Honest Morbidity

Adding title of post to my list of potential band names. Side note; speaking of band names, I have not been able to get the word “Gwar” out of my head for about 25 years now. I blame Beavis, as well as Butthead. Please tell me you know what the hell I’m talking about (for the love of the 90’s!). Anyway, this post is about a macabre thought I had last week on my birthday. This is a thought that’s not new to me, though it was ironic to have it during a massage at a spa in Costa Rica. Call it in keeping with often my unusual approach to things (which I like ).

As I dozed off and my subconscious began to take over, I envisioned my funeral. I have been imagining my funeral for years. It used to be with fear at not knowing how it would go. I pictured myself floating above the room (usually a synagogue but that’s most likely subject to change), eagerly waiting all the nice things my nearest and dearest would say about me, only to be disappointed that their eulogies were subpar. Really???? I’m dead and that’s all you have to say???? Have I not made more of an impact/ why aren’t you more inconsolable/ if you died first rest assured I’d have honored you better so F you. Obviously the crazy egoic nature of my funeral scenario is fear based, which is why I no longer have those types of thoughts. I used to be terrified of dying full of regret, at not having left the proper impact I was born to create in the first place. To simplify, I was scared at the notion of having wasted this precious human life. I think one of the chief sources of fear of death is when we can’t accept how we’ve lived our lives. A fulfilled, complete heart goes more gentle into that good night. We can die in peace when we’ve lived in peace. Resisting life will lead to resistance of death as well. We struggle because we aren’t done here. We need more time. We don’t worry about impact if we’ve know we’ve somehow made one. If we’ve loved so fully and completely, we know we will leave that with whomever needs it.

Love isn’t seen, it’s felt. It stays when done beautifully and well. Those who love right have faith in its warm, lingering aroma. Scent rises, and so will our connection to our loved ones even as we are placed below ground. We will still be where we are meant to be. We know this to be true when fear is shoved aside. So the thoughts I now have about my funeral are of a different nature. They include, by the way, illness and hospital scenes in extreme detail. This I cannot help; I’m a writer with a frighteningly accurate memory. Those with such memories are said to have nutso imaginations. I read that recently and it was like, hey whassup! I watch these scenes in my head like a director directing a movie (plays are often annoying; they’re overacted and the actors spit. The only one allowed to spit in the vicinity of my deathbed will be me). Believe me, I’m not thrilled with all these future obsessions. I try so damn hard to be present, and that’s the antithesis of being in the Now. However, I no longer feel overwhelmed by panic, doubt, or frustration when under the spell of these visions, since I feel very much certain of my path in life. I need major improvement and there’s so much work to be done both inward and outward, but I’m doing it. I’m not wasting this gift of life. I have a pretty good idea of who will sob and what they’ll say through the weeping. And they’ll laugh too, because that’s what I want to leave behind; humor, unity, joy, and an appreciation for each other. I know who will speak at my funeral and who won’t. I know this because I’m going to give detailed instructions to four of my friends.

I have begun crafting said instructions about a year ago in my mind. They’ll graduate to paper soon. I know who may want to speak but who will not be allowed, per my instructions. The reasons for this vary on a case by case basis. For some , if they didn’t have good things to say about me while I was alive, then they won’t get the chance when I’m dead. For others, it’s because I’ve heard them speak in various capacities, and they’re shitty speakers who can’t drive home a message. No thanks. And for others still, it’s because they love me so fucking much but they hate to speak publicly, so I wouldn’t want to put them in that position on my account. I know how they feel now and I’ll know it as I float. After all, scent rises. Some who will speak will be obvious, correct choices. Some think they aren’t good at it, but I know they are, and so there are a couple who I know will regret it if they don’t. I will believe in them always. Friends support each other no matter what, and that “what” includes human death. I’ll be invisible but I’ll still be holding their hands. I’d like music at my funeral. Uplifting music, sung by a choir. Probably some sort of gospel situation. Those belters know how to transmit an enormous range of emotion, and I want it all felt in the bones of those at this event. Death sucks. It makes people cry. I’d like to focus on a life that kicked some ass and told some incredibly inappropriate, yet undeniably funny, jokes. A life that made others think, react, dance, smile, and connect.

The soundtrack to my funeral will take some consideration, but the first thought that pops into my head is “Will You Be There” by Michael Jackson. So cheesy, I know, but it gets me every time for this one lyric at the end about loneliness. I don’t want anyone to feel lonely at my funeral, and the humanity in that line will be unifying, because we all feel that way so much of the time. It’s a common bond in the form of a commercially recognizable song. Who needs some obscure tune that will leave my peeps scratching their heads? My DJ instructor laughed when I shared that with him. He said somewhat incredulously, “the Free Willy song???” I laughed in turn, because I’d forgotten about that. So basically, if you attend my funeral, you can expect a beautiful montage of my life mixed with shots of a killer whale bursting forth from the sea. Sounds about right; glam shots from the Blaga, but with hints of Pearl from Spongebob (jeez, Man, keep up with the references). Morbidity becomes a lot more tolerable when it’s honest. Being upfront takes away the darkness of the topics hiding in the cracks and corners of reality. Flashlights help us see. I’m not planning my funeral to control it. I just want to go out the way I was meant to enter, and I know exactly whom I can trust with this vision because they see me the best. What an honor it is, to usher someone out in the proper way. Just as giving birth is both an honor and a blessing, so is death in this way. What are we if not vehicles to love and care for one another at any stage, especially the hardest ones? How blessed am I to have a group of people with whom I can entrust so fully with myself? That’s what made me cry as I was getting that massage. I was overcome with gratitude for my circle. And is there any better feeling to have on a birthday than that. We live, we love, we die, and we love still. It’s an unbreakable pattern when the links in your chain are strong and glued together. Let my funeral feel like this post. Be sad, be unwilling to deal with reality, but smile at the end. Trust me, it’s the better alternative.