Why Do We Use Euphemisms For Death in Obituaries and Conversation?

Why Do We Use Euphemisms for Death in Obituaries and Conversation?

Crossing over; passed; passed away; passed over; gone to heaven; left us; lost his(her) life; resting in peace;  asleep in Jesus;  bit the dust; called home;  deceased; departed; expired; gathered to (his) her people;  gone to meet his (her) maker - reward;  joined the last roundup; in repose;  is resting six feet under; succumbed;  turned up his (her) toes;  yielded up the ghost:

The use of euphemisms is supposed to ease our pain. But, just for the absurd fun of it, let’s examine a few – at face value.

“lost his (her) life;”          can someone find it for him (her)?  We have finders.

 “Crossed over”;  crossed over what? A creek? A river? A lake? A cloud?  Can’t they just cross back? 

 “left us;”  doesn’t someone in the house do that at last once a day? Does that imply that the leaver

      will return? Hmm.

“resting in peace;”   How do we know that someone finds peace after dying? Have we talked to   

       someone to know?  Hmm some more.

“Called home;”    by someone via the telephone, cell phone, or land line? Or by facebook, skype, or

      email?  Did someone answer his (her) call, or did the person just hang up?  Interesting. 

“expired;”   Well, things generally get thrown out after they expire. Just saying.

“Passed over;”   That promotion just did not come through, I guess?  Is she (he) pouting?

““joined the last roundup;”    Did she (he) sell the herd? Or did he(she) keep a few cows around?

 “Succumbed;”     temptation is much too great?

Well, enough word play. Fancy word games, in my opinion, do nothing but confuse those who want to know  where is their mom-dad-brother-grandpa-grandma, only to look inside the box, and, after hearing  the explanation, ask, “Then, why is (he) she stuck in that box looking like he (she) is dead?”     What do we say then?

I believe in truth in advertising; saying what I mean. Wife is dead. She will not return to me. As she was dying, she told us that she would meet her parents and beloved grandmother four days later. She was adamant about the date. I believe she did just that – not by passing away, or resting in peace, or by being called home, but by dying.

Five-Hundred Day Postmortem

    Nearly five hundred days ago, Wife decided she’d had enough of pain. So, she died. What a blunt way to state her leaving, but, but I am tired of dancing under euphemisms.  She died. As I have previously stated, suddenly, without warning, after dealing with breast cancer for almost a decade - stage four cancer for three years. Still, she died SUDDENLY, without warning - me. 
   Of course, I was in denial – still am. I find myself wandering  through my halls, looking for Wife, and blubbering when I cannot track her down. 

      I have tried to stay busy, cleaning out closets and kitchens, and spare rooms, but never have I stayed busy enough to forget where her tombstone stands, or where her wedding ring sits; or where her favorite coat hangs because I cannot yet allow myself to give it away.

      I could say these last several weeks have been easier, and that the nights are going better, but I would be spreading falsehoods. In some ways, they are, but mostly they are not. Some days, I muddle through without once thinking of her, untiI I hear a song on the radio (( the Chi-lites “Have you Seen Her”   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xVYxKRXDT2I) or  (Without You) What Do I Do with Me”  Tanya Tucker      https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LOq6G41IewI )),

or have to face the BED alone. Many nights (mornings), I find myself staying awake as long as I physically can,  just to avoid the dark room, and her cold pillow.

     My children, grandchildren, and close friends come around often enough for me to remain coherent, and  loosely connected, and I am slowly rejoining the social circles Wife and I once haunted (and she still does). However, I cannot go anywhere without some hazard waddling along in my wake.  Since now I am a single, rather than a part of a couple, I appear to be a threat to some. I have lost the safety of claiming my wife as my companion. How do I deal with that? I am still struggling.

   What I MOST miss was her ability to make sense of what I had to say, and to help me funnel my many-tracked thoughts into some form of coherence. And then there was our time at the end of the day, when just she and I were alone in the dark, holding each other, and whispering, and laughing. And drifting off to sleep, content that we would have the privilege of doing that once more the next evening.  Then, one day, we didn’t. And, that is where I am currently stuck. For now. Maybe, there is hope.  I have been informed, by those whose footsteps I follow, that there is.

Since Wife's death, I feel as if I am running in place.  I thought I was ready to let her to go when she said she was ready to go home, but I am still not. Every evening I force my misty-eyed self into an empty bed. Every day, I waver between feeling guilty for not keeping her alive, sighing with relief that she no longer suffers, and warring between relief and regret that I am no longer charged with her health care.After a year. I. still. miss. her.

While I realize that I have adjusting somewhat, I often find myself wiping wet cheeks. I hear a song, I pick up a photo, I call one of my children or grands HER name in conversation.

I no longer feel normal, though the several grief books assure me that I am. Pperhaps. In a recent conversation with a mother whose son had died, was speaking as if he had died last week. She confessed eventually that he had been dead for over twenty three years. And she was still crying, and watching the door, and expecting him to walk in anytime, sing-songing "April Fool." Her story did not encourage my hope for easy return to normalcy.

Perhaps, some day, I will be willing to climb into bed - alone - at a normal time, keep the pillow dry, and slumber peacefully. I hope. Until then, I will keep tissue on my bedside table, and keep watching for her at every turn in my path, and behind every door I open.