October Advent, Day 9: Invisible Death  

[Click the link above to see the post on Medium. I’m transitioning to Medium.]

Before about 1930, most people in Western countries died in their own homes, surrounded by family, and comforted by clergy, neighbors, and doctors making house calls. By the mid-20th century, half of all Americans died in a hospital. By the start of the 21st century, only about 20 to 25% of people in developed countries died outside of a medical institution. The shift away from dying at home, towards dying in a professionalized medical environment, has been termed the “Invisible Death.”

That block quote is from the Wikipedia article on death, which is well sourced and worth a read. The section I quoted here, on invisible death, especially stood out to me.

A couple of days ago I wrote about how countries across the world once practiced the Festival of the Dead (also known as the Feast of Ancestors). It was a holiday directly tied to celebrating the lives of people who had recently died, and it generally occurred at the end of harvest season (around October 31st).

The current iteration of the holiday — Halloween — is totally removed from thinking about the lives of the dead, at least in a significant way. Halloween is instead about candy and costumes and fun, which is admittedly worthwhile in its own way.

But we’ve lost sight of something. Having a holiday about the dead could help us reflect on what matters in life. Perhaps the invisible death — both at Halloween and in the fact that we die in hospitals, mostly out of sight — hurts us in ways we don’t fully know.

On the other hand, reflecting on death can be terrifying. I once saw an old man die crossing the street. It was dusk, the road was busy, and the man wasn’t at an intersection. I told my sister, “that guy is going to get hit,” and then the car directly in front of me hit him, causing him to flip, throwing his body a dozen feet down the road. We pulled over and got out of the car. The man’s cane, shoes and glasses had been ripped from him and scattered across the asphalt. His head was bleeding, pooling in the gutter. His wife, who had gone on ahead to a store, ran out and was crying, saying his name over and over.

That’s something I don’t want on my mind, except for the fact that it reminds me that this life here is short. I’m not invincible. I need to do good, quickly. And that’s why I wonder: When death becomes too invisible, do we sometimes forget our mortality? If the answer is yes, then maybe a day once a year to reflect on it is worthwhile.