Working in a funeral home gives you a different perspective on so much in life . . . and death. We talk more freely about both, but especially the death side of life. I have looked at my children and, disobeying my own rule about afterlife demands, have told them I don’t want to be buried. I’m claustrophobic. Not standing in a crowded elevator claustrophobic but buried in a box in the ground claustrophobic. I know, I know. I won’t know so it shouldn’t matter. But I know now, and that’s all that does matter.

By the same token, I don’t want to be in the mausoleum, for the same reasons. It’s not that I think I’m going to wake up from being dead and die of fright. I’ll be embalmed and, if I’m not dead when they start, I most certainly will be by the time they finish. It’s just the thought . . .

I also don’t want to be cremated. The thought of flames and burning and me all combined just isn’t appealing on any level. I told them to embalm me and have a visitation and service and then donate me to the body farm in Knoxville so I can lie out in the wide open with the trees towering above me and the stars twinkling down at night. Granted, there’ll be creepy, crawly things and birds and animals and such but somehow that doesn’t seem as bad as small, enclosed spaces or 2,000 degree flames.

Recently, while my daughter and I were at work (in the same office—our backs are to each other when we face our desks), she told me she’d been thinking about all that and, as best she could determine, I was just going to get something I didn’t want. I mentioned burial at sea as an option—one, it turns out, that she had not considered. She decided they could just throw me in the river so I could become catfish food (since they are bottom feeders, as she observed); I encouraged the use of a substantial amount of weight to avoid the possibility of an untimely reappearance . . . never mind the fact that there’s probably something terribly illegal about throwing whole bodies into the river. But, upon reflection, I don’t want to drown either. Yes, I know. You can’t drown when you’re dead but it’s just the thought . . .

Her final suggestion was that they stuff me and stand me in a corner of the chapel foyer. That way, they’d have a picture of my great-grandparents who started this whole shebang, my parents who followed in their Savannah footsteps . . . and me in the corner. I could even be embalmed so it would look like I was waving. Of course, I would want one of those velvet ropes set up a suitable distance from my remains so small children wouldn’t come over and poke on me (right . . . like that’s going to stop them), ultimately causing me to fall flat on my face at which point my nose would probably come off.

It was then she had her epiphany. They could put me in a glass casket like they did Lenin in Russia, and put me on display. I actually found that idea appealing. I could see out and no one could go poking on me like they might if I was standing in the corner. Then it hit me. Lenin wasn’t the only one in a glass casket and I asked, “Can you dress me up to look like Snow White?” to which my daughter replied, “No, Mama. That’s just creepy.”

Like the whole conversation wasn’t?

Erma Bombeck once said, “If you can laugh at it, you can live with it.” I’m not certain that included death, although I would imagine laughter played a large part in how she accepted her own as it approached. We face the inevitable by making light of the matter, but buried within the humor (pun intended) is that grain of truth which, if directly confronted, will result in panic. Sadly, it does no good to attempt to avoid the inevitable. It will not go away because it is not acknowledged. Rather, one day as you pretend to go about your life, the fear will become reality and the opportunities for discussion and action, once ours for the taking, are lost to eternity.

Have the conversations now. I don’t mean about funeral arrangements because I really do believe it has to be what the family needs, not what the “honoree” might want or think is in the best interests of those who will remain. I mean we need to prepare for the inevitable. We need to put the insurance policies somewhere safe (there are insurance policies, aren’t there?) and let someone know where we’ve hidden them. The important papers should be accumulated, assigned to one particular spot, and large, flashing arrow signs pointing toward them. And by the way, while you’re at it, go through the bills you’ve saved since you had a checking account and shred the whole bunch . . . while you’re cleaning out the attic (note to my children – your hoarder mother does not want to hear it . . .). To summarize, realize you will not live forever. None of us do. Your going away party should be the least of your worries. Rather, try to minimize the chaos you leave behind so your family can deal with their loss instead of your mess.

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