Planning Ahead

A brochure arrived today for Fang. He thought it was junk mail, but he paused and opened the oversized envelope addressed from some organization called St. Michael's. Was it a church that was asking for financial support? Another Polish fraternal organization looking for a new member? A safehouse for battered women? All Fang said was, "This is not a good sign."

He opened it and there on the front of the brochure was a figure of a muse embracing a cross. "Life is a wonderful journey" the brochure began, "plan for the future with the same passion." It was a sales brochure for a cemetery plot in East Elmhurst, NY. "Oh dude," I said looking at the rather tasteful brochure with photos of elegant resting places, "You are so fucked. Even AARP has bypassed you."

They DID make it look inviting: "Our property is a peaceful haven of remembrance, filled with monuments that inspire, bring solace and honor of those in our care. Seize upon the rare opportunity to choose exactly how you wish to be remembered." Fang can't figure out how he got on that mailing list, but it was clearly addressed to him, so he's a bit concerned.

I know it's important for some people to plan their own death, resting place and final services with the same deliberation in which they've planned their lives. I think it provides some solace for people to know where they're going to view the sunrise (so the speak) for the rest of eternity. Fang's parents have their final resting places paid for and selected. So do the Aunts in Queens. They speak about it like a condo in Florida that they plan to eventually move to. Yes, the mortgage is paid up, but "I won't worry about it until I actually have to move".

My family was (and is) totally the opposite. We're cremation kind of people only because we don't care for all that religious hoo haw. My father never had a chance to express his wishes before he passed away and oddly for such a methodical man, he never wrote down this aspect in his papers. The day he passed away I was rooting through his legal documents trying to find something, anything, that may have expressed any particular last wish. Curiously, I came across a ratty scrap of paper on his desk that read, "Memorial. No funeral. Cremation." That's exactly what we did.

The same thing happened with my mother, although in this case I had the benefit of actually talking turkey with her on the subject. She said, "I want to be cremated." "OK," I said, "what would you like me to do with your ashes?" "Oh, Christ," Mom said, "throw them away." I told her I'd like to keep some, if only as a comfort. "Well," she softened, "if it will comfort you, go ahead." She seemed secretly pleased, so I did just that.

We discreetly dispersed bits and pieces of my parents' ashes in places that they loved: Pebble Beach, Fresno, England, the Pacific Ocean; yet, we still retain a portion of each in tasteful cherrywood urns. They sit like elegant bookends on the buffet in my dining room. I just added the ashes of my recently deceased cat, Figaro. Fang now calls the motley collection on the buffet The Display of Death. Maybe, but to me there's a natural comfort in keeping a symbolic piece of someone you loved with you instead of putting what bits you have left into a piece of ground where you have no history.

Now, I just have to figure out what to do with this collection when I die. Oh bother. I'll think about that tomorrow.