Death, its aftermath, and its prequel have been much on my mind lately. I've spent the past two weekends helping to dispose of the personal belongings of my paternal uncle, who before he died this past winter at the age of 96 was the oldest in my family. In the middle of it, I had to deal with the significantly worsening dementia of my 92-year-old father. Between the two, my uncle had the better deal: he was quite competent, apart from driving, up until a couple weeks before his death. I suspect that my father having had polio as an infant, in the same epidemic that afflicted FDR, had permanent and comprehensive ill effects. Certainly the gene pool they share, and that my father has passed down to me, can boast longevity. The rest is more variable.
I'm not dwelling on this based on any bad or discouraging news on my part, though I must admit I am concerned about not having heard from some of our MNCC regulars for a while. (Please feel free to pop in and let us know how you are doing, even if you are not well. I for one would like to greet you at least one more time.)
Part of my prompt comes also from the recent passing of a woman from one of my gyno cancer discussion boards. She had a more virulent form of uterine cancer than I, and for the past few months it was increasingly clear that the treatments she was undergoing had no effect. She posted a farewell message about two weeks before she died, which I found remarkable under the circumstances. Her last days, as reported by her husband, seemed peaceful and calm, full of visitors coming to wish her a gentle passage. And her obituary described a busy and productive life.
Hence my rather somber question for tonight: How do you want to be remembered? What steps, if any, have you taken toward that end?
It's a family joke that my epitaph should read, "NOW can we go on vacation?" because my husband is such a workaholic, it's hard to get him ever to break away. That's cute, but it's probably not what I'd like to have as a permanent memento.
On the other hand, I'm not at all sure what I would choose instead. My social and familial roles have been important, fundamental to my life and identity for decades now. My professional accomplishments, not so much--and certainly they're not very tidy or conventional. It wouldn't really be possible to choose only one word to go with wife and mother, for example. And to be honest, my political activism has been too spotty and inconsistent for me to emphasize those accomplishments either.
I think I can come up with a list, if pressed, of music and readings I'd like to have at my memorial service. (A subject for another diary--any takers?) But the task of writing my obituary may well be someone I leave for my survivors. Hard to imagine I'll relinquish control in that regard! I guess I will have to start sometime.
PS: This happens to be my 100th diary. Interesting that this should be the topic, no? I still feel like a rank newbie, but I'm glad to be coming along.
Monday Night Cancer Club is a Daily Kos group focused on dealing with cancer, primarily for cancer survivors and caregivers, though clinicians, researchers, and others with a special interest are also welcome. Volunteer diarists post Monday evenings between 7-8 PM ET on topics related to living with cancer, which is very broadly defined to include physical, spiritual, emotional and cognitive aspects. Mindful of the controversies endemic to cancer prevention and treatment, we ask that both diarists and commenters keep an open mind regarding strategies for surviving cancer, whether based in traditional, Eastern, Western, allopathic or other medical practices. This is a club no one wants to join, in truth, and compassion will help us make it through the challenge together.