This Is Us
Protest Is the Sixth Stage of Grief
On the masks we wear to face the world
I never knew what I’d walk into when I went to a death.
When Danny and I found ourselves at Mr. Richardson’s death, for example, we never would have imagined we’d be 1) coerced into a photo session with Mr. Richardson’s dead body and 2) chastised into joining a prayer circle surrounding the dead man.
Danny was my intern. I had several during my years as a hospice social worker, and he was my favorite: an ambitious young man, with a good sense of humor. Good thing, too — because that was one of the strangest deaths I’d ever attended, and I was glad to have company that day.
We ended up at Mr. Richardson’s deathbed without meaning to, and that’s what began the strangeness. At 75, he was a widower with two adult sons. I’d called that morning and spoken with his oldest to schedule an appointment for our required social work assessment visit. And on the drive over to meet them — not even an hour later — I received a call from my nurse supervisor. Mr. Richardson died, she said. Since you’re on your way anyway, you can do the death visit.
We walked into a whirlwind of activity around Mr. Richardson’s dead body. In most deathbed rooms, the living go about their business pretty…
