Around the time I learned to read I started reading the obituaries in the newspaper.
For as long as I can remember I’ve always flipped through the paper to the back to glance at the obits. At some point it occurred to me that I was reading them looking for clues. Like, in the final stories of strangers I would find inspiration for my own way forward. Or, in some cases, I would see paths taken in life that I knew I wanted, at all costs, to avoid. As if these experiences were something the dearly departed could control, and in turn, so could I.
My husband and I are currently working to update our wills and to put documents in place for our children in case both of us die unexpectantly. The lawyer we met with talked in a rapid-fire fashion and logically mapped out the options, the process, and the paperwork. His efficient manner bordered on manic and as a sensitive person, I was curled over myself with discomfort. Near the end he mentioned that he had a template letter he included in packages for children’s trustees and he would include that with the formal instructions. After walking out of the meeting, with our metaphorical deaths looming over our heads, I looked over at my husband and said the most pressing issue on my mind:
“If anyone is writing letters to be given to our children after our deaths, it’s going to be me”.
A template letter? Over my dead body.
I might not be able to control any of this, but I sure as shoot will be controlling that.
A week later, with the lawyer experience still an unpleasant after taste in my mouth, I flew to Edmonton for a whirlwind one-day trip to attend a Celebration of Life for my Popa. He had died a few days short of this hundredth birthday and under the big Alberta sky, with the sun kissing the tops of our heads, his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren sat on the grass of my uncle’s farm to honor his life. Later that day as the red lights of the runway started to reflect off the airport windows, I waited to board the flight home with zero checked or carry-on luggage. Except it occurred to me that like many of the passengers around me, I was actually packing plenty of invisible baggage. The least of which was an over-weight-roller-suitcase-sized desire to control as many things in my life story as possible. For a few moments as the plane engine roared in my ears muffling reality, I began to draft my own obituary. I envisioned it being read aloud at my funeral, with my old as Conciato Romano* cheese husband, surrounded by our children and grandchildren, watching the love I had for them dancing on each of their faces. As this altitude induced visualization continued, I envisioned one of my children making a comment about how, even in my death I was a writer, and then everyone would chuckle a little while they wiped away a stray tear or two. Every single person there would generously ignore the truth that writing my own obituary was less about being a writer and more about that, even in my death, I wanted to be in control over what was said about me.
Ooofff.
Back at home these thoughts of life and death (and control) have swirled around me these last few weeks, and I have become increasing aware of that oversized suitcase I’m dragging around. Which, serendipitously, must have been the exact right time to receive a little extra nudge from life in the form of back-to-back rejections so that I could further consider what I could and couldn’t control.
Periodically I submit something I’ve written to a publication and this year (so far) every piece has been rejected. It’s a disappointment, but I can emotionally roll past the rejection quickly. Less easy to roll past, however, I learned last week that I was not accepted into the Doctoral program I had my heart set on attending (more on that another time–maybe). There’s nothing like a door slamming in your face to give you a moment to pause and get really honest with yourself about why you wanted that door to open for you anyway. And to be reminded that we truly can’t control our own paths, even when we really want to.
Returning to the ethos of my dark and over-active mind, I’ve scratched out the previous obituary I had been drafting and started writing something that goes a little bit more like this…
Although she always loved the idea of writing her own obituary, it turned out that in her final months and weeks of life, she was too busy spending time with her children and children’s children and chasing her still-handsome husband around their semi-independent living facility to care what was or wasn’t written about her. When we asked her what she wanted us to share, she told us that there were no “egos of her life” worth putting in writing. Instead, she wanted us to focus on living our own lives so fully and with so much freedom that when we approached our final sunsets, we were completely full of contentment. She suggested that the magic was in caring just enough about our own legacies to dedicate our lives to the people and work we loved, but to also find our own sense of self just enough to not care what we did or didn’t do in this one wild and messy life.
And perhaps most importantly, I’m going to need the second half of my life to work on downsizing that invisible suitcase of control I drag around behind me, because I did, in fact, just write my own obituary.
–Michelle
*Conciator Romano is the worlds oldest known cheese dating back to before the Roman conquest (love you, babe!)