Death becomes her (and him)

 Death is the ultimate whitewash; making saints of ordinary men and women

The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones. So William Shakespeare wrote about Julius Caeser, putting his words in Mark Antony’s mouth. But I can’t help but think that Shakespeare got it wrong this one time. The truth is that death is the ultimate whitewash, cleansing the deceased of all their sins and leaving behind a saintly figure that often bears no resemblance to the person they actually were while alive. 

The revisionism starts soon after death. All eulogies by family members and friends focus on the many virtues of the recently departed, some real but many imagined. Even the worst parent is recast a doting presence by bereaved children. The surviving spouse of the most fractious relationship will have you believe that their’s was the love story of the century. And so on. 

That’s not entirely surprising given that we are constantly being exhorted not to speak ill of the dead. If you have nothing nice to say, we are told if we are even mildly critical, then it’s better to say nothing at all. If you must speak then make sure that you are devotional rather than derogatory in tone. 

In time, this message becomes so internalised in us that we are programmed to look at the dead through rose-tinted glasses. The mother with whom the daughters had a difficult relationship riven with arguments and fights morphs into a maternal figure who was nothing but sweetness and light. The father who never had time for his kids while alive is celebrated as a benevolent patriarch who led by example. The spouse who was controlling or emotionally distant is portrayed as the ideal partner who could do no wrong. 

I suppose at one level this makes sense. When somebody you love dies you want to focus on their best selves — and the only way to do that is to wish away all their jagged edges. So you endow them with a persona that you wish they had had in real life. You lavish them with virtues they never had. You create memories that you wish existed. And in time you come to believe that your revisionism is, in fact, the truth. 

But the truth is that we do a disservice to those no longer among us when we ignore their full selves in favour of just celebrating their best bits. It takes courage to look at the life and legacy of the deceased in a way in which we acknowledge their flaws, their human failings, their failures. The truest expression of love is to admit that someone you loved was flawed — but was worthy of love, anyway. 

Selective memory can sometimes be a way of protecting ourselves from hurt. And what could hurt more than the thought that your mom didn’t truly love you, that your dad was indifferent to your success, or even that your husband/wife regretted marrying you. But it is only when we admit these possibilities and learn to go beyond them to arrive at a purer love that we can truly honour the dead.