Joe and his wife lived in Westchester, and had a son. Joe died suddenly, in his 50s, and my mother received the news of his death late one weekday night. My dad was away on business, and my sister was attending nursing school upstate, so the duty of attending the wake with my mother fell to me. Actually, my mom explained that Joe was not going to be waked, but rather that there would be a memorial service the following Saturday morning.
When the day came, we drove to a lovely resort in White Plains. As we entered the long, manicured driveway lined with pink tulips and canary-yellow daffodils -- such a distinct sign of life -- I questioned whether or not we were in the right place. My mom assured me we were.
After checking in with the concierge, we were escorted to an upper-level conference room where drawn curtains revealed the hotel's English garden below. The room had several rows of chairs arranged to overlook the garden, and a small podium up front. There were small antique tables, each holding a vase of brightly colored spring flowers and framed photos of Joe -- a baby picture, a grade-school photo, his wedding album, his son's christening. Every snapshot showed him very much alive and enjoying life.
Joe's wife, dressed in a robin's-egg-blue suit, welcomed everyone to the small gathering of family and friends with a tear-stained face and a heartfelt hug, explaining that "This is what Joe wanted. He left very clear instructions."
During the memorial service, Joe's sister spoke of family vacations and how Joe had taught her shy son how to fish. Joe's boss talked about Joe's messy desk, and how he was the brunt of many a joke concerning disorganization. His wife spoke of the day their son was born, and how Joe seemed to burst with a pride she didn't know he possessed until then.
Attendees were invited up to the podium to share their memories of Joe's life. An elegantly dressed woman admitted she didn't know Joe very well, but she wanted to thank him for the countless Saturday afternoons he generously agreed to spend alone so that she could have lunch with his wife. A neighbor reminded everyone of how Joe exemplified the Golden Rule.
When everyone had spoken, we all stood and said a prayer. Simple and sweet -- symbolic of the life Joe had led.
I remember thinking at the time that this was the way I wanted to be remembered when I died. No bleak funeral-home setting, no rows of confined mourners, no silence surrounding my death. I wanted people to talk about me, remember me and share whatever joy I might have brought them.
I have a will. I've had one for some 15 years now. The lawyer questioned my sanity for drawing up such a final document at such a young age, but it was what I wanted. I also have a living will and an organ-donor card, which are important to me. My instructions are very clear. There is no right or wrong, but these are my wishes, so they're right for me.
There will be no doubt as to what my wishes are, and how my memorial should be carried out. I have discussed my final plans with my sons, and they understand. No wake, no funeral, just a simple memorial. Flowers will be everywhere -- peach roses, thank you -- and hopefully, my friends will gather to remember me and smile. You see, I think someone's death should be as much a part of them as their life. There should be no questions asked as to how family and friends gather to celebrate our lives and honor our deaths.
At least for me, I know the president won't have to cut short a vacation to decide whether or not a feeding tube should be reinserted for my nourishment. There is no threat that my family will be torn apart, arguing over what they interpret to be my final wishes. My death, like my life, will be a matter of personal choices. And may the only article written about me say, "This was the way she wanted it."
