On Death and Dying (Well)

It was ten years ago last July 4 that my mom died in her sleep. My dad died way before that – in January 1974, when I was a senior in high school. My in-laws died within less than a year of each other, and within about 18 months of my mother. When it comes to losing parents, I’ve been around the block a time or two.

Compared to many of my friends, I was ahead of the curve. Some of my closest are just now coming to terms with burying a mother or father. There are others who can’t begin to imagine what that day will be like – and there are some who pray to hasten that day.

One friend’s mother died last week. She was a few years younger than my mom and lived a long, full life. Her service was small, but her son and daughter were faithful to her wishes and made sure it was what she would have wanted. (to the point that I couldn’t find her obituary in the Dallas Morning News – she wouldn’t have wanted to pay for a listing!) Her long-time priest officiated at the service, and the family was surrounded by loved ones and full of thanksgiving for a good life well-lived. Was she perfect? Not on a bet. But she lived an unremarkably remarkable life, and died well.

As odd as it may sound, one of the things I love best about my mother was her funeral. The people who signed her guest book included postal workers, a hairdresser and a college president. She touched people across all walks of life. She was the kind of person who would give boxes of Russell Stover candy to people for Christmas – not to her girlfriends, but to the guys who sliced the beef at Austin’s Barbeque; to Vernon, who managed the Polar Bear Ice Cream parlor at Hampton and Illinois; to the postman; and yes, to that hairdresser who helped her stay beautiful for more than 20 years. She was the kind of person who made friends with people by sharing her baggie full of peppermints and butterscotch when the situation called for it. She spent her lunch hours on the night shift at the Main Post Office with people who were way younger and different from her in almost every way – doing Bible study. She was her three daughters’ and her grandchildren’s biggest fan, no doubt. But she was also the biggest fan of people who needed one. Was she perfect? Not on a bet. But she lived an unremarkably remarkable life, and died well.

I have another friend, an only child, whose father is still living – but he and his father died to each other a long time ago. His dad was a dashing figure – a pilot in World War II, son of a wealthy family, a world traveler, married to a Texas beauty, father to one of the finest people I know who has made a fabulous life with his wife and daughters. Some veneer of that relationship - and unfortunately, time has shown it to be only veneer -began to crack when his son left for college and was asked to return the house key. Pieces continued to chip off over the years, every time he and his second wife would do things to reject his son when it became clear his son would not be manipulated.

This week, whatever warm memories I had of the charming war hero disappeared altogether. He and his second wife have moved to an assisted living place in their town, and chose to hold an estate sale to clear out their belongings. Their son heard about it from someone else. Ultimately my friend chose to go to the sale, in order to buy back some of his heritage for his daughters. His father made money from the sale of many of his possessions, but I am far more struck by what he lost. Where did he ever get the idea that heritage can be bought and sold, that you can put a price on family? How sad that this dear, darling man is more than 90 years old, and somewhere along the line failed to get it. To paraphrase Dolly Levi, on those cold winter nights he won’t get to snuggle up with his three gorgeous granddaughters, or to a son who loved him and tried to please him, but to his cash register and his stuff: “it may be a little lumpy, but it rings.” More power to him.

Seems to me like the older you get, the more people you have to bury. I buried my dear friend Len Roberts earlier this year. Len was a surrogate father to me, who walked every step of the way with his only son Richard while Richard was dying from AIDS. I learned something from Len every time I was with him. I also lost two of my childhood friends this year, Randy and John, who had to die sooner rather than later for reasons known only to God. One was a beloved brother, husband, pastor and attorney; one was a good husband and father who could sing harmony to probably every song in the Beatles catalog. Neither one of them was around here long enough.

Stephen Covey, the author of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, is not someone with whom I always agree. But one of those “habits” is apropos for this day: begin with the end in mind. How is it that you want to be remembered? What kind of legacy are you building for yourself? Do you want to be the kind of person who will be surrounded with loved ones at your death, whose funeral will be attended by hairdressers and college presidents? Do you want to be remembered for your “stuff” and for all the money you made at your estate sale? The choice is yours, and mine. After this week, I’m going to pay a little more attention to this question. While living well isn’t always a guarantee of dying well, it goes a long way towards getting us there.