Feeling Cheated When People Die Too Young

There's a scene in Neil Gaiman's Sandman, which sums it up.

A graphic novel doesn't seem like the most promising place for answers, but then those are generally the best places to find them.

The Sound of her Wings has us trailing Death, as she completes her rounds. A far cry from the usual terrible aspect of the Grim Reaper, this foxy, compassionate Goth Girl cares for every soul that she personally collects. Not with tears and pathos. She understands that death is merely the 'high cost of living'.

She is everywhere and nowhere. She is with a pigeon falling from the sky. She is with an old man, relieved at the respite from a long and exhausting life. She is with a baby, swept up from its cot, where its mother thinks it merely sleeping.

"But... is that all there was?" The infant asks, "Is that all I get?" 

"Yes," Death smiles kindly, "I'm afraid so."  Her brother Dream mirrors our reaction, as he stares down at the lifeless shell lying in the cot. Ignoring the lively child in conversation behind him.

Death hasn't finished.  She hails a comedienne, dying on stage, "Come on, honey. Time's up."  Later, she answers another person protesting their own demise, "You got what we all get - a life."

It's fiction, but it mirrors reality very well. From the second we are born, we could die, and no-one ever thinks that a life-span was long enough. There was always more to do, so much potential in the future. Things left unsaid, places unvisited, things remaining to tick off the bucket list.

We die when circumstances conspire to kill us. This has nothing to do with age. It's simply our time to go. Fate caught up with us.

Even when confronted with such brutal facts, it still doesn't seem fair. That sense of being cheated probably derives from the lies we tell ourselves, in order to sanely survive a life in the full knowledge of its eventual finale.

'The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.' King James Bible, Psalm  90:10

For Christians, it sounds like a divine promise. Barring accident or disaster, God has practically signed a contract allocating seventy years to every living individual.

If you went over it, then that was a bonus. If you fell short of it, then you have been robbed of your due lifespan. You died too soon.

Nor do you necessarily have to be Christian to believe in such a random figure. A tacit belief in this reality has left its mark upon our lexicon.  We state that people enter 'middle age' somewhere around 35 or 40, because they will die around 70-80 years old.

As medical advances and better living conditions are perceived to raise our life expectancy, then our notion of the middle aged moves accordingly. Life begins at forty, when we still seem so very young. Perhaps fifty, or even sixty, is more like it in 2013.

No. My friend Adam was middle aged at nineteen. He died accordingly at thirty-eight. Little Liam entered middle age at six and a half.

Those telling themselves that sixty years old is the new 'middle aged' are implying something quite remarkable. They, and all their peers, are going to live until 120.

The evidence is against them. Only one person in history ever managed that. Frenchwoman Jeanne Calment celebrated her 122nd birthday, before passing on. Her feat of longevity is generally viewed as an anomaly.

Yet no-one seems to regard her as having somehow cheated in the great stakes of life expectancy. It should be the logical conclusion. If a deceased child died too soon, then Madame Calment must have died too late.

But that is missing the function of the 'threescore and ten', as well as the life expectancy figures. They are rough guidelines, something to aim at, but never a guarantee. They are there as reassurance, but not a promise.

They are psychological touchstones, that shatter us when they're not met; then become meaningless when they're surpassed.

People cling to the belief in 'threescore and ten' years, because it has always been a comfort. Despite the fact that, historically, it was a rare individual who actually reached it. Turning over the statistics, it seems that seventy years old has ever been more about luck than likelihood.

As for beyond that, death appears to be more acceptable.  "They had a good innings," we sagely remark, even as we're breaking our hearts. Because then, more than any other time, we need to convince ourselves that death is not random. It comes after a certain age. We are still safely distant from our own end.

Once we finish wading through the layers of self-deceit, it becomes obvious that nobody is cheated by a young person dying.

At least not in terms of being robbed of their due.

Children have always died in droves. During America's early colonial days, 40% of youngsters never reached their fourth birthday. 

As late as the turn of the 20th century, life expectancy was only in the late 40s.

Even today, 5.9% of infants are delivered stillborn in the USA.

At no time was the promise of old age enshrined in the constitution or the law of the land. It was neither an inalienable nor a human right. Thus, in the vast scheme of things, it is not unfair for someone to die young. They got what everyone gets - a life.

But what does any of this matter, when you're grieving over the loss of a loved one? It's not about the vast scheme of things. It's much more personal than that.

Whether you believe in destiny or just bad luck, there was an expectation at their birth. It wasn't entirely fulfilled. A whole potential future was just snuffed out. While there may be no entitlement to feel cheated, it's perfectly understandable to be disappointed.

We may reflect back upon an older person's life and see all those milestones along the way. For a younger person, there are too many blanks and speculations about what might have been. Their eulogies become less a celebration of a life, and more a waste of regrets.

Yet perhaps the answer lies there.

By scrapping those expectations too, we are left with what was actually lived. Our young person was vital and beloved. They made an impact, or else why would we be mourning them? Their presence filled a life-time so completely that we now feel a loss.

There's plenty there to celebrate and that is where our focus should be.

Remembering the dead for what they were, not what they could have been. Recalling what they did, not what they might have done. Releasing our sense of injustice at their youthful demise, because it cannot be targeted, nor can it be helped. It was not real.

Taking instead all that they were and fixing our memories tightly around us. This is the shield that will carry us through our grief, and into the coping that must follow on.