We spent the weekend working on our will and living will. I can't say that talking, thinking and, ultimately, dreaming about death is the best way to relax on a Sunday afternoon, but it was a responsibility we could no longer ignore.
The hardest part was deciding what to do with our bodies after we kick off. We both chose cremation. I want an urn that says, "I went to heaven and all I got was this lousy gold cup."
I'm really not thrilled with the idea of being incinerated. I have this nightmare image of waking up just as I feel a burning sensation on my toes. But the other options are even worse.
My fear of sharks prevents a burial at sea and my slight claustrophobia makes being buried in box completely out of the question. Plus I don't like bugs. Unfortunately, death seems to involve lots of bugs.
I wish there was a less gruesome way for my body to decompose. Maybe I could be nibbled on by a pack of adorable puppies or have my flesh licked off slowly by the sandpaper tongue of a cute and fluffy cat?
I do know, however, that if I am to be laid out for visitation, there simply must be an open bar. Nobody should have to go to a viewing without the aid of alcohol. That's why I love the idea of an Irish wake... put the body on a table and drink like silly. By the end of the night, mourners are using the folded hands to hold their pints. Good times.
I doubt my husband will abide by my request to be displayed in a bunny suit. Not a Playboy Bunny suit, but a full-body pink bunny suit like the kid wore in A Christmas Story. I think it would make the people happy. Plus it would be worth the gag just to hear some old lady say, "She looks good."
Hopefully, by the time I die there will be a cure for death.
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The first funeral I went to was for my father's third wife. After 15 minutes I asked my sister where the bar was. She said there wasn't one and I said, "No seriously, where is it?"
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