This is an impromptu submission so please forgive the wordiness. I might edit it one day. It’s inspired by a bursting into life, if you will, of a particular expression that is — insidiously and malware-like — embedding itself in the lexicon of public speech in this part of the world.
We do not simply die, in the public announcement sense — anymore. Our mortal coils are not shaken off. We no longer join the choir invisible or kick the bucket. Indeed, our last reported moments no longer merit such life-affirming drama; we do not not go gently into that good night. Not according to the evening news. Nope. Now, we go sadly: sadly, like a teddy bear missing an eye or a houseplant wilting, neglected in the corner. Death is then, after all, one of life’s casual disappointments: regrettable indeed (heartfelt thoughts and prayers et cetera), until our attentions are momentarily and predictably redirected to a talking iguana or a shuffle dancer.
If you wish your death to be publicly reported, beware then that there is probably nothing you can do to avoid your fate. You will sadly die. You will not fight to your last breath, drop dead in flagrante delicto in the arms of someone only recently known to you, or meet the side of a mountain in the cockpit of a jet-propulsed vehicle. The glory of your passing, of your heroic last act, will have sadly died. The answer to the question — how do you sadly die? — is rendered moot. Common usage has determined that your dying is mostly, well…sad.
I have to admit, sad is just the right word to use if you view the death of someone you knew as usefully comparable to the death of a houseplant. If a human life is broadly equivalent to an aspidistra then ‘sad’ is the proper adjective for our demise. But I would argue otherwise. Would you agree?
When I am drawing my last breath (however and whenever that might be) I am convinced that one of the least likely emotions I will be feeling is sadness. I imagine I’ll have other things on my mind. My relatives, if I still have any and they are sitting by my side, are surely not feeling ‘sadness’ either. Sadness is for the emotionally disengaged. Sadness is what professionally sombre undertakers express to relatives with a frowny face as the deceased is wheeled in for the two-thirty booking. Or, ‘sadness’ is for the embarassed reporter. Not wishing to give offence to anyone, or to be perceived to possess a cold-hearted journalistic objectivity, the ugliness of death is pixellated away in the editing room and replaced with a soothing dab of sugary ‘sadness.’ There now, all better.
But if we must all sadly die, what is the kind of death we have avoided? Is it a happy one? Some deaths surely are a relief to the unfortunate few, but are they ‘happy’ therefore? Probably not, I would say. If all the weeds prospering in my garden — and stifling my summer veggies — go the way of all living things a little sooner than expected, then as far as I’m concerned they did indeed – as much as I am concerned – happily die. But they’re the unusual case. They’d have been happy to have lived and stifled my beans.
I admit that, surely, for most sentient beings like ourselves, with the luxury of reflection after some time has passed, death could be described as sad: if I were explaining to a child, for instance, why we can’t go to grandma’s house on Sunday anymore, I’d probably use the word sadly somewhere in my explanation.
For the record, then: no death is sad. Death is a lot of things but none is adequately conveyed by this silly little adjective or its adverbial playmate. If you one day announce that I have sadly died then you can be sure of one thing: that I’m just plain dead, but perhaps the happier for being rid of you.
