SEVERAL YEARS ago a good friend of our family made what seemed at the time a startling comment: She was writing her own obituary.
She was relatively young — in her early 50s — and in reasonably good health, although she had been treated for cancer a few years earlier. Cancer has a way of focusing your attention.
Still, it seemed a bit premature. She had a lot of life to live.
An accomplished professional in higher education, she acknowledged that perhaps there was probably a bit of immodesty involved in wanting to author precisely what would be said about her after her death. But it was more than that, she insisted. It was not about the awards in her life. It was about the rewards in her life. There’s a difference.
I remember her fondly all these years later as I ponder my own mortality. Most of us, I believe, would like to know what will be remembered about us after we’re gone. Given a choice, would you prefer to simply let those you leave behind construct your story, or would you like to have a hand in its preparation?
Most obituaries in The Blade are put together by loved ones of the deceased, often hurriedly and under duress. Family recollections don’t always reflect what mattered most to the individual who has passed away, and the funeral director might be learning of the person and his or her life for the first time.
There is considerable value, it seems to me, in having input provided by the deceased well in advance of death. Is that vanity? I don’t think so.
One of the regrets of my life is that I did not press my parents harder about the fine print of their life together — the nuances about their courtship, the early years of their marriage, and especially my dad’s experiences fighting in Europe in World War II. We have his medals, but he was always reluctant to talk about how he got them, a trait fairly common among war vets.
I read the obituaries faithfully every day. To say I “enjoy” them is not quite right. I am sorry for each family’s loss. But I most admire the obits which make it clear the deceased had a few thoughts to share.
My favorite appeared a few years back. It was the deceased’s own first-person account of her life, and it began with the humor that clearly was her trademark.
I’m trying to recall the exact wording, but it started something like this:
“If you are reading this, something has gone terribly wrong for me.”
How could you not appreciate a person who stares death in the face and laughs at it?
Her account went on to share the details of her life — the good, the bad, the ugly. It was courageous, it was entertaining, and I imagine it was cathartic for her. More of us should give it a try.
Many years ago my grandchildren gave my late wife and me those “fill in the blank” books which ask grandparents to write down their memories.
“Tell us about your first school.”
“What was it like going off to college?”
“How did you meet Grandma?”
For the record, here are the answers:
My first school, in the little town of Sycamore, south of Tiffin, housed all 12 grades in one building, elementary on the first floor, junior and senior high on the second floor.
I was scared to death. I felt unworthy.
Met Grandma at a fraternity-sorority party at the university. Felt REALLY unworthy.
I’ve filled in a few pages here and there but my “Grandpa” book is still mostly empty. I’m sorry for that, and I’ll work on it.
I think a worthy pursuit for anyone of a certain age, say retirement and up, would be to write this stuff down while we still have our wits. It doesn’t need to be an autobiography in the traditional sense. It could be a work in progress that never ends until we do.
It is that mix of memories that make each of us one of a kind, the anecdotes and observations that help us share our life story with those we leave behind. Party line telephones? A soup bowl giveaway at the gas station with every fill-up? A broken arm after falling off the front porch? The death of a special uncle?
If writing everything down is burdensome, record a video when the spirit moves. You will bequeath an added bonus to your loved ones — your smile, your laugh, the sound of your voice.
Often an obit will include a photograph of the deceased that was taken at an early age. I find myself wishing another photo from much later in life had been submitted also. Side by side photos tell a story all their own. Aging cannot be avoided, but neither should it embarrass. The beauty of the heart does not fade.
One recent obit included then-and-now photos and emphasized the deceased’s nickname: Big Daddy. Now that’s a gentleman I wish I had known.
I will read the obituaries in today’s Blade, and I will absorb as much as possible about these amazing people. I will learn about their careers, their children, and their grandchildren.
And I will wonder what inflections, what tones of gray, they would have added had they each written their own obit. I just pray I don’t see mine there.
Thomas Walton is the retired Editor and Vice President of The Blade. His column appears every other Sunday. His radio commentary, “Life As We Know It,” can be heard on WGTE public radio every Monday at 5:44 p.m. during “All Things Considered.” Contact him at twalton@theblade.com.
First Published August 30, 2020, 4:00 a.m.
