Death. Unless it’s on the big screen or in a
500-page novel, no one wants to really talk about it. As a writer, I kill people all the time - on
paper. I think of what’s going to happen
to the character leading up to their demise and what happens to those afterward
who are left behind. It’s fun, because
it’s fiction. I control the when, where,
and how, and when I’m done putting my words on paper I can set death aside and
pick life back up and live on.
I don’t mind talking about it,
either. The girls and I discuss my story
ideas all the time and how some character got it in the end. Other friends ask how it’s going and share
some of their ideas on bumping people off.
Sometimes they scare me with how well thought-out their plans are and I
start double locking my doors.
Yet, as I said, that’s
fiction. When it comes to death in the
real world there are conversations no one wants to have while everyone is still
alive. It’s not just that it’s
uncomfortable, it’s a reminder. We don’t
want to think about how one day our family and friends won’t be around to share
our lives. We like to go about each day
as if everyone will always be there to answer their phone or make their
Facebook updates, even though the reality of death is well known to all. It’s impolite conversation. It’s morbid and sick.
It’s reality.
To be honest, I don’t want to
talk about it, either. When I think of
my parents not being here to wake me with a phone call at six in the morning
because they forget I sleep late or one of the girls no longer filling our home
or any of the kids going before me, it pretty much freaks me out. When I think of my own death, I almost panic
at the things I haven’t accomplished, yet.
No one wants to die and talking about it just reminds us that we will.
Still, it’s a conversation that
needs to happen.
With the funeral of Teri’s mom
last week, our future demise became a topic of discussion for the long ten hour
drive back home. Betty had done a great
job preparing for this day. Her
daughters weren’t left with too many decisions, just the chaos of family coming
in and what to do with them. Everything
else was pretty much mapped out.
I want to be that prepared. I see it as the final act I can do for my
kids; assuming the girls haven’t bumped me off first, that is. There will be enough going on for them to
have to worry about the details of my send off.
Where I’m to be buried, how I want it to be accomplished, and what
outfit I will spend eternity in, all of these will be decided long
beforehand. Personally, I want to go in
a full whiskey barrel with a cigar in my hand.
I’ll also have it all paid for
and the service planned out. I’m a man
who loves lists and notes and I will leave them for the boys to follow
closely. They will have account numbers,
passwords and all the information I’ve hidden from them for years. Of course, there will be a box marked “Just
Burn” of stuff they wouldn’t want to see due to receiving permanent emotional scars,
but don’t we all have one of those? I
don’t want them to think or worry.
I want things to go smoothly for
them, so they can sit back, burn a cigar and drink a glass of Maker’s Mark in
my honor.
Furthermore, although I don’t
have much, what I do possess will be divvied up the way I think best. There will be no questions as to who gets
what. Years ago, I’ve seen siblings come
to blows over these matters and I’ve worked too hard my entire life building a close-knit
family to have it all fall apart over who wants my stapler. Besides, the greatest thing I could leave
them isn’t the paintings on the wall or my collection of Star Trek books. The greatest inheritance isn’t anything physical. It’s the sense of a strong family, the
ability to spot a bull shitter, and the courage to reach for their dreams. I don’t want them to hold onto the past; I
want them to strive for a better future - or I’ll come back and haunt them.
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Suggested Reading ~ Robbie, It's A Girl!
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