Death Becomes Me

(WARNING: This post contains images and content that may be disturbing to sensitive individuals, or those who have lost a child or other loved one recently. Please read at your own risk.)

I have a confession to make.

I am absolutely fascinated by death culture, lore, and practices.

I think it probably has to do with the fact that I have no concrete beliefs about what happens to our souls after we die. I don't believe in a literal heaven and hell. It's far too simplistic a concept and I can't help thinking it was born of the need to control and manipulate wayward followers, as well as to discourage debate and free thought.

But as to what does happen?? I really don't know. The idea of reincarnation appeals to me, because the thought of simply not being scares the hell (no pun intended) out of me. But logic doesn't allow me to put any real credence into reincarnation as religious dogma.

So anyway.

Autopsy shows? Love 'em. True Crime novels? I devour 'em. Murder mysteries? Eh, not so much, unless they're really unique and interesting like Silence of the Lambs, The Bone Collector, or Cabinet of Curiosities.

It's the real life murder mysteries such as this or so called miracles such as this that really fascinate me. They are so much more interesting and poignant.

(WARNING: The following links contain images that my be disturbing. Please use discretion if you find images of dead bodies upsetting.)

I would love to visit the tombs in Egypt, the Capuchin Catacombs in Palermo Italy, or the Guanajuato Museum in Mexico.

I am dying to read Wisconsin Death Trip. But it's a rare and hot item and folks are usually willing to pay more for it than I can afford. I came close to winning a copy once, but I was sniped at the last minute. I think I'm going to put it on my Christmas list this year, and just not worry about how weird my family finds it.

But I have devoured tomes such as Jessica Mitford's "The American Way of Death" and Mary Roach's "Stiff"

PBS aired a new documentary last week called "The Undertaking" that I've recorded. I'm chomping at the bit to watch, but I'm determined to do it in peace and quiet while the kids are in school. I plan to read Thomas Lynch's book of the same name as well.

By far my most profound and undying fascination is with post mortem photography, particularly that of chidren and infants. I've been called "disturbed" and "sick" because of my interest in them.

Granted, the individuals who made these imprecations were intent on villifying me at all costs, but still. I think it's a pretty commonly held belief that people who are interested in death culture are ghouls.

But with these photos, it is not the death of the subject that I find so engaging, but rather, the love and reverence with which they have been prepared for their eternal rest. Many of them are unspeakably beautiful. Some of them are haunting. And yes, some of them are undeniably disturbing and tragic.

But they are all a window into the mind of a grieving parent, spouse, sibling or friend as well as a glimpse into the past; America in it's youth, life in a simpler time.

Below are several examples taken from Paul Frecker's site.

He has a huge collection of post mortem photographs. I find them anything but horrifying. In every one, the baby or child has been carefully arrayed, meticulously groomed, and lovingly laid out. They hold flowers or a beloved toy, or they are covered by a favorite blanket. Sometimes they are cradled by a grieving parent. Sometimes they lie in elaborate coffins.

That these children were loved is indisputable. That they will be desperately missed is painfully evident. The death toilette is the last time the parent will tend to their child. I can scarcely imagine the pain of such a thing.

In those days, people did not have the luxury of taking scads and scads of candid photographs as parents can now. In many cases, the post mortem photo was the only one they would ever have of their cherished child, and so, they went to great lengths to make them beautiful.

Can you dispute their success?



Are these images horrifying or macabre?



Do you feel compelled to turn away?



Or do you find yourself aching to smooth down a silken strand of hair, straighten a snowy hem, caress a tender cheek?



Today death is a more circumspect event. We would not think of keeping a corpse in our home, we would not think of preparing the body ourselves. Some of us can scarcely stomach the thought of touching a body, much less holding it in a tender embrace for a photo.

But why?

Death is a natural event in a cycle that has been turning since the beginning of time. Why do we fear it so?

I can't answer that. If I could, I would be able to confront my own demons and banish the cold dark fingers of apprehension that skip up and down my spine whenever I think of my own death or that of someone I love.

I think that I think I can't survive the loss. But these photos prove otherwise. And they comfort me.

Maybe it's because they are a testament to the fact that people survive and life goes on, even after horrible, aching loss. Maybe it's the knowledge that although things change, and life changes, the ferocity of a parent's love for their child is timeless.

Whomever said "Death is the Final Frontier" was certainly right. I wonder if we will ever find a way to dispel the mystery and quiet our fears.

In the meantime, I indulge my fascination and hope that someday, I will come to terms with my own mortality.

I have to believe it's not an entirely unfounded hope