Photo: @ChristheBarker//Twitter.
I typed “how many people died in
2016?” into my browser’s search engine. I found it no surprise that Wikipedia
came up as the very first result. I thought, I wonder what figure it will tell
me. I found it astounding that the only people Wikipedia recognised who had
died in 2016 were those who had some sort of public status, reflected in a
Wikipedia page devoted to them as a person.
More people than that died in 2016.
Your uncle. Your grandfather. Your son or daughter. Your mother. Your sister. Or
it was a friend who had some loss that shook their world. A loss they cannot
yet let go of, and may never do, in the ultimate sense.
There is much ado made about the
celebrities we’ve lost (as if these people were ever ours, anyway?) in 2016.
Statistically speaking, it’s very doubtful that 2016 would be any worse a year
than 2015 or the coming year, 2017, will be in that regard. Roughly the same
amount of celebrities each die every year, give or take.
But that’s not the point of what I’m
writing this for.
For every person who has died, for
everyone bereaved because of each person’s loss, solemnity is owed. What has
occurred in their loss is something that has changed them forever. And for the
person gone, they’re gone. Sure, we can celebrate that they’re ‘in a better
place’ (if we believe they are) but all their life is gone. It’s done. It’s
history.
There is nothing good about death
other than thinking about ours can cause us to cherish our life a whole lot
more.
So, if you lost someone dear to you
this year, whether that person was a celebrity or not, your loss, and that person,
is as important as anyone is.
And, by the way, the average deaths
per annum is 55.3 million persons — each one, special.
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