Picking out your own grave site when you have incurable cancer isn't expected or necessary, but I highly recommend it.
One spring or summer we drove to North Carolina, and a beautiful mountainside swept into view a cemetery that graced a breathtaking foothill. And I decided that that was where I wanted to be buried. But when I had to look at death as a more immediate event, a grave site closer to family and friends seemed kinder to all. Still, I kept a romantic notion of how a cemetery should closely fit a personal perception of beauty.
I am trying to 'get all my ducks in a row,' so to speak, to make my death as easy as possible on my family and friends. It'll be hard enough for them without their having to tend to details of organization. Or am I just enjoying my last fun times of managing a project? ( cough "Control Freak" cough cough )
Whose "personal perception of beauty" is best for a grave site? Mine or my survivors'? And does it really matter? I mean, REALLY?
Surprisingly, it didn't take long to find a closer spot to be interred. My neighbor-friend Susie took me out to her husband's recent grave. They have a husband-and-wife tombstone that carries both of their names, but Susie's date of death isn't carved into the stone yet. "We could always be neighbors!" She made the morning lovely and fun. A wise woman with me at the graves.
I liked that place. I LOVE my town, and this local graveyard is very much like my town. In microcosm. Except for all the dead people. (in the cemetery, that is, the people in the town are lively enough).
In the graveyard, the names of my neighboring families surrounded me. This graveyard reflect my town's resistance to architectural committees or to tacky commercialism, or to any obligations of uniformity (Yay! Individualism Reigns!). And planting (even trees in certain spots) is allowed.
The surrounding Bull Run mountains aren't large, they would only qualify as hills to people from Rocky Mountain regions. But they catch the morning sun and radiate powerful calm as all mountains should. I love them.
"But. . . it's Episcopalian," I whined to my priest. No problem. He'd consecrate the ground as Catholic while they buried me. Do religious schisms delve within and last beyond the grave?
I dragged my husband to the cemetery. He had been there with Susie last year to see her husband's new grave when I was too sick to join them. My hubby had, in his mind, already chosen this graveyard as a possibility for me before I showed it to him. I had no idea he had thought so far toward the technical details of my death. He had never brought my burial. Would anyone? Maybe best left to a wise, widowed friend. . .
Then I had lunch with a few of my farm-girlfriends. "I just bought 5 plots." "How much is your plot? Yes, that's a reasonable price." "Oh I know where that is, It's pretty. But sometimes the road along there is a make-out spot."
All of a sudden I saw that this whole grave-choosing process is actually as easy as making perfect cheese, but as such, it's only simple for some.
This week, Thursday is Thanksgiving Day--a HUGE family-and-turkey-dinner-with-mashed-potatoes-and-gravy holiday in the USA (bigger than Christmas). My mom is here from really far away, not for the holiday, nor for her imminent birthday, but for me. She's here to help.
I had my mom follow me in her car (with her hubby), without either of them knowing their destination. We pulled up into the cemetery, and she parked after me.
"We've been looking into a little real estate lately" I told her.
She knows me, she feels me, she already knew.
She liked the place. But she also liked my 1970's teenage make-up and outfits as we did "ask-mom" checks before parties.
What is the result of giving the answer you're asked for?
Another wise woman beside me at the graveyard. We looked around, I showed her a few possible spots. . .
I sunk inside wondering how this unscheduled stop must hurt my mom, but I hoped it brought her a little peace, too. She smiled, I smiled, too. Not goofy smiles due to a lack of ability to acknowledge or express our thoughts, but quiet, strong smiles in patient acknowledgement of the tides of life.
I'm trying to ease the stress of my death, by planning for it, by doing a little of the footwork for it, which is comfortable for me but a little trickier for others. But there's a part of me that wonders if there is a small hovering thought emanating from my family and friends--or maybe even from myself--is she trying to control things from the grave before she's even dead? She's doing all of this stuff and she's not even technically dying yet.
