As the U.S. reached a grim milestone in the outbreak, The New York Times gathered names of the dead and memories of their lives from obituaries across the country.
As the U.S. reached a grim milestone in the outbreak, The New York Times gathered names of the dead and memories of their lives from obituaries across the country.
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Remembering the 100,000 Lives Lost to Coronavirus in America
ByDan BarryLarry BuchananClinton CargillAnnie DanielAlain DelaquérièreLazaro GamioGabriel GianordoliRichard HarrisBarbara HarveyJohn HaskinsJon HuangSimone LandonJuliette LoveGrace MaaloufAlex MatthewsFarah MohamedSteven MoityDestinée-Charisse RoyalMatt RubyandEden WeingartUpdatedUpdated May 27, 2020
As the U.S. reached a grim milestone in the outbreak, The New York Times gathered names of the dead and memories of their lives from obituaries across the country.
An Incalculable Loss
America has reached a grim milestone in the coronavirus outbreak — each figure here represents one of the 100,000 lives lost so far. But a count reveals only so much. Memories, gathered from obituaries across the country, help us to reckon with what was lost.
One hundred thousand.
Toward the end of May in the year 2020, the number of people in the United States who have died from the coronavirus passed 100,000 — almost all of them within a three-month span. An average of more than 1,100 deaths a day.
One hundred thousand.
A number is an imperfect measure when applied to the human condition. A number provides an answer to how many, but it can never convey the individual arcs of life, the 100,000 ways of greeting the morning and saying good night.
One hundred thousand.
The immensity of such a sudden toll taxes our ability to comprehend, to understand that each number adding up to 100,000 represents someone among us just yesterday. Who was the 1,233rd person to die? The 27,587th? The 98,431st?
She may have died in a jam-packed hospital, with no family member at her bedside to whisper a final thank you, Mom, I love you.
He may have died in a locked-down nursing home, his wife peering helplessly through a streaked window as a part of her slips away.
They may have died in subdivided city apartments, too sick or too scared to go to a hospital, their closest relatives a half-world away.
This highly contagious virus has forced us to suppress our nature as social creatures, for fear that we might infect or be infected. Among the many indignities, it has denied us the grace of being present for a loved one’s last moments. Age-old customs that lend meaning to existence have been upended, including the sacred rituals of how we mourn.
Before, we came together in halls and bars and places of worship to remember and honor the dead. We recited prayers or raised glasses or retold familiar stories so funny they left us nodding and crying through our laughter.
In these vital moments of communion, it could feel as though the departed were with us one last time, briefly resurrected by the sheer power of our collective love, to share that closing prayer, that parting glass, that final hug.
Even in the horrible times of wars and hurricanes and terrorist attacks that seemed to crumble the ground beneath our feet, we at least had time-tested ways of grieving that helped us take that first hesitant step forward.
Not now.
Now, for most of those who died in the past few months, there were no large gatherings of consolation and recited prayers for peaceful rest. The obituaries that filled our local newspapers and Facebook pages sometimes read like an unending roll call of the coronavirus dead.
Every death notice, virus-related or not, seemed to close with:Due to health concerns and restrictions on gatherings, there will be no funeral services at this time. A celebration of life will be held at a time to be announced.
A virtual memorial service was held instead, perhaps, with mourners praying into laptop screens. Followed by a burial, perhaps, with masked mourners watching from their cars as another coffin was received by the earth.
In a larger sense, the suspension of our familiar rituals of burial or cremation reflected what life in a pandemic has been like. The absence of any clear end.
Even the dead have to wait.
Why has this happened in the United States of 2020? Why has the virus claimed a disproportionately large number of black and Latino victims? Why were nursing homes so devastated? These questions of why and how and whom will be asked for decades to come.
For now, all we can do is hold our collective breath, inch toward some approximation of how things were — and try to process a loss of life greater than what the country incurred in several decades of war, from Vietnam to Iraq.
One hundred thousand.
A threshold number. It is the number celebrated when the family car’s odometer ticks once more to reach six digits. It is the number of residents that can make a place feel fully like a city: San Angelo, Texas; Kenosha, Wisconsin; Vacaville, California.
So imagine a city of 100,000 residents that was here for New Year’s Day but has now been wiped from the American map.
One hundred thousand.
Den mother for Cub Scout Pack 9. Manager of the produce department. Tavern owner. Nurse to the end.
Loved baseball. Loved playing euchre. Loved seeing the full moon rise above the ocean.
Man, could she cook.
Always first on the dance floor. Always ready to party. Always gave back.
Preferred bolo ties and suspenders.
Awarded the Bronze Star. Served in the Women’s Army Corps. Survived the sinking of the Andrea Doria. Competed in the Special Olympics. Immigrated to achieve the American dream.
Could quote Tennyson from memory.
A number is an imperfect measure when applied to the human condition.
One. Hundred. Thousand.
About this project
The descriptions of the lives of a thousand people in the United States who died because of the coronavirus were drawn from hundreds of obituaries, news articles and paid death notices that have appeared in newspapers and digital media over the past few months. They have been lightly edited for clarity.
They were compiled from the following publications:
Daily death data is froma New York Times databaseof reports from state and local health agencies.
ByDan Barry,Larry Buchanan, Clinton Cargill,Annie Daniel, Alain Delaquérière,Lazaro Gamio, Gabriel Gianordoli,Rich Harris, Barbara Harvey,John Haskins,Jon Huang, Simone Landon, Juliette Love, Grace Maalouf, Alex Leeds Matthews, Farah Mohamed, Steven Moity, Destinée-Charisse Royal,Matt RubyandEden Weingart.
Additional research by Yuriria Avila, Nicholas Bogel-Burroughs, Penn Bullock, Sophia June,Lauren Leatherby, Alex Lemonides,Denise Lu, Aimee Ortiz,Anjali Singhviand Chi Zhang. Additional editing byJason Bailey, Eric Morse and Alison Peterson.
An earlier version of this article misstated Randall Clayton French’s age. He was 39, not 29. The article also misstated the profession of Sandra Piotrowski, who worked in the accounting departments of several manufacturing companies, not as a meat-cutter. Additionally, the article misstated the branch of the military where Irvin Herman served. He served in the Navy, not the Army.
An earlier version of this article misstated the age and city of Melita Baker. She was 86, not 89, and of Norwell, Mass., not Irvington, N.Y.