Chronicle of a Death Prepaid

We were sitting outside on my mom’s tiny patio, when my aunt called.

“Mary Pat’s here,” Mom said to her. “We’re doing death stuff.”

A pause while my aunt probably laughed. My mom chuckled too. “Yeah, we got past the cremation,” she said. “Talking about the will now.”

Mom and I had done quite a bit of death stuff, actually, and we were taking a break. Between us, on the teetery table, was an Entenmann’s All-Butter Loaf Cake. Many years ago, I’m pretty sure they called it a Pound Cake. At 11.5 ounces in today’s cake terms, I guess it’s a loaf.

Mom is obsessed with her death. The other day, when I got her on the phone — we play endless games of phone tag that no one seems to win — I said, “Mom, I know more about your death than I do about your life!”

It was one of those didn’t-know-it-till-I-said-it moments. She doesn’t really want us around. (Which could mean she does. But at a certain point, you have to take rejection at face value.) But the result is that my brother and I don’t see her that often.

But after Dad died, things began to change. A little. Mom had a minor heart attack last summer, at which point, for various reasons, we all stopped speaking to her. Or she stopped speaking to us.

Who knows?

***

Then, after a few months, there was a general acknowledgment — without words, which is how my family works — that Mom would likely be the next to go. So we all started speaking again, kind of with the aim of making sure her death wouldn’t take too much of a toll on any one of us.

That’s not a statement of self-interest, or not solely self-interest. It’s been a point of pride with my mom — as it was with my dad — to engineer a death that’s like a well-oiled train, pulling out of the station.

Which, if you think about the chaos we endured as kids (and I do), is so funny it’s sad, or so sad it’s funny.

In fact, I had the thought today: It’s all fiction. All of it. None of this makes sense. We’re making it all up. Right? Brighter minds than mine have noted this, I just can’t recall the bumper stickers.

Like: Before we went outside to the patio for a bite of the All-Butter Loaf Cake, Mom handed me a thick folder from the funeral home, detailing the amount she had prepaid for her cremