I’m Not Dying but Here Are Practical Instructions for After My Death

We all need to do this exercise.

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash.

I don't believe I'm going to die. Not really. I've long committed to living to 100, and then we'll see what happens. I'm not a gambler or tri-athlete, but I'm from good stock and healthy, just a bit creaky here and there, so I will probably last for a century.

I’ve got a solid 40 years to fritter away. Death is so far out into the future that I can indulge in wasting time on social media and other shenanigans.

But there's this niggling feeling I'm too optimistic. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. I know one day, the Grim Reaper will come, disregarding my commitment to live to 100.

Anything could happen at any time, and death has come for those much younger than me. Life is unfair that way.

I subscribe to a Substack called "Writing in the Dark" by

Jeannine Ouellette

—she helps writers learn to dig deep. She says you should write your obituary to think harder about who you want to be in this life and who you hope to become. Jeannine goes as far as to say we should be writing our obituaries regularly.

So, below are my last instructions, not precisely an obit, but more like Ann Camden's expository post in Brevity called Final Affairs. She was dying from cancer when she wrote it. It’s worth a read.

Here goes!

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I want to start with the things I wish I hadn't left for you.

You see, this dying business has caught me by complete surprise.

I never got to go through my mom's old photo boxes in the basement. OK, that's a lie. There's no point in not telling it like it is now. I never desired to go through everything. I was waiting for a burst of energy to handle the brittle plastic boxes, but sadly, it never came. I regret the extra work for you, but it's better this way, for me anyway, because you won't have the emotion I did that complicates the discard decision.

Before you put them all in a dumpster, there are old-time photos in at least one of the bins. Those are the kids' ancestors, and while they don't care about them now, one day they might. It's funny how that works. When you're busy with a family and the frenzy of life, you don't have the time or interest to look back. One day, though, curiosity might get stoked, and they might want to know where they came from.

Many of the black-and-whites aren't labeled-- who knows who those people are. The years are written on the thin white edges. The people look like my maternal side, which has always been a good enough reason to hold onto them. Just so you know, my dad had hardly any photos of his family, the price of growing up poor and being uprooted from East Germany during the war. Even though my dad had a mother and four siblings, to me, he seemed like a tattered orphan with barely enough to eat.

Having the cutest kids on the planet has generated many photo albums and shoeboxes of glossies still in their yellow Kirkland sleeves.

Let the kids go through and take any pictures they want. I hope they remember they were happy children, my pride and joy. At least, that's how I remember it. The pictures support that, generally speaking, except for that one Halloween pic where Eric has tears in his eyes, begrudgingly holding his baseball bat (he was one of the Phillies, of course), and standing between his sisters.

There are boatloads of photos of them, many of which never made it to albums. That, again, is my fault. Eric's baby photos didn't even make it into a memory book. The third kid gets the scraps.

Should anyone wonder why, remind them, I had completely given up on my quest for organized photos by then. This guilt drove me to buy outlandishly expensive Creative Memory albums, with many stickers, special scissors, and acid-free paper that would never turn yellow. Now, they sit fallow despite the best of my intentions.

I'm sorry I never got around to collecting my account passwords into one list. They're currently (mostly) written down in the tattered navy spiral notebook in my desk drawer. There's no rhyme or reason to where they are in the book. Check the margins. I did weird things, trying to keep them organized in a way that only made sense to me then. Now, I have no idea what I was thinking.

My advice to you is to use my computer to access everything because Google remembers all my passwords automatically, which is one of the reasons I never got around to making an official list.

All my valuables are already accounted for and designated in our will. Still, there may be some other stuff the girls will fight over. With their emotions heightened about me being gone, they may fall into old childhood patterns. Don’t let this happen! Remind them that they're just things, and their ongoing relationship is more important than any tchotchke I may have left behind.

I still have the girl's first communion dresses because I couldn't bear to give them away. I thought Izzy might want to play bride in them, at the very least. She will make such a pretty bride. It's a pity I'll miss it.

I wonder who Weston will marry. I’ll miss that, too.

The plants.

You probably can't wait to throw them in the dumpster. They were never your favorite part of me. You won't miss the fungus gnats that flew by your face at the kitchen counter.

Please let the girls, your sisters, or any plant-loving soul rescue them. Especially the big schefflera arboricola in the corner. That grand old plant has been around since my kids were little, and it's still going, despite living through several rounds of scale that damn near killed it and made the floor eternally sticky.

Whoever gets that, please give them the blue bottle in the laundry room that says "For Treatment of Shrubs and Bushes." That stuff is magic, and Scheffie is in her best condition yet. I hope she makes it to 100 if I don’t.

Lay the remainder of the plants in my garden. They'll decompose, and the earth will love you for it, especially insects and microorganisms. I like thinking my plants are decomposing at the same time I am, except my blood was red, and theirs was green.

Remind the kids they don't need to feel bad if they don't want any of my things. I don't want them bogged down by my stuff or experience any guilt about my passing. I'm glad you, my dear husband, are tasked with this Herculean task. It is a JOB, and you know I never liked that word. I'm only sorry you've got to do this alone. Maybe Anne will help.

We never finalized our wishes for our respective memorial services. I like the idea of a life celebration. Yeah, good or bad, I lived. I hope it was mostly good. I think it was. I’m going with that.

Funerals are a necessary closure, although I don't care for them myself. Put me in the human composter (there’s a company on TikTok that does that; look them up) and then go to a restaurant, tell some jokes, remember the best of me, and I'll try to be there with a big blanket of cosmic love. I’m not sure how that will work; just know I’m there listening to what everyone is saying about me.

I loved you all and will do so for eternity.