Yes, I'm not dead YET. . .
One spring or summer we drove to North Carolina, and a beautiful mountainside swept into view a cemetery that graced a breathtaking foothill. And I decided that that was where I wanted to be buried. But when I had to look at death as a more immediate event, a grave site closer to family and friends seemed kinder to all. Still, I kept a romantic notion of how a cemetery should closely fit a personal perception of beauty.
I am trying to 'get all my ducks in a row,' so to speak, to make my death as easy as possible on my family and friends. It'll be hard enough for them without their having to tend to details of organization. Or am I just enjoying my last fun times of managing a project? ( cough "Control Freak" cough cough )
Whose "personal perception of beauty" is best for a grave site? Mine or my survivors'? And does it really matter? I mean, REALLY?
Surprisingly, it didn't take long to find a closer spot to be interred. My neighbor-friend Susie took me out to her husband's recent grave. They have a husband-and-wife tombstone that carries both of their names, but Susie's date of death isn't carved into the stone yet. "We could always be neighbors!" She made the morning lovely and fun. A wise woman with me at the graves.I liked that place. I LOVE my town, and this local graveyard is very much like my town. In microcosm. Except for all the dead people. (in the cemetery, that is, the people in the town are lively enough).
In the graveyard, the names of my neighboring families surrounded me. This graveyard reflect my town's resistance to architectural committees or to tacky commercialism, or to any obligations of uniformity (Yay! Individualism Reigns!). And planting (even trees in certain spots) is allowed.
The surrounding Bull Run mountains aren't large, they would only qualify as hills to people from Rocky Mountain regions. But they catch the morning sun and radiate powerful calm as all mountains should. I love them.
"But. . . it's Episcopalian," I whined to my priest. No problem. He'd consecrate the ground as Catholic while they buried me. Do religious schisms delve within and last beyond the grave?
I dragged my husband to the cemetery. He had been there with Susie last year to see her husband's new grave when I was too sick to join them. My hubby had, in his mind, already chosen this graveyard as a possibility for me before I showed it to him. I had no idea he had thought so far toward the technical details of my death. He had never brought my burial. Would anyone? Maybe best left to a wise, widowed friend. . .
Then I had lunch with a few of my farm-girlfriends. "I just bought 5 plots." "How much is your plot? Yes, that's a reasonable price." "Oh I know where that is, It's pretty. But sometimes the road along there is a make-out spot."
All of a sudden I saw that this whole grave-choosing process is actually as easy as making perfect cheese, but as such, it's only simple for some.
This week, Thursday is Thanksgiving Day--a HUGE family-and-turkey-dinner-with-mashed-potatoes-and-gravy holiday in the USA (bigger than Christmas). My mom is here from really far away, not for the holiday, nor for her imminent birthday, but for me. She's here to help.
I had my mom follow me in her car (with her hubby), without either of them knowing their destination. We pulled up into the cemetery, and she parked after me.
"We've been looking into a little real estate lately" I told her.
She knows me, she feels me, she already knew.
She liked the place. But she also liked my 1970's teenage make-up and outfits as we did "ask-mom" checks before parties.
What is the result of giving the answer you're asked for?
Another wise woman beside me at the graveyard. We looked around, I showed her a few possible spots. . .
I sunk inside wondering how this unscheduled stop must hurt my mom, but I hoped it brought her a little peace, too. She smiled, I smiled, too. Not goofy smiles due to a lack of ability to acknowledge or express our thoughts, but quiet, strong smiles in patient acknowledgement of the tides of life.
I'm trying to ease the stress of my death, by planning for it, by doing a little of the footwork for it, which is comfortable for me but a little trickier for others. But there's a part of me that wonders if there is a small hovering thought emanating from my family and friends--or maybe even from myself--is she trying to control things from the grave before she's even dead? She's doing all of this stuff and she's not even technically dying yet.
Yes, I'm not dead YET. . .
