An Inquiry into Identity After the Soul Allegedly Leaves the Building

There was a time, not so long ago, when people simply died. They died in beds, in fields, in factories, or, if they were especially lucky, mid-orgasm. They died with a name, a face, a body, and a legacy, however humble. Today, they no longer die. Instead, they "pass," "transition," "depart," "slip away," "go home," or are "called to glory." It’s a miracle North America appears to have abolished death through sheer linguistic ingenuity.

Grandpa Hans didn’t die. Don’t say that. It’s “insensitive.” He went to be with the Lord, even though he hadn’t darkened a church doorway since Eisenhower was in office. He’s now “resting,” “gone ahead,” or “celebrating eternal life”, despite having spent the last six months wheezing into a morphine haze, barely aware of his own dentures.
This is not mourning. It’s marketing.

The modern death industry, because make no mistake, it is an industry, has perfected the art of turning corpses into lifestyle statements. Grandpa Hans has not died; he has been repackaged. There’s a brochure for that. He is no longer a person; he is now a "legacy brand." He’s available in mahogany, cherrywood, or the eco-friendly recycled hemp casket, nestled in a biodegradable cocoon of artisanal grief.

His "Celebration of Life" will be held at 3 p.m. in a strip mall funeral home next to a Tim Hortons in Canada, or it would likely be Greggs in the United Kingdom, with PowerPoint slides, soft jazz, and laminated bookmarks bearing his pixelated high school photo. There will be no tears, only gluten-free finger sandwiches and a suspicious number of cousins who suddenly have thoughts on the will.

The corpse itself, formerly known as Grandpa Hans, is now under contract. Every bodily orifice is plugged, powdered, painted, and presented with the dignity of a taxidermied statesman. An embalming fee, a dressing fee, a casketing fee. If you’re feeling fancy, there’s an “eternal rest facial package” with hydrating moisturizer and “natural color enhancement.” Death has become a spa day with finality.

And then, there’s the language. The truly grotesque thing. We can't even say the word "dead" anymore. The obituary pages read like euphemistic Mad Libs. “Passed peacefully, surrounded by family” (read: sedated and gurgling). “Earned his wings” (read: expired during the third commercial break of Wheel of Fortune). “Joined the angels” (read: joined his unpaid credit card balance).
But here’s the kicker: once Grandpa Hans Casteels has been boxed, buried, and blessed, he disappears, not just physically, but linguistically. There is a moment, subtle but jarring, when the living stop using his name and start referring to him as a role: “the deceased,” “the body,” or, chillingly, “the remains.” This reduction from subject to object is the final act of erasure. He is no longer Grandpa Hans. No longer Papa. He is that which remains.

And yet, despite all the rituals, euphemisms, and scented candles, no one seems comforted. Because deep down, we know: the more we refuse to look death in the eye, the more it haunts us. By scrubbing death of its stink, its fear, and its messy humanity, we also scrub away the one thing that gives it meaning, its finality. It's honesty. It's a brutal, democratic truth.

To speak plainly about death is not crass. It is sane. It is dignified. To call a corpse a corpse is to honour what it was and accept what it is. Grandpa Hans died. He is dead. He is gone. And we who remain, truly remain, must resist the corporatized hallucination that he merely wandered off into some celestial Airbnb.

Because until we stop embalming the truth with euphemism, we will never learn to grieve, to remember, or to live with the only certainty we have: that one day, we too will be corpses formerly known as ourselves.

When Death Becomes a Performance, We Forget How to Mourn
In the end, yes, let’s use the word, the modern Western death experience has been scrubbed, sanitized, and sold back to us as a curated event. We have taken one of life’s few certainties and outsourced it to euphemism-peddling corporations, who wrap our grief in mahogany and invoice our denial. Death, once raw and real, has become something to be choreographed, marketed, and monetized until the deceased resembles a brand ambassador for the afterlife.

The corpse formerly known as Grandpa Hans was once a person. A loud laugher, a chronic napper, a man who had opinions about lawn care and war movies. But now he’s a product; prepared, presented, and euphemized into oblivion.

In our quest to avoid discomfort, we’ve lost something vital. Not just clarity, but connection. We no longer sit with death; we avoid it. We no longer say it; we decorate it. And in doing so, we abandon the living to grief that’s been stripped of language and buried under floral arrangements and pre-paid “peace of mind” packages.
To reclaim death is not to wallow in morbidity. It is to speak truthfully, to mourn openly, and to allow the departed the dignity of honesty. They died. They are dead. And that is not unkind. It is, paradoxically, the most human thing we can say.
Because in the end, again, that word, our denial, doesn’t save us. It only robs us of the courage to live meaningfully in the face of what we all know waits. And maybe, just maybe, it’s time we stopped pretending Grandpa Hans went on vacation and started remembering that he mattered.
Even, especially, now that he’s gone.