In a bit of weirdness like what I've come to expect out of my family, I have found that posthumous disposal plans of my brother, my father and I are all strangely similar. I am also in the uncomfortable position of being the only one aware of it.
The story starts thusly, late last week I stupidly opened my mouth about hospice care to the home nurse in front of both my parents. It was a gambit to make my mother confess she had denied the service. What I did not expect was my father coming from out of left field like some avenging angel. (At 6'3", he does a very good imitation.) I eventually figured out what triggered his rage; one of several definitions of hospice is when a patient has six months or less to live. And I realized that my father took the doctor's prognosis of 'nine months in an otherwise healthy individual' at face value instead of listening to what the doctor was saying between the words. Dad was bargaining for time that most likely wasn't there. As if there wasn't enough tragedy, John and I would also have to deal with his shock when he became disillusioned.
So just like when I was a child and in real trouble, I went running to my big brother for help. While we were talking, Michele reminded us we needed to make sure there were burial arrangements in place as we would undoubtedly have our hands full when the time came. We would need to ask my father about it. This wasn't an ideal thought, as I had just incited some serious fury with only the suggestion of hospice. But I offered to attempt it in an e-mail where the subject would seem less immediate.
We then wandered off into a discussion about our own arrangements. My brother has a full scenario involving having his ashes sprinkled in the Carribean. I told him my own, which is to be sprinkled by Tony in an unspecified location (I won't know the most perfect place in my life until I run out of it) but most likely the Pacific. The subject made Michele wince, as she is a firm believer in family plots.
But John and I have no roots. At least none that get planted. The independant plans for cremation are very interesting though, as I don't think anyone in our family has done it. We are scattered, but not sprinkled.
Flash forward several days, and I write the dreaded e-mail to my father. I try to be as non-confrontational as possible, so much so that Tony pre-reads it and thinks Dad might not believe it's coming from me. Cest la vie. In it, I ask my father if there are plans for a double plot. He replies that he has thought as far as the funeral home for mother, but that there is a section of his will John doesn't know about making it impossible for him to be buried with her.
What???
Turns out he is to be sprinkled in the Atlantic off the waters of his old marine base. I don't think he wants to tell my brother for fear John will be upset by the non-conformity of his choice. This would be typical of my family. And I can't tell him John has similar plans, because then dad will be upset that we had been discussing plans for mother without him. I can't tell John about dad's plans, or just forward his e-mail, because it's not my place to divulge something dad seems to think is his secret. So instead I chronicle the unsaid dialogue, wondering if either of them will ever remember I keep a blog and how much trouble I'd be in if they did.
But there's something to be said for the heart of it. Three family members, with three similar rites and no prior consultation. The biggest difference is the body of water. East, South and West. It's a bit freaky but also strangely comforting. Despite our drastically diverging politics and life experiences, we have the exact same ideal for one of the most personal choices we could make.Like seeing my face in Katie's, there is a similar thread that runs silently through us and binds us. And at a time like this, that's something anyway.
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