I’m letting all of you know in case you’re the one to make the decision. You can call this my “living will” or my “directive to health care providers” or you can call it a painful topic you’d rather not read about. Since you are my dearest, closest friends, and may be called upon to determine how my life ends, I’m letting you know now.
First of all, I do not want any song from any Andrew Lloyd Weber production to be played at my funeral. Now, I’m a sucker for Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman, but I do not want “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again” or “Close Every Door” or “Jellicle Cats” sung to my cold dead body. I want my grandpa to sing, but since he’s already dead, I’d rather have Maori dancers. I love Maori dancers. In my next life, I want to be a Maori dancer.
Second, I do not want ham or funeral potatoes. I know people going through an emotionally charged event need sustenance. So make spring rolls together, or press grapes with your feet, or do some other communal food making project, but don’t serve pig and spuds. Ham and funeral potatoes sounds alternately cannibalistic and like you’re trying to hurry my friends to heaven through heart disease.
Third, I’d prefer to be buried without the titanium crypt, thank you very much. The thought of having my body stuck underground in a metal box makes me want to join an ashram in India. I like the thought of my body providing nutrients to other living things. Like grass that feeds cows who then provide milk for the President. But if you can’t get around the whole box thing, make it as biodegradable as you can. Even if it means you have to hold a secret burial in Montana. Stupid government safety regulations.
Fourth, and final, I do not want my fingernails painted. And leave the garden dirt under my nails. Seriously, maggots grow out of a dead body so soon, it seems silly to clean me up too much just to pile dirt on me.
One last note, and this is serious. If I have a month to live, let me know. And I’ll choose not to have the radiation. If I have one month, I don’t want to spend it in the hospital. Give me drugs to help with pain and let me die at home. Or, better yet, on a mountain top. I really, really love mountains.