On Death (I)

 "It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death--ought to decide, indeed, to earn one's death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible to life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return. One must negotiate this passage as nobly as possible, for the sake of those who are coming after us."

~ James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time

The State of Colorado just added a new level to its Covid-19 "dial." Until last week, the highest level of danger in a county from Covid was Level Red. This level put in place the most restrictions and the tightest recommended changes to travel, gatherings, and so on. Now the worst is Level Purple.

What does Level Purple mean? The principle trigger for Level Purple is that a county's hospital capacity is close to being exceeded.

Since March, hospital capacity has been the real looming specter of Covid-19. It's one thing if my community has a lot of people who are being treated for the disease. It's an entirely different thing--and existential problem--if my community's medical system cannot treat all of those with symptoms that require treatment.

What if five new patients with life-threatening (or potentially life-threatening) symptoms appear, and the local hospital only has one bed left with treatment capacity? Which patient do the physicians, nurses, and administrators choose? We have now crossed from the libertarian prattle about rights not to wear masks to the stuff of graduate-level ethics courses.

I am in my mid-40s. I have a job. I am white and male. I am married with two children. I have good quality health insurance and reasonable life insurance. I am fairly healthy. I have a family member who is immunologically high-risk. If our county were in Level Purple and I manifested life-threatening or potentially life-threatening symptoms--it need not be Covid-19 to blame--and our local hospital had neither adequate bed space or sufficient staff to transport me (to . . . where?) then would I be told, "Sorry, friend. You'll just have to tough it out at home"? Or would someone else be kicked out of the hospital so that I could have a bed?

I suspect that communities faced with insufficient medical care for a spike in Covid-19 cases (on top of the usual load of heart attacks, pneumonias, traumas, and so on) would have a sudden and startling wake-up call. The call would direct our attention not only to the nature of our medical system, but also to our relationship with death.

When James Baldwin wrote the words above he was meditating on the problem of racism in America. (The entire book, The Fire Next Time, deserves your attention. Read it.) But this concept of "earning one's death" would come jarringly to the fore in the case of health care capacities collapsing under the weight of Covid-19. If five of us lay on gurneys outside the Emergency Department, and only one bed was open inside, how would we earn our deaths?

Would I have the capacity to say, "No, don't take me in. Take her"? Without trying to imagine "reasonable" justification (she's 7 months pregnant; he's 18 years old with "his whole life ahead of him"; I made a mistake and didn't wear my mask to a party; and so on--this is a rabbit-hole) I am left with the bare question: How would I "negotiate this passage nobly"?

Most of the behaviors of American life either assume that death is not a factor or spend considerable energy running away from the specter of death. These behaviors include what we expect of our medical systems. We may be in a situation, unique in our generation, of having to stare that "terrifying darkness" in the face and "confronting it with passion." How shall I prepare myself such that any decisions I make will be done out of virtue rather than fear?

I find language and passion in the knowledge of Jesus Christ's resurrection. While the thought of leaving behind loved ones--especially the young ones--gives me sadness, I take comfort and courage in the conviction that my death will usher me into glory and perhaps offer someone else an opportunity for fuller life. To lay hold of this comfort and courage, however, I find I must practice saying, "Yes, I know that I'm going to die," and "Yes, I am willing to put my life on the line for this--for you."

Just saying these two phrases seems to put the rest of life into perspective. Not the syrupy perspective that serves only to make me appreciate more the things that I have, but the perspective that forces me to evaluate whether I want the things that I have or am told I ought to pursue.

It is a strange intersection that Level Purple should appear in our common language at the same time that the liturgical Church enters into the Advent season, whose liturgical color is usually purple. Advent recalls that Jesus Christ will return to get the twin works of judgment and glory done. In this season the Church meditates on the question, "How do I want this life to end?"

I think that, should someone go to the cost of etching something on my headstone, I should like to see both "He lived well" and "He died well." I would like to "negotiate this passage nobly," and in love. Anything less would be unworthy of the Prince of Peace.

~ emrys