Thursday, I spent a couple hours with Uncle Bunky watching him work his wonders at Camp Rising Sun. Like many, I had heard through the grapevine that he was in very poor health, so I approached that topic cautiously as we sat and chatted after he had put his sketchbook away.
It turned out there was no need for delicacy. Uncle Bunky, 82, is at peace with his decision not to have treatment on the esophageal and stomach cancers that will likely claim him within a matter of months.
You might assume that it is a staggering thing to think about and a very emotional subject to discuss, yet I’ve noted on more than one occasion that people who stare death in the face, often are very comfortable talking about it, even joking about it. Years ago, a friend of mine in Arizona who was dying of pancreatic cancer, recalled that when his oncologist gave him the grave news, he responded to the doctor by saying, “So what you are telling me is not to buy any green bananas, right?”
He died six months later, but felt that he had been blessed to have had time to prepare, to say his goodbyes, to share memories with friends and family, to distribute a lifetime of “I love yous.” He reasoned that those who die a sudden, unexpected death don’t have that opportunity.
Uncle Bunky appears to be taking the same approach. There is nothing morose about how he views the gathering shadows. He has big plans for his funeral, for example, and talked excitedly about them. I’ll not spoil the surprise he has in store, other than to say the service will be noted for its distinctive Chicago Cubs flavor.
Talking to Uncle Bunky prompted me to think about my own mortality, even though there is still a little tread left on my tires.
One thing we all should do now, while we have our mental faculties, is to plan ahead for those “end of life” decisions that must be made. The best way of doing this is by preparing a Living Will, which can be of great comfort to the family/loved ones who will be asked to make those decisions in the event that you are incapable of making them yourself.
I still haven’t gotten around to writing my own Living Will, so if the grim reaper should arrive before I’ve made that arrangement, this should be considered my wishes on the subject:
No matter my condition, I want the doctors to do everything possible to keep me breathing. I insist on having every heroic measure, temporary solution and artificial device available. If I am lying there in a hospital room unresponsive, I do not want ANY machine to be unplugged, not even the TV.
I want to end my life as I lived it: By being as big of a nuisance as possible to as many people as possible for as long as possible.
As for my funeral, my views have evolved. Before moving to Columbus, I preferred not to have any formal service. My only thoughts were that I didn’t want to be cremated on the theory that I would prefer not to burn more than once, if you know what I mean.
Now, though, after three years of expressing personal views that collide sharply with the vast majority of the people here, I believe that a funeral is absolutely necessary. I expect that my funeral will attract hundreds of people, most of whom will show up just to rub it in. It will be the largest assembly of Rotarians in club history, I bet.
As for the funeral service itself, I want it to be a tasteful affair. If it can be arranged, I would like several really fat women to stand by my coffin, fanning themselves with paper fans, moaning and wailing from time to time. If one or two of them could faint at some point, that would be a nice touch, too, I think.
Musically, I am much in favor of banjos, mandolins, fiddles and acoustic guitars, but please, no bagpipes, which I believe to be the musical equivalent of a Walmart gift card — so commonly used as to have become generic.
Most any of the hymns found in the old “Baptist Hymnal” will be fine, too, except for Amazing Grace (See above reference to bagpipes).
Of course, I should not have to say that, under absolutely no circumstances, should Amazing Grace be played on the bagpipes.
I would like some of our regular online commenters, who are among my harshest critics, to deliver the eulogies on the theory that “If you can’t say something nice about somebody…” This will keep the service moving along as crisp pace.
Finally, I would like to be buried on the median on Main Street between Fifth and Sixth Streets so people will regularly turn up at my grave with fresh flowers year-round.
Of course, I don’t expect that any of these matters will have to be addressed anytime soon.
Dying, like so many other things in my life, is something I’m content to procrastinate about.
Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].
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