country better. The arrival into the world of a perfect little girl whose life has already ended is a tragedy truly terrible. Her parents have other children living, but, as anyone who has suffered a miscarriage, stillbirth, or the loss of a child knows: children are not interchangeable parts. Each one is precious. I pray and trust my friends are being taken care of by their family, their friends, and by God as they endure. But the death of my cousin had a particular bitterness about it.
That may sound selfish or perhaps unrealistic. After all, how can anything be worse than the loss of a child? My cousin was also young, but not that young—67. She was a mother and grandmother. If her life had not been the full three score and ten promised by the Bible, it was also not one cut down in the bloom of youth. It did not have the bitterness of the “what if” questions about the promise of the young. But I will still say it had a special bitterness because it involved a missed opportunity that teaches an important lesson. We may all finally die alone, but the process of dying is an opportunity to bring people together.
Cousin M., you see, had cancer. But she kept it a secret from her siblings and her extended family. I found out about her death because one of her sisters called me, crying, having just found out about the cancer only after it had won and M. was dead. She was justifiably upset—as was I.
Though I didn’t talk to M. that often, when I did, it was a hoot. The last time was when I was writing about our grandmother and wanted to hear her stories. M. talked about our ancestress’s pies, her thoughtful gifts, and her practical jokes. M. had been convinced by the old lady that she was selling seaweed nationally as a health food. I still hear M.’s guffaws as she tells me how she bought this cock-and-bull story from her own grandmother.
Yes, I probably should have called her more often, but I would have made a point to call regularly these past months if I had known she was fighting cancer. Especially if I had known she was losing that fight. I would have wanted to hear more of her memories and her stories again of our family, even if I had heard them before. Perhaps especially if I had heard them before. I might well have traveled to see her even though I’m now a thousand miles away. But that did not happen.
No, there is a certain bitterness there for what was missed. M. was the youngest child by a bit. Her older sisters both have health problems, too. Neither travels very well. But I’m pretty sure they would have done so if they had known what was going on. They were only a couple of hours away, not fifteen as I was. And they are sisters.
Why do some people keep such secrets? Perhaps it is the desire not to be pitied or seen as weak and not in control. Perhaps it is the just-as-understandable but nobler desire not to be a burden to others. Whatever the reasons are, they don’t really work.
The very reality of dying is itself a gift to families and communities. That one might be seen as weak or might be pitied might seem like a loss, but it is that weakness that often brings out good things in others: a desire to apologize, to reconcile, to say “I love you” even when there has been estrangement. The dying may well feel useless and weak, but they wield a power in that weakness to bring out good in those around them.
Similarly, if the dying are a burden to others, it is a burden that is often gladly born. When my wife and I were living with my parents as my mother was dying, I was astonished by how many people were willing to bring a meal, sit with her and pray, or stay up in the night to watch over her to give us a break. There is something in the human spirit, especially so among Christians, that wants to assist those who are further down the road toward eternity. To bring out that will to exercise charity is one of the opportunities the dying have. It knits families and communities together.
Despite the bitterness about what happened, I am not mad at my cousin. I have entrusted her to the Lord who made her and loves her more than she loved herself. But I hope not to experience this bitterness again. Dying is too great an opportunity to be kept to those doing it. I want to be part of it for my loved ones.
David P. Deavel teaches at the University of St. Thomas in Houston, Texas, and is a Senior Contributor at The Imaginative Conservative. Follow him on X (Twitter) @davidpdeavel.
