Death and Dying; Laughing and Crying
The recent death of my roommate Anthony's mom, Barbara, has got me thinking of my own impending, though hopefully distant, death. I've learned two things from this and other funerals I've attended:
1) Funerals suck.
2) Grieving sucks.
When I die, please, no tears. If the Christians, Moslems, Hindus, Buddhists, Pagans and other religionists have it right, I'll either be with my God, a god, a reasonable facsimile thereof, or be condemed for my "sins" (whatever that means) by the same; OR, if the atheists are right, I'll simply be snuffed out like a candle, and all my hopes, dreams and accomplishments will disappear. Either way, I'll be someplace where your grief won't do me the slightest good. So no tears! Let my funeral be a celebration of life, not death. Remember the good times, the happy times; the memories that make you smile, the kindnesses I showed you, the love I felt for you all.
Let there be food and drink in copious amounts; family and friends and warm laughter; music (Southern Rock, Classic Rock, the more recent Alternative Rock), dancing and merriment all day and into the night. Let there be grilling and swilling, cheering and beering, cruising and boozing (but not in cars! I won't be that anxious for company!), joking and smoking, and general riotousness; but no tears, or so help me god I'll come back long enough to slap the taste out of the mouths of each and every one of you!
I'd like to be cremated in the way of the Vikings, only without the sacrifices of dogs, horses, slaves and concubines, please. Light my pyre and send my ship off to sail with my body, anointed with fragrant oils and wrapped in linen, dressed in my best armor and with sword and axe by my side, into the sunset alone. Make sure that the pyre is constructed in such a way that the fire burns me away completely before the ship sinks. I'm a big guy; it may take some time, so set it up to make sure of it. I won't mind if it takes a little longer.
Prayers may be made, calmly and without sorrow, to the god of your choice; libations, consisting of Irish Car Bombs (1/2 pint of Guinness with 1/2 oz Bailey's and 1/2 oz Jameson's dropped into it via shot glass), may be lifted in toast or poured out onto the ground in my memory. Let my memory be celebrated, or let me be forgotten; only do not let me be grieved over.
1) Funerals suck.
2) Grieving sucks.
When I die, please, no tears. If the Christians, Moslems, Hindus, Buddhists, Pagans and other religionists have it right, I'll either be with my God, a god, a reasonable facsimile thereof, or be condemed for my "sins" (whatever that means) by the same; OR, if the atheists are right, I'll simply be snuffed out like a candle, and all my hopes, dreams and accomplishments will disappear. Either way, I'll be someplace where your grief won't do me the slightest good. So no tears! Let my funeral be a celebration of life, not death. Remember the good times, the happy times; the memories that make you smile, the kindnesses I showed you, the love I felt for you all.
Let there be food and drink in copious amounts; family and friends and warm laughter; music (Southern Rock, Classic Rock, the more recent Alternative Rock), dancing and merriment all day and into the night. Let there be grilling and swilling, cheering and beering, cruising and boozing (but not in cars! I won't be that anxious for company!), joking and smoking, and general riotousness; but no tears, or so help me god I'll come back long enough to slap the taste out of the mouths of each and every one of you!
I'd like to be cremated in the way of the Vikings, only without the sacrifices of dogs, horses, slaves and concubines, please. Light my pyre and send my ship off to sail with my body, anointed with fragrant oils and wrapped in linen, dressed in my best armor and with sword and axe by my side, into the sunset alone. Make sure that the pyre is constructed in such a way that the fire burns me away completely before the ship sinks. I'm a big guy; it may take some time, so set it up to make sure of it. I won't mind if it takes a little longer.
Prayers may be made, calmly and without sorrow, to the god of your choice; libations, consisting of Irish Car Bombs (1/2 pint of Guinness with 1/2 oz Bailey's and 1/2 oz Jameson's dropped into it via shot glass), may be lifted in toast or poured out onto the ground in my memory. Let my memory be celebrated, or let me be forgotten; only do not let me be grieved over.