As pretty much everyone now knows, on the evening of Jan. 2, just after engaging in what appeared to be a routine tackle as safety for the Buffalo Bills, Damar Hamlin collapsed onto the turf. Apparently pulseless, he received CPR and other emergency care before his pulse was restored and he was transported, unconscious and intubated, to a local hospital.
Thanks to the lightning-quick response on the field and intensive care at a local hospital, supervised by highly trained doctors and nurses, Hamlin recovered with impressive speed. Everyone rejoices in his continued recovery.
But the fact remains that without this world-class care, Hamlin almost certainly would have died. What can we learn from the reaction of the other players as Hamlin lay, apparently lifeless or nearly so, on the field?
His teammates are, after all, avatars of aggression, athleticism and American masculinity — yet, they variously stood, knelt and held each other while tears streamed down their blackened cheeks and prayers crossed their murmuring lips.
What most strikes me about this is not so much that they were sad — who wouldn’t be? — but that they were shocked.
In spite of recent reforms to reduce the likelihood and severity of concussions, it is the job of these men to engage weekly in a sport that involves careening, full speed, into each other. They inhabit a world where “hard hits” are celebrated and where channeled rage is the coin of the realm.
And yet, confronted with the prospect of death, they stood mute, weeping at the very idea.
But here’s the thing: I cite their behavior not because it is anomalous, but because they are us.
We are them.
As a society, we have almost entirely insulated ourselves from death. Most people think about their own mortality little, if at all, and the lengths to which we go to try to hide aging and the aged stand as a testament to the fact that we wish death did not exist. Daily, we seek to convince ourselves that death is little more than a distant, abstract, almost theoretical presence.
I think about this societal discomfort with death frequently because I am an oncologist and have also been, at various times, a lay pastor for my church.
Religion has always concerned itself with questions of living and dying, but these come into even sharper focus when I show up for work at the cancer center on a given morning.
Some of my patients, of course, discover their cancer well into the twilight of their lives. While cancer is rarely good news, many older patients take the diagnosis in stride. Aware that life will end relatively soon one way or another, some determine that this way is just as good or bad as any other, and they face the end of life with a knowing resolve, sometimes even good humor.
But cancer does not only strike the old.
I only care for adults, and yet my patients have been as young as 19. Cancer in the very young is an entirely different matter — bursting onto the canvas of life with terrible power, with dark ferocity. When a young father or a new husband, or a college sophomore or an expectant mother discover malignancy, the matter comes shrouded in even deeper grief.
Over the years, I have learned never to speak to dying patients about “silver linings” — a euphemism mostly used by the well to reassure the ill.
Nonetheless, having accompanied many patients through the end of their lives, I will say this: the prospect of death works at least two transformations in the lives of those who face dying.
First, it illuminates the miracle of living. Bathed in the honey-colored, autumnal light that accompanies life’s end, virtually everything takes on new sparkle, beauty and illumination: a baby’s cry, a curling leaf, a budding flower, the aroma of cookies, the touch of love, and a transcendent choral cord.
All of these gain new luster when death approaches.
Beyond this, approaching death reorders our priorities. We care less for accumulation and regard, more for affection and character. We care less about what others think of us, and more about the way our love transforms those around us.
But all of that leads me to the great truth that so often seems to evade a largely unaware world: Whether you are young or old, and no matter how well you seem today: death is coming. And paradoxically, this knowledge helps make life worth living.
Dr. Tyler Johnson is a clinical assistant professor of medicine at the Stanford School of Medicine. His writing has appeared in BYU Studies, Wayfare, Dialogue, Religion News Service and The San Jose Mercury News. He is the co-host of the podcast “The Doctor’s Art.”