The Ladybug Death Cult

I was soon convinced that the ladybugs had come there to die.

"Jesus," I exclaimed at the six ladybug corpses floating idly in the toilet. My husband must have found them. He is the de facto coroner for what has quickly become an ongoing dead insect problem. He also considers the toilet another garbage can.

But six dead ladybugs seemed like a lot, even for us.

"Yitgadal, vyitkadash, shmay raba," I began, then stopped. That was all I knew of the Mourner's Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead. Then it occurred to me that the ladybugs might be Christian, or Muslim, or Hindu, or even Sikh. "Rest in peace?" I asked, as I watched them swirl down to their watery grave. What does one say to a deceased beetle?

"Are you talking to someone?" My husband called from the next room.

"Just the dead ladybugs," I sighed. This was my fourth ladybug funeral of the day. I couldn't stop them from coming, or from seeking to end their tiny lives.

The Holy Moses Cows Gone to Pasture

Ladybugs are thought to be tiny omens of good harvest. Many cultures have imbued them with not only luck, but religious significance. The term ladybug comes from the British, who call it "Ladybird," as in "My Lady's Bird" which is a reference to the Virgin Mary. In Spanish, they are referred to as either La Marquita (Ladybird) or La Vaca de San Anton which means "St. Anthony's Heifer or Small Cow." In Russian, it's "bozh'ya korovkaeither" which is also "Ladybug" or "Lady Cow." A cow also figures prominently in the Hebrew for ladybug, which is "Parat Mosher Habainu" or "Moses Cow." In Danish, Norwegian and Icelandic, it's translated as "Mary's Chicken;" while the English translation of the Korean name is "Shaman Bug." In Arabic, if a "Daesuqa" lands on you, it's good luck. Indeed, every culture seems to believe they are lucky... Seven-spotted friends of gardeners, bringers of health and wealth. Cross-culturally, cross-religiously, in every country, it seems everyone is in agreement: Ladybugs are special.

So why do we have an abundance of ladybugs that seem to be drawn to our newly remodeled bathroom, where they are seeking imminent death? Every day I catch these tiny spotted good omens throwing themselves down sinks and into toilets, crawling underfoot as though begging to be crushed. Why?

Here comes the point in my story where someone will object to this tragic frame I've set. I live in Michigan; it's cold. The ladybugs are obviously coming in from some cracks in the walls, looking for a warm place to shelter during the winter. I believed this too, at first. But after saying goodbye to yet another batch of ladybug corpses swirling down a watery grave, well, you start to think things. It appeared as though our bathroom had become the site for some kind of ladybug death cult.

The Ladybug Tomb has a Free-Standing Tub

When we first moved in almost five years ago, the ladybugs began appearing on the floor of the guest room. My daughter was three at the time, and my son was just one. Both of them were fascinated and delighted the way toddlers are with the natural world, and I was charmed by our tiny visitors. "Ooooh, anoder ladybug!" my daughter would exclaim in her sweet toddler voice, while my son would squeal when he spotted one. They were enchanted each time. I marveled at the novelty of so many ladybugs in one house - we've had ants and spiders before. But ladybugs! This was new and exciting and surely a sign of good fortune.

But as the years passed, the novelty of seeing ladybugs indoors began to wear off, as has the unpleasant surprise of picking their shriveled exoskeletons off the floor. Now we are resigned to our lot, sighing as we throw their tiny red bodies into toilets and trash cans. My daughter, now eight, hands me the folded laundry and sniffs the air. "It smells like ladybugs in here," she says, and I know exactly what she means - they have a scent. It's like fresh earth mixed with something vaguely metallic. I don't know if it's the live ones or the dead ones that smell, but I try not to think about it. Do normal people know this smell? Or is it only those of us who have experienced too much Moses Cow death?

Then came the great pilgrimage. In late 2020, still in the middle of the pandemic, we remodeled our bathroom. I mention this because it seemed to be a turning point in our ladybug issue. They had found a new home - or should I say - a new mausoleum, and now there were more death-seeking and dead ladybugs than ever before.

Our newly renovated bathroom does give off a vaguely sepulchral feel, but to be fair, don't most bathrooms? Ours is white and gray and the large ceramic tiles are always cold. We put in a white, coffin-like free-standing tub. I hung an abstract painting over it. It's turquoise and gray and meant to be soothing - but maybe it's too soothing. Maybe the ladybugs are being lulled to a quiet death. Maybe they're staring into it and wanting to crawl into the calm abyss it promises.

Or maybe they hate the stupid painting so much it's driving them to die.

Daily now, the ladybugs appear in the bathroom, crawling down the sinks, headed for the drain. I try in vain to rescue them, scooping them up carefully and placing them out of harms' way. They are still but calm, as if rethinking their options. Then they disappear, and I find them headed down the sink again. Once, the drain was clogged, and after removing it I discovered no less than 20 dead ladybugs clinging to the pipe. Horrified, I vowed never to investigate a clogged drain again, lest I discover yet another mass beetle suicide.

If only it were just the sinks.

They lay in the hinges of things - whether the wooden cabinets from the vanity or the glass shower door, they don't discriminate. I find them in the medicine cabinet, crawling serenely toward the cold medicine and the sleeping pills. They fly into the shower, right into the scalding stream without wavering off-course. They land on the toilet seat, as though aware that just a few inches below lies their final resting place.

Finding Meaning in a Bug's Death

What does it mean? Why do these Shaman Beetles, these Virgin Mary Ladybirds, these omens of good harvest, seem so intent on kicking the bucket? And why are they driven to do it in our fancy new bathroom?

Is this a bad omen? Is the house cursed? Are we? I cannot stop myself from obsessing over the why. I mourn the ladybugs, but it's gotten to the point where I'm no longer surprised or horrified, just weary. I'm desensitized. I've seen too many Mary's Chickens die.

I am acutely aware that I would be feeling completely differently if they were ants or spiders or flies or roly-polies. Perhaps that makes me some kind of bug purist. Or a bug racist. And maybe that's the crux of it - I'm putting too much importance on what these bugs symbolize, and not what they actually are - just red and black spotted beetles. All bugs are created equal, after all. (Except centipedes. I think we can all agree that it's a crime against nature for any one thing to have that many legs).

But I am a writer, and an amateur poet, so symbolism is everything to me and I can't let it go. And it's not just me. Globally, collectively, we are attached to these Ladybirds, these Mary's Chickens. Poems have been written about them, books have been illustrated, art has been made. Children wear ladybug costumes for Halloween. My daughter had a well-loved ladybug lunchbox. And then there is me, writing this essay and reading up on the funeral rites for different cultures, just to make sure the poor dead ladybugs have a proper send off.

I had wanted to end this on a meaningful note. Perhaps these insects we've turned into religious talismans are special simply because humankind has imbued them with mystical significance. And maybe the pressure is just too much for them. How can they live up to what we expect of them? What if our luck is bad, and the harvest is poor? Who will we blame? So much easier to fault the ladybugs than ourselves.

What can these death-driven ladybugs teach us? That life is fleeting, and to enjoy the comforts of our home and the people we love while we can? Or to search for a quick way out when we run out of aphids? I wish I had the answer. But I won't ever stop trying to save them, and to wonder at their tiny existence. If anything, at least I have learned how to conduct Buddhist death rites.