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A very peculiar phenomenon happens to me about once a year and bears sharing with you, so I hope you forgive me if it sounds at all like I’m trying to sort myself out. At least once a year for the past three years, someone in the public eye whom I didn’t follow dies unexpectedly and I find myself quite stunned, without knowing precisely why.

Over two years ago, readers of this space will recall that I was shocked at the death of the actor Natasha Richardson, despite maybe having seen portions of one film of hers. My reaction to that distressing event is found here: http://mmcilvain.blogspot.com/2009/03/something-for-natasha-some-years-ago.html

Last November, when I received word that another actor, Jill Clayburgh, had died of leukemia, I couldn’t get her out of my mind for two days. I’d only ever seen two films of Clayburgh’s: Silver Streak and her signature role in An Unmarried Woman. I recall posting a certain scene from the latter film on my Facebook page and beholding Clayburgh’s porcelain face.

Which leads me to today, when I found out that Dan Wheldon, a race car driver who had won two Indianapolis 500’s, was killed in a fiery and, by all accounts, remarkably nasty 15-car wreck in a race in Las Vegas. Now, I understand that this is the risk you run when you get behind the wheel of an open wheel race-car going 225 miles an hour. But the suddenness and finality of it are wrenching to say the least.

So why am I shocked about this? Maybe because Wheldon was very close to my age. He was thirty-three, which is what I’ll be in about two weeks. He had a two year old child, and that’s unsettling enough. Or it could be that this unfolded before a network television audience over ABC, and the trauma that those who watched either there or at the racetrack in person will take months or years to undo. Mind you, I did not watch this unfold, nor do I wish to. Video of the event is apparently on Youtube, but for me to attach it would be exploitative.

And in answer to the larger question, why do I grieve—for lack of a word—these disparate people who I did not follow, that I was no particular fan of, but whose accomplishments were many and meaningful, I can guess at a couple of things. One is that since they were in the public eye and had cameras trained on them for large portions of their lives, I did not expect to see them go. Richardson’s death and in particular Wheldon’s death were violent and unexpected—recall that Richardson had suffered delayed head trauma whilst learning to ski; Clayburgh did well keeping her battle with Leukemia private. But all three deaths had my jaw dropping.

Another theory is a little more prosaic, but easier for me to subscribe to: I am told that I am innately empathetic. Tomorrow morning, I don’t even know how many people will pick up the morning paper, read about the Wheldon tragedy, think to themselves, “Gee, that’s unfortunate”, and forget it at least until it’s brought up again. But think again of the people who watched the horrific wreck at the racetrack, or those who watched it on live television. They’ll have nightmares for a long time to come. And I daren’t contemplate Wheldon’s wife and child, who will miss him now and forever.

And who knows? Tomorrow morning, Dan Wheldon’s death may be the furthest thing from my mind as I commute to my office. But I couldn’t let this calamity go unnoticed. Who can say why the leaving of certain lives touches or distresses other people. And how in the world can you find the words to comfort yourself, even if you didn’t know that person well or at all. It’s very hard to make sense of the senseless.