A few years ago, after as much procrastinating as was reasonable, I wrote a will. I did not want to write a will because to do such planning is a fairly strong indication that I might die and need to be prepared for it.
The task was not an easy one. I have no heirs or successors except the memsahib so I figured the loot would go to her and she could spend all the money that would come her way provided she had no plans for it after the following Tuesday. No, it’s not that bad. But, most of my wealth lies in assorted goods and chattels – ie stuff. Stuff like books and a few bits of bric-a-brac. I do wish I actually had some heirs and successors, but life didn’t work out that way.
Anyway, I did the will after getting stuck on the bit about what was to be done with my no-longer-of-much value bones. Yeah, I’m generous and they can harvest the bits that are of any use, but then there is, ahem, disposal. Now on one hand I don’t give much of a shit mainly because I’ll be dead. But, burial or cremation? I think I opted for the fiery furnace route since I don’t believe chunks of real estate she be devoted to bones, not when they can be turned into condo developments or golf courses. I think my ashes are being scattered in some body of water but I honestly can’t remember what locale was specified: It’ll be either here, Deer Lake near where I grew up, or Hawaii. Hawaii sounds good because then the missus can have a brief vacation whilst she goes to scatter me amongst the fishes and lovely sea turtles. I am a Pisces, after all.
So after the will was completed I did all the legal rigamarole and got it notarized and so forth. So, that bit’s good now and has been for a few years. However, there is another aspect to the dwindling days time of life, and that is what must be done before one croaketh?
The last time I visited my doctor he handed me a little yellow brochure that is titled Advance Care Planning. It’s a pretty little glossy item from the provincial government and boasts photos of happy and healthy looking folks on it. That’s a ruse, of course. The subject material is nothing about healthy and happy, it’s about grim and nasty stuff that might befall a fellow or girl in an unexpected way, especially past a certain age. We might become physically disabled, incontinent, batshit crazy, immobile or all sorts of other unpleasant things. I resented my doctor for giving this to me – you know, pointing out reality and all. I don’t want that. I want the fellow to marvel at how youthful and healthful I seem to be and that perhaps I have a good shot at immortality, or maybe a hope of transmogrifying into another dude with a different appearance like Dr. Who. I’ll choose the David Tennant version so I get to have my way with Rose.
The good doctor wanted me to scrutinize the brochure carefully and in conjunction with him and my wife to explicitly state my wants in a grim crisis time. Like do I want a cessation of medication. Well, kind of depends what kind of dope they give me, I reckon. “Hmm, this stuff isn’t bad.” But I jest, of course. I know such planning is important. I know my own father explicitly stated he did not want to be kept alive in the case of severe disability and, frankly, his sons and daughters-in-law were grateful for that. I’m pretty much the same about that, I reckon.
While I make light, I know I will get to it and get it done. Sometimes I think, what if I don’t get it done? I’ll be dead. Why would I care? Well, maybe not getting such a thing done will be one of those “chains we forge in life” and I, like Jacob Marley, will be doomed to spend eternity making up for my negligence.
Well, maybe I’ll get to haunt somebody. That’d be good. I have already picked out some candidates.