Surviving life after death

“In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” – Benjamin Franklin

Very true.

However, at least you can see the taxman cometh.

He cometh every year at the exact same time and if you’re lucky he giveth you some of your hard-won money back.

The Reaper cares not for Outlook Calendars.

He works to his own ineffable timetable.

He may send a meeting request with a time guideline and then cancel it with no warning just as you were browsing caskets on Amazon, or he might just pop in with no warning whatsoever when you’ve just spent 30k on getting a flatlet ready for your father-in-law to move into at your house.

My father-in-law passed away last week at the age of 82.

He waved goodbye with a wink and a “Don’t do anything I would do.”

The Reaper arrived quietly and gently helped him shrug off his mortal coil, handed him over to St Peter who promptly handed him off to my mother-in-law of whom the dear Saint is slightly afraid of. It takes a special lady to make an archangel tremble in fear, but there you go.

And while all this was taking place in heavenly peace, all hell was breaking loose on the mortal plane.

What do you do when someone dies at home?

Hint. You don’t call Ghostbusters yet. That has to wait a while.

We called Doves Funeral Parlour (a friend of mine once got fired from there, but that’s a totally different story). Two wonderful men arrived in morning coats and gloves. They made what could have been a rather traumatic and morbid situation into one that was dignified and respectful.

And then they left and we didn’t know quite what to do.

Various cultures have different ways of dealing with death and grief. Anglo-Saxons tend to revert to busywork. We need to plan things and do stuff and be useful. So, when we can’t find or invent something to do, we tend to feel a little useless.

The fact is that there is very little you can do in the days immediately following death. Except for self-recrimination, guilt and a lot of could-haves and should-haves. And that’s okay.

The immensity of dealing with estates, houses, bills and accumulated knick-knacks soon lands like an immense Albatross.

My advice for surviving life after death…

If you love someone, do not make them the executor of your will.

Make the bank, your lawyer or financial advisor do the honours. They’re not emotionally invested or grieving and because of that, infinitely better than you at doing what is a very painful and exhausting task.

Make a list of all your investments, assets, accounts and social media passwords.

You’re going to die at some yet undetermined time, so at least make it easier on those left behind to clear your browser history.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Speak no Evil

Words have power.

Yes they do.

That’s why I need to learn to watch the ones that slip out of my mouth and dance through the universe spreading chaos and havoc.

Some might say horrible coincidence.

Some might say I just made someone die.

Either way I feel a sense of nagging guilt.

Here’s the back story.

My walking buddy was invited to a tea on Saturday that turned out to be an Amway sales pitch. Beaten and cowed she signed some form just to be able to go home, whereupon she was told she had to attend a meeting on Monday night.

Blithely I said, “Don’t worry, just say that someone died and you can’t go.”

Last night I received an SMS just before our walk – “Just to let you know that a friend just had a family member pass away”.

My first reaction?

Are you trying to do an Amway on me to get out of our exercise ritual?

No, someone actually died.

She didn’t have to go to the Amway meeting, but we did have our walk.

I put it out there.

I didn’t mean literally for someone to die. I meant an invisible friend should figuratively pass over.

Now I feel like a psychic murderer.

Worse than that, I’ve started to wonder if I can do it again.

I could be a psychic serial killer.

A psychic psychopath.

Friday Fictioneers – Ancestor

Copyright Randy Mazie

I lie across the road from the living. Our paths cross every day. The children smile and wave as I sit and soak up the sun. I keep an eye on the chickens and goats as they scratch between the stones. I like to see the lights come on in the houses when night falls. It is a good place. A place to be remembered. You see, where I come from we do not mourn our dead, but celebrate them. Once I was a frail, living woman, but now I am an ancestor charged with watching and guiding the ones who came after. 

 

It’s Friday Fictioneers again! Head over to Rochelle’s and give it a try, or just read some of the other entries for some inspiration.