When Someone Dies

David Remnick of The New Yorker says of the sudden death of James Gandolfini:  "In the dozens of hours he had on the screen, he made Tony Soprano--lovable, repulsive, cunning, ignorant, brutal--more ruthlessly alive than any character we've ever encountered in television."  Except for the major crush I developed on the character he's most famous for, I don't know James Gandolfini.  With that said, I have a feeling he'd like to be remembered for creating a character that was known as "ruthlessly alive."

This post is less about James Gandolfini than it is about death.  Unexpected and sudden death.  Just so we're clear, I don't spend a lot of time thinking about the day I will die.  Nor do I contemplate how, when, if I'll die alone or with someone else, whether it will be quiet or tragic.  I have at one point or another wondered all this, but in the space I allot to what goes on in my mind, my personal death does not take up much space.

Except that it does.  Sometimes.  I contemplate this when people around me die.  My uncle's death ten years ago rocked our family in ways we've still not recovered from.  My brother's death when I was very young has left a hole in my immediate family that cannot be plugged.  Even with the deaths of those I don't know, the finality of their newly created absence makes me wonder what people will say about me when I've moved on--because at one time or another we think about the day we leave earth.  We talk about those who have left us.  We talk about them as we mourn, reliving the marks they've left on those left behind.

When the choice to end our lives is of our own making, remembrance is messy.  Our sadness is mixed with anger, confusion, and often guilt.  Suicide in Japan is a social phenomenon where statistics show approximately 30,000 people terminate their lives and have been for the past fifteen years.  Except for a report stating the numbers dipped below 30,000 for the first time last year, these numbers remain steady.  What's going on in Japan?

It gets worse.  Research shows those who are successful in ending their lives (if suicide can actually be called a "success") are 10% of those who try.  Do the math.  This means there are 300,000 people in Japan who choose this way to die.  Should we be glad only 10% are "successful"?  What, if anything is done for the 270,000 who failed?

I bring this topic up not to suggest I have answers or that there exist simple solutions.  "It's complicated" are two words often used to describe that which we cannot control.  Without helpful input to offer I'm in no position to say, "That's not good enough," but I will.  

Perhaps one way to address the problem of suicide in Japan is to focus on two aspects of Japanese culture often used to modify behavior:  shame, and meiwaku.  A powerful force of social order, shame is an often-used tool to instill right from wrong.  Do not bring shame upon your family, school, organization, or company.  What if we said about those who were close to the one who took their life, that they failed in some way?  Perhaps the stigma of failure maybe isn't enough. What if we add shame to the emotions felt to those left behind?  If we knew those left to pick up our body felt shame because of our decision, would that change anything?

The same concept applies to meiwaku.  The catch-all word for gross inconvenience we cause others, by taking our own life surely we cause meiwaku do we not?  In centuries past perhaps suicide was noble, the ultimate in taking responsibility.  What if we made sure children growing up thought of suicide as a cop out?  That there was nothing heroic about falling on one's own sword?

It's not that easy, I know.  Change is never simple.  So I'll end with this thought:  I wish the collective Japan could recognize how big of a deal it was for Tony Soprano to get counseling.  Fictional character aside, the decision to put front-and-center the life of a troubled and truly human mob boss who chose to get help, that this was a cultural phenomenon on American television warrants another look.