But recently I experienced a rash of realistic dreams in which I was about to die. The first one had me driving over a cliff. The second one entailed learning I had a disease that gave me six months to live. Another had me falling from an exploding plane. Not pleasant dreams to awaken from—although given the theme, I guess I should be grateful I’m waking up at all.
This is probably why, with these dreams still fresh in my mind, I paid attention when my mom mentioned two funeral services she had recently attended.
“You know what kind of service I would like, don’t you?” I asked. She already knows I want to be cremated and interred in a cookie jar, at which she rolls her eyes. Beyond that, we’ve never discussed anything else. Without skipping a beat, she responded, “Sure. Something solemn with plenty of beautiful hymns.”
No no no no no! The only hymn I know is the gender-specific pronoun, and since when has “solemn” ever been used to describe me? I’m a tofu-eating, jeans-wearing kinda gal who loves my dog, watches South Park, and attends a church known to play alternative rock. My mother should know better. But she doesn’t, probably because this topic has never before been addressed, not with anyone. When you’re a healthy forty-something sipping a cappuccino at Peets with friends, funeral plans don’t naturally come up in conversation.
This is why I’ve drafted my memorial plans. Not that I’m planning on going anywhere soon, but these dreams got me thinking: a memorial will be my final opportunity to tell the world who I was. Important stuff, especially since there are no retakes. No second chances.
So put away the hymnbook, Mom. Should I meet Saint Peter anytime soon, this is how I’d like to be remembered.
For starters, I want my greyhound, Elvis, at my service. He may be confused and a bit scared, wondering why his human has left him and he’s suddenly now living with someone else (a pre-selected person, by the way). But Elvis must be at my service. Because if any one thing were to capture my essence, it would be found in the love I have for this dog. Elvis is as much a part of my family as blood relatives and close friends. He sits. And stays. In the row reserved for family.
I’ve never thought much about dying. Like taxes, it’s just one of those inevitable events that no one can dodge. Not much you can do about it.
But recently I experienced a rash of realistic dreams in which I was about to die. The first one had me driving over a cliff. The second one entailed learning I had a disease that gave me six months to live. Another had me falling from an exploding plane. Not pleasant dreams to awaken from—although given the theme, I guess I should be grateful I’m waking up at all.
This is probably why, with these dreams still fresh in my mind, I paid attention when my mom mentioned two funeral services she had recently attended.
“You know what kind of service I would like, don’t you?” I asked. She already knows I want to be cremated and interred in a cookie jar, at which she rolls her eyes. Beyond that, we’ve never discussed anything else. Without skipping a beat, she responded, “Sure. Something solemn with plenty of beautiful hymns.”
No no no no no! The only hymn I know is the gender-specific pronoun, and since when has “solemn” ever been used to describe me? I’m a tofu-eating, jeans-wearing kinda gal who loves my dog, watches South Park, and attends a church known to play alternative rock. My mother should know better. But she doesn’t, probably because this topic has never before been addressed, not with anyone. When you’re a healthy forty-something sipping a cappuccino at Peets with friends, funeral plans don’t naturally come up in conversation.
This is why I’ve drafted my memorial plans. Not that I’m planning on going anywhere soon, but these dreams got me thinking: a memorial will be my final opportunity to tell the world who I was. Important stuff, especially since there are no retakes. No second chances.
So put away the hymnbook, Mom. Should I meet Saint Peter anytime soon, this is how I’d like to be remembered.
For starters, I want my greyhound, Elvis, at my service. He may be confused and a bit scared, wondering why his human has left him and he’s suddenly now living with someone else (a pre-selected person, by the way). But Elvis must be at my service. Because if any one thing were to capture my essence, it would be found in the love I have for this dog. Elvis is as much a part of my family as blood relatives and close friends. He sits. And stays. In the row reserved for family.
I want people to laugh. Really. I hope my friends will muster the courage to stand up and tell funny stories about me. Because I will have died without tears and regrets. So I never married. Never had children. Never had the corner office, wrote a best-seller or squeezed into a pair of size six jeans (though I did make it into a size eight once, for one day and only after the flu).
Know what? Don’t care. Doesn’t matter. I was happy. Content. Grateful each day to wake up healthy, in a warm bed, with the knowledge that I had a roof over my head, a job to sustain me and people who loved me.
Amidst clusters of carnations (take note: my favorite flower), I’d like my sister, Jennifer, to talk about that joke she played, the one where she convinced me that her house was haunted. Pam, my best friend, should fess up about us attending a Donny Osmond concert—uh, in our forties. Richard can share memories from our days at Dublin High, and Deb can laugh about that time in New Orleans when we feared we were being sold as middle-aged sex slaves. Shared lives and experiences, in good times and in bad, through grimaces and grins, we held each other’s hands for strength and support. And laughed. Always, we laughed.
I’d like music to be an integral part of my service. Friends may know me as an Elvis Costello fan (whom do you think my dog is named for--that Presley guy?), but there are many songs I hold dear, mainly because they raise fond memories of my childhood. Moon River by Andy Williams. Just about any sixties tune by Johnny Mathis. The instrumental Love Is Blue by Paul Mauriat. Clair de Lune, because my father would play it on the piano and as a child, I thought he had written it. I remember one day hearing it on the radio and running to him in hysterics, screeching that someone had stolen his song.
I love the poignancy of God Only Knows by The Beach Boys. Since lyrics should be somewhat relevant, given the circumstances, this probably rules out Always Look at the Bright Side of Life by Monty Python. My friends can make that call.
Oh, but there is one song that has to be played. Someone once quoted these lyrics to me, and to this day, years later, I still get goose bumps when I hear the song he cited. It’s from The Beatles, Abbey Road, which incidentally, is my all-time favorite album. The song is titled, appropriately, enough, The End. Just 28 words long, the last eight say it all. For me. For everyone.
And in the end…
The love you take…
Is equal to the love you make.
And with that final song, my service will be over. Held on a day, that income tax day, I hope to successfully dodge for many years to come.
