Death With Distinction

I have been planning my funeral since I was six or seven years old. While lying in bed at night, I would mentally review the names of those on the guest list, adding the names of kids at school who’d been nice to me that day and crossing off those who’d been mean. There was something comforting about this nighttime ritual, knowing that all those kids who’d laughed at me on the playground or threw chewing gum at me in the cafeteria would get their comeuppance when they weren’t invited to my funeral. It was going to be the party of a lifetime.

I also spent much time ruminating over possible causes of death. Amidst the yammering children on the school bus, I sat quietly by myself examining my wrists. The veins were so blue, so thick and prominent. All it would take was an accidental scrape with a knife or a shard of glass. One windy day on the playground, a piece of paper came hurtling toward me on the breeze, slamming into my neck and leaving a large paper cut. When I got home from school I admired the paper cut in the mirror with great interest, wondering how much deeper it would need to be to slit my throat.

As I got a bit older, my funeral plans began to take on more detail. At breakfast one morning, I announced to my parents that I would like to be buried at sea. I liked the idea of floating on a coral reef somewhere, being rocked gently by the waves and hanging out with mermaids. And being eaten by fish sounded far better than being eaten by worms any day.

“You can’t do that, “ replied my mother matter-of-factly. “You can’t dump bodies in the ocean because they might wash ashore.” I imagined carefree little toddlers on the beach with pails and shovels, stumbling unexpectedly upon my bloated, fish-eaten and seaweed-strewn body. That wouldn’t do. I gave up my idea of a burial at sea until several years later, when a classmate told me about Viking burials. Now, the Vikings were smart. They cremated the body at sea by shooting a flaming arrow at the funeral vessel, setting the boat and body aflame. This became my new postmortem desire.

When I was in tenth grade, my voice teacher gave me a piece to sing at the New York State Solo Festival. It was the Pie Jesu from Faure’s Requiem . This music sparked my lasting obsession with requiem masses. “ Pie Jesu, Domine, dona eis requiem, sempiternam requiem ;” “Blessed Jesus, Lord and God, grant them thy eternal rest.” The music filled me to the brim and made my spirit ache. It transformed death from a thing of horror and sadness into something peaceful and beautiful. From then on, my world was filled with Kyrie eleisons and Lacrimosas . I decided that someday I, too, would write a requiem mass.

“You want to write a requiem? Why? That’s morbid,” said my father. But to me, it was anything but morbid. It was a way to connect with death in a way that would honor it for what it was instead of pushing it away. “Day of mourning, day of sadness,” opens Mozart’s Lacrimosa . The music acknowledges the sorrow associated with death, while also introducing an element of celebration and ritual. I began to toy with the idea of the funeral as a celebration of life.

Ten years later, I still haven’t written my requiem. I don’t know what I am waiting for. Instead, I’ve been mentally putting together mix tapes for my friends’ and relatives’ funerals. They don’t know this yet. The other day, I was sitting in my office at work when an old Christopher Cross song, “Sailing,” came on the radio. I was instantly reminded of my father and his love for sailing. I wanted to call him up right then and there and exclaim, “Dad, guess what! I just heard the perfect song for your funeral!” But I didn’t, knowing that it would only upset him and make him wonder where he’d gone wrong in raising his daughter. It made me feel sad, hearing this song and having a real moment of tenderness for my father, and not being able to share it with him for fear of being deemed morbid. Are we really so afraid of death that we cannot see it as a reminder to celebrate and cherish life? I create my mental tapes with love and affection, with a real appreciation of those still living. These funeral songs remind me of what I treasure most about my loved ones. Is it wrong to want to share this music with them while they are still living?

I am still obsessed with my own death. I worry about how I will go. I don’t want to get hit by a car while crossing the street, or slowly waste away from Alzheimer’s like my grandmother. I want to die with distinction, in a way befitting my life. A few years ago, I went horseback riding in the Sierras. It was a beautiful summer day with a brilliant blue sky. We rode on a steep and rocky mountain trail, high above the most gorgeous river I’d ever seen. The horses clopped along single file, carefully negotiating the rocky terrain. Suddenly, my horse, a black mare who was fittingly named Spook, stepped close to the edge of the ridge and began to panic, unsure of where to step next. I looked down and knew that one step forward could easily send us both off the edge, tumbling onto the jagged rocks below and then maybe into the river. I could feel the horse’s terror in my body, and yet I felt no fear. Instead, I felt a great sense of calm. If I had to go, this was exactly the way I wanted it-- a beautiful day in the mountains under a perfect sky, on the back of one of my favorite creatures on Earth. It was a beautiful day to die.

I did not die that day, and sometimes that worries me. There are so many ways to die which are far less distinctive, and far more likely, like slipping in the shower and cracking my head on the porcelain, or being killed in a bus accident. Still, I hope for the best and continue to plan my own and others’ funerals with reckless abandon. One of my deepest wishes is to acknowledge and celebrate my own life and the lives of those I love with all due respect and admiration. I believe that each of us deserves a death, or at the very least a funeral, with distinction, surrounded by the people and things we love. I only wish that I could share these wishes with those I love without being met with horror or fear.

As for my own funeral, my current plan is to have my ashes scattered over the ocean , followed by a feast of assorted chocolates and the largest sushi boat ever. There will be music and bellydancers and maybe even an IMAX film. And of course, a requiem mass. It’s going to be the party of a lifetime.