Lately I’ve been thinking about death—not the usual poetry or quiet-room type of death, but death in space. Yes, I know it sounds sci-fi, but according to a recent article—”Is NASA Ready for Death in Space?“—NASA is quietly preparing for precisely that.
Picture it: you’re floating hundreds of miles above Earth, in a metal station orbiting the planet, and something goes wrong. It’s a scenario few of us imagine, but one NASA has considered. They have protocols and special containment units ready in case someone on board dies.
For me, the idea hits on something deeply human: we talk a lot about space as the frontier of discovery, but death is the ultimate frontier none of us wants to cross. Yet in that context, it’s simultaneously more remote and more raw. More remote because you’re literally out of place, far from home; more raw because you’re in an environment that doesn’t care—the vacuum, the silence, the infinite.
That duality makes me think: death isn’t just personal. It becomes universal, and in space, it becomes almost philosophical. If you die up there, what becomes of your body? What becomes of meaning? NASA’s preparations suggest they’re thinking not just of engineering, but also of dignity.
And back here on Earth, maybe we can learn something from that. Death is inevitable. Whether in orbit or on terra firma, facing it with planning, respect and awareness might soften the edge. Perhaps space reminds us that even in vast emptiness, we carry our humanity with us.
PHOTO CREDIT: The International Space Station as seen from the departing Space Shuttle Discovery during STS-119. (by NASA via Wikimedia)
