Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
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Having written several obituaries for family members over the years, I’m not interested in writing my own. I would, though, like to share the following for anyone who takes on the task of writing mine when the day comes. Here, dear family and friends, is what not to say when I die.
First and foremost, on no account should the words “courageous,” “courage,” or “bravely” feature in a discussion of how I behaved in the weeks/months/years leading up to my death. I don’t consider myself a coward but I have never at any time been particularly courageous. I don’t downhill ski, I never learned to surf and I’ve never had a desire to climb a mountain or jump out of an airplane. If I contract a terminal disease, I will NOT fight the good fight. I’ll moan about it to anybody who’ll listen and blame the world for the unfairness of it all.
On a similar note, it will be inaccurate to say I lost my battle with [insert appropriate disease] or that it was hard fought. There won’t be a battle; I’m unlikely to fight. If you need further information on that score, please refer to the previous paragraph.
Please don’t say “passed” or “departed.” Passed is what I did when I went from Grade 8 into Grade 9. Departed sounds like I had a choice. I didn’t. Died is a perfectly good word and it leaves nothing to the imagination. If phrases like “entered into eternal rest” or “slipped away peacefully” come to mind while writing my obit, please strangle them in utero before they make their way onto the page.
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While we’re at it, don’t bother writing “gone to a better place” and “no longer with us.” The first is an assumption — the second is simply obvious.
“It was a blessing.” Was it? Not for me. For those who have to put up with me it might be, considering how I’m going to behave at the end (moaning and blaming, remember?).
Nix “taken too soon,” too. In my opinion, this should be reserved for the young or the young at heart. I am not young and not about to get any younger as time goes on. Too soon implies I was deprived of something terrific that was about to happen… perhaps I was about to win the lottery or the Booker Prize? If that’s the case, please inform my heirs, they can use the cash.
“Will be forever remembered.” This, I feel, is unlikely. It’s estimated that something like 117-billion people have been born, lived and died since we humans began. Of those, only a tiny portion are remembered: Shakespeare, Mohammed, Mozart… the usual crowd. If I’m lucky, I’ll be remembered by my children and grandchildren and any friends and former colleagues who are still around. I’m perfectly fine with that.
Speaking of family, my husband was a lovely man and I miss him every day but I don’t want it said that he was my soulmate. He was, but the term is so overused it’s lost any resonance it might once have had. Let’s just say we spent 40 years together and I never once wanted to kill him.
Obituaries tend to bring out the worst clichés about the dead person’s character so let me just head those off right now:
“She was the life and soul of the party”: I can be, depending on the party and the amount of wine on offer, but I don’t rank them as my finest moments.
“Was loved and respected by all”: All? I can think of a couple of math teachers who’d take issue with that.
“Never met a stranger that didn’t become a friend”: Oh, please. I live in a city and I’m surrounded by strangers. I barely know the people who live across the hall.
“Lived life to the full”: This sounds exhausting. Just living life can be hard enough, do we really have to live it to the full?
“Her smile lit up the room”: Any time I read this I try to imagine a smile that actually lights up a room. How dark does a room have to be for a smile to make a difference? And why is she smiling like that when everyone else is feeling depressed? Is she some kind of narcissist who’s oblivious to the prevailing mood and goes around grinning from ear to ear no matter the situation? It doesn’t sound like me and it doesn’t sound like anyone I’d want to sit next to at a party.
Finally, unless I’m found slumped over my laptop with a glass of red wine in my hand, I did not die doing what I loved.
Margie Taylor lives in Port Moody, B.C.