The Obits

On Sundays I like to catch up with who croaked during the past week, especially when Fall is just around the corner; everything is about to die. I pore over the obits and, not finding my name or the name of any favorite friend or relative, I rejoice.  Sometimes, in a churlish mood, I look for the names of the people who have wronged me during my lifetime and secretly hope to find their names, along with a tortuous description of their worthless lives. (Don’t judge; we all have a dark side.) As Bette Davis famously said when she learned of Joan Crawford’s death: “We should say only good things about the dead. She’s dead. Good.”

Then, at a more leisurely rate, I peruse more closely the compositions for the recently deceased and marvel at how people have such a fragile grasp on reality. “. . . died suddenly at age 94.”  Suddenly? The person was 94. How could that possibly have been sudden! The old goat ought to have croaked ten years ago, instead of burning through his children’s inheritance. And what inane remarks do the relatives make at the funerals? “Oh gosh, who knew. It was so unexpected; we had no idea that would be his last meal”.  I’m astonished that the deceased could still masticate real food. 

Of course death comes to everyone, and the older the better. The pain that follows when someone leaves the planet too early is utterly devastating. No parent should ever bury a child. When that happens, they are left to deal with their grief alone, destined to walk a different path than the one in which they had set out; their lives forever changed, never to recover. I wonder, when such losses occur, about an afterlife. Was the child’s work here done so soon? I like to think that we have all been put on this earth for a reason; some to do good, some to do bad. Some quickly finish their work and check out early, like Dylan Thomas or Georges-Pierre Seurat, while others, like Mother Teresa, continue to do their work long after most of us have retired. And those who do evil stay long after the world wishes they had gone. Without the bad, though, how do we appreciate the good. The kindness and generosity of friends and family  that mean so much. 

But I digress, back to the obit. And while most obits are stock: full name of deceased, names of spouse and children, dates of birth and death, perhaps a list of accomplishments, then wrap it up with the cause of death; usually heart failure. I say usually, but I mean inevitably. Inevitably, heart failure kills everyone. Categorically, there are only four ways to die: murder, suicide, accident or illness.  No matter which of those four roads is taken, it is only when the heart stops that the person dies, so in my book, it’s always heart failure. While most obits are stock, there are some that do tickle. I read a couple that made me laugh and have given me incentive to start writing my own: 

“He escaped this mortal realm at the age of 69.  We think he did it on purpose to avoid having to make a decision in the pending presidential election. Following his wishes, there will not be a service, but well-wishers are encouraged to write a note of farewell on a Light beer can and drink it in his honor. Unlike previous times, this is not a ploy to avoid creditors or old girlfriends, he assures us that he is gone.”

“She passed away peacefully at her home.  It is believed her death was caused from carrying her oxygen tank up a flight of stairs; her heart gave out. Please note her change of address to her more permanent resting crypt. Anyone wearing black will not be admitted to the memorial.” 

Mine would read something like this: “It pains me to admit it, but apparently, I have died. I understood, academically, that it would happen one day but it was simply not something I wanted to acknowledge, much less experience.  Once again I didn’t get my way! Please don’t cry because I’m gone; instead be happy that I was here. Or maybe you can cry a little bit. After all, I have passed away. Today I am happy and dancing, probably naked.”