Yet, how can it be ‘natural causes’ when he is only sixteen? How can we call cancer, ‘natural’? How is a tumour in the heart, in any way, shape or form, ‘natural’? Call it obscene, call it horrible, call it ghastly, call it whatever nasty word you like – but it’s not normal, it’s not natural, it’s not good. It’s a sign that the world is not right. It’s something against which we must rage. It’s not simply the dissolution of one temporary organism. It’s the death of person who loved and was loved.
When we cease to rage against death, we have given up on life. Death is the horrible reality of our life that screams: “There’s something wrong with the world!” We try to hide that scream; silence it with distractions, pretend it’s not happening with anti-aging creams, and rationalise its existence with meaningless platitudes. We question the sanity of those who want to die but there is no greater madness than thinking we can avoid death.
There is a statistical normality to death that inoculates us against it. Because everybody dies we lose the qualitative horror of death in the quantitative reality of our mortality. Does not the Bible itself tell us that we only have three score years and ten or four score if we are strong. To count our years in ‘scores’ sounds so much better, so much gentler, so much more removed than the harshness of the modern prosaic translations of seventy years or eighty.
We expect old people to die – it is the way of the world. Yet, when it happens, and happens to somebody we love, there’s still grief and sadness; there’s still loss and hollowness. It’s an appalling challenge to our very humanity. As the poet said: “Any man’s death diminishes me”. Some part of our world, some part of our selves, has been removed and there is no scratch that will satisfy the itch of the amputated limb.
It’s the natural order of things to attend the funerals of the generations before us: our grandparents, our parents, our uncles and our aunts. We come to expect that some of our own generation will die before us: our siblings and school friends, our colleagues and neighbours. We even discuss with our spouse which one of us will die first and what we will do without the love of our life.
But nothing prepares us for the death of our child; nothing prepares us to attend the funeral of our grandchild. That is not the natural order of things. That is not statistically normal in our modern society. That is not part of our plans or hopes; our aspirations or dreams. He was supposed to attend my funeral not me attend his. He was supposed to carry my coffin not me carry his.
The death of a grandson is not simply natural and normal; it is tragic and horrible. Some children don’t die of natural causes but are killed taking risks while living in dangerous times or places, or following dangerous occupations or hobbies. Still no parent of such a child will be ready to bury his or her offspring. No grandparent will be anything short of heartbroken by the death of their progeny.
Yet, how can it be ‘natural causes’ when he is only sixteen? How can we call cancer, ‘natural’? How is a tumour in the heart, in any way, shape or form, ‘natural’? Call it obscene, call it horrible, call it ghastly, call it whatever nasty word you like – but it’s not normal, it’s not natural, it’s not good. It’s a sign that the world is not right. It’s something against which we must rage. It’s not simply the dissolution of one temporary organism. It’s the death of person who loved and was loved.
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