Obituaries

Prologue: I haven’t written in a long time, because I realized that I was writing from a need to prove myself – to prove I wasn’t lying or crazy, to prove I wasn’t who my father says we are. I needed to trust myself and settle into my decisions about that relationship before I could start this up again. Anything less robbed me of my power in this situation. There is so much about the relationship with my father that I cannot control, but I have absolute control over the kind of human being I am throughout and should act accordingly. Things with Tony and I are not good, but I no longer feel the need to justify the way I’ve handled it. And while it will always hurt me more than I can put into words (and I’ve got a lot of words…) I know that I have done everything I can .

I was 41 when my mom died – I’d lived on my own for half my life and was, by most accounts, a fully-fledged adult. My grandparents had both passed years ago and my aunt the year before, so I was no stranger to the amount of work a funeral requires. But I had never been an Adult In Charge before. So many decisions to make so quickly. So much to organize and delegate. And nobody ever warned me about the paperwork when someone dies! I spent two solid weeks on the phone with credit bureaus, social security, dentist offices, life insurance… Holy wow. (You have to say the sentence, “My Mom died” about 900 times and each one sucks.) You also have to write an obituary, which is supposed to be a summation of the person’s life in 100 words or less. Like… How? How do you even do that?

Maybe it’s the age I’m at, but it feels like I’m reading a lot of obituaries these days. Parents of friends and family have started to pass, and I sadly welcome new members to the Dead Parents Club. (Worst Club Ever.) I have noticed that, while obituaries vary widely in their focus and perspective, they rarely talk about anything but the good. Sometimes it’s an honest review and sometimes it’s not – sure, he was an avid soccer fan, but he was also a raging alcoholic and we don’t mention that. I think obituaries tend to be “greatest hits” version of our life choices. The poor choices get glossed over in a bizarre, don’t-speak-ill-of-the-dead way.

The perspective of the writer matters a lot in this situation. I know that it had been my father who died first, the obituary I’d have written then would have been about a hardworking man of integrity and faith. I know the obituary I’d write today would be far less doe-eyed. I also know that the obituary his wife would write would solidly ignore the fact that the man cut ties with his entire family after his first wife died. How will he be remembered? Will anyone call me if something really does happen to him? Has it happened already and I just don’t know it yet? These are the things I think about in the dark of 2am.

The best way I’ve been able to work through my grief and hurt over things with my father is to use it as a touchstone for my own life choices. He is, as sad as it is, my example of who I don’t want to become. I don’t want to be full of the brittle, caustic anger that fills my father’s cup. I don’t want brokenness between me and my children. I want to care when they hurt. I want to be emotionally intelligent and to accept accountability when needed. I want to fight for them because nobody fought for me. And I refuse to pass that brokenness on to my children.

Here’s the thing about me: I also refuse to be a phony. When I die, feel free to paint a true picture of my life. I have a mouth that runs a solid three-second lead on my brain – I say all sorts of things I shouldn’t. (And trust me, I’m just as surprised/horrified as you are by the things that come out of my mouth.) My children are semi-feral, despite our every attempt to civilize them. The house is never clean enough. We’re always broke. Someone’s always overdue for a doctor’s appointment, usually me. I cook with way too much butter and cheese. Say all of those things in my obituary if you want, because lord knows they are all true.

But, since I know you’ll be telling the truth, you’ll have to talk about my obsession with kindness and honesty. You’ll write my parting words to the kids every day: make kind choices today! You’ll write about my ability to talk to anyone, anywhere, at any time. That I helped anytime I could and that I treated people the same regardless of their station in life. I hope that, when it comes time for someone to write my obituary, I will have earned the good things they write about me. I hope they aren’t just a matter of perspective.