They buried Goldie Mae Freeman on Wednesday.

The few dozen family members at her gravesite, all keeping at least 6 feet between them, watched her casket lowered in the ground at Greenlawn and Shady Rest Cemetery in Franklin, Kentucky.

The great-grandmother of 13 and great-great-grandmother of four had been hospitalized for two weeks when a pneumonia diagnosis later became a positive test for COVID-19.

How she got it, her family doesn’t know.

She died Monday, five days after her 90th birthday. She was one of at least 45 Kentuckians to succumb to the virus that has killed more than 5,000 Americans and tens of thousands more worldwide.

It was bad enough the coronavirus took her life, but it also stole the community's chance to remember her properly, said Kevin Gilbert, Simpson County coroner and owner of Gilbert Funeral Home, which handled Freeman’s burial.

"I think that probably hurt more than anything," he said.

There are at least three-dozen victims like Goldie, but few Kentuckians know who they are.

Their identities have been kept secret by state and county health officials who cite privacy laws and say they are trying to protect family members from the stigma of being associated with a virus that has frightened and unsettled the public.

The Courier Journal has requested their names to help tell their stories and honor their lives, but so far, officials have not shared the information.

“If it was me, or if it was a member of my family, I wouldn't want to release that name and let people judge me or let that stigma be there,” said Tim Wright, the health department director in Anderson County, where one person has died of the virus.

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The stigma surrounding the coronavirus

But there's a risk with that as well, say at least a few family members and other officials.

People may not take the virus as seriously as they should if they don't understand the human toll it's taking — beyond the daily recitation of the number of newly reported dead.

The severity of the pandemic isn't real until it connects with us personally, they say.

"That's what's so hard for people to grasp — it's that they're not seeing it in their families, and until they do, it's like they won't realize," said Sarah Jordan, whose 49-year-old father from Ashland, Kentucky, died of the virus.

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Gov. Andy Beshear, who has been frustrated at times that Kentuckians have not taken seriously enough his orders to maintain social distancing, has acknowledged that “humanizing” the victims of the coronavirus likely would help the public understand its impact, “especially as we see more numbers.”

“We don’t want people to be desensitized,” he said at a Thursday news conference.

In Hopkins County, where at least four people have died of COVID-19, Judge-Executive Jack Whitfield Jr. acknowledged a stigma exists for some.

"And that’s a shame," he said.

"Anyone can catch this virus. No one is doing anything on purpose to harm one another. We need to take care of each other and lift each other up.”

What we know about those who died

For now, though, the story of Kentucky’s COVID-19 dead can be told only through numbers.

The youngest was 49. The oldest 90.

Most were elderly. Their average age was 74.

Fifty-two percent were women, contrary to national results that show men are more likely than women to die of the virus.

They lived — and died — in 17 counties, from Campbell County in Northern Kentucky to Hopkins County in Western Kentucky.

Louisville's Jefferson County has seen the most deaths, with at least 18, according to recent figures.

The most to die in a single day was 11. That happened on April 2.

About 5 percent of the 955 Kentuckians infected with the virus have died. That is higher than the national rate of 2.2 percent.

Twenty-four states have more deaths, led by New York with more than 2,500.

And, of course, the numbers in Kentucky and elsewhere are expected to grow much higher.

Kentucky could see 815 deaths by August — and in the Louisville metropolitan area, about 200 — according to projections from the University of Washington’s Institute for Health Metrics and Evaluation.

Other projections by the White House have put those numbers higher.

Without interventions, 30,000 Kentuckians could die. With interventions, such as social distancing or travel and business restrictions, the death toll could fall between 1,300 and 3,200 people.

In Louisville, that translates to as few as 260 deaths or as many as 6,000, using the White House's model.

'These are people we are losing'

Some family members are stepping forward to share their memories of the loved ones they lost to COVID-19.

For the family of Louisville resident Keiko Neutz, any concern they had about telling the 87-year-old matriarch’s story — that they’d be stigmatized as being COVID-19 carriers — was quickly outweighed by the desire to put a name and face to the virus’s death toll.

“These are the people we’re losing,” said Neutz’s granddaughter, Lacy Taylor. “They’re people we know, people our friends and families know.”

Sarah Jordan said her 49-year-old father, ARon Jordan, was a union bricklayer who likely contracted the virus while working on a job in Detroit.

He died March 31 in a Detroit hospital. He left behind seven children and seven grandchildren.

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Jordan said she wants Kentuckians to know about her dad's passing because too many people aren't taking the coronavirus seriously. It can be deadly for relatively young and healthy people, like her father, she said.

"There's been so many people that just think this is a joke or it's not going to happen to them or it's only hurting old people or those with underlying health conditions," she said.

"At the end of the day, it's not worth losing someone. And it shouldn't take death to make you listen."

Other family members of the dead are also sharing their stories.

In Indiana, Tony Sizemore, the partner of the first person in the state to die of COVID-19 — Roberta “Birdie” Shelton — wrote a first-person account for The Washington Post.

“She’s dead, and I’m quarantined. That’s how the story ends,” he wrote.

“I keep going back over it in loops, trying to find a way to sweeten it, but nothing changes the facts. I wasn’t there with her at the end. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I don’t even know where her body is right now, or if the only thing that’s left is her ashes.”

Losing the chance to grieve the victims

For Goldie Mae Freeman, who lived near the Tennessee border, the end came in a hospital in Bowling Green, where her family learned she also had COVID-19.

They posted about it on Facebook, and asked for prayers for her recovery, said Gilbert, the funeral home director.

Goldie was a fixture at Franklin Church of Christ for more than 60 years. Every Sunday, she and her sister could be found in the same pew, smiles on their faces, greeting fellow church members or handing out candy or gum to children.

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When Goldie died, a family member confirmed for WNKY-TV in Bowling Green that the virus caused her death.

“She had a wonderful smile that would brighten your day even if your day wasn’t going so well,” said Steven Kirby, Franklin Church of Christ's associate minister.

“Ms. Goldie was a treasure.”

Her death ripped apart a family and community unable to come together to celebrate and remember her, Gilbert said. That lost moment to share their sorrow compounded the grief.

"It’s not just for Goldie," Gilbert said of the funeral.

"It’s for everybody."

Andrew Wolfson: 502-582-7189; awolfson@courier-journal.com; Twitter: @adwolfson. Support strong local journalism by subscribing today: courier-journal.com/andreww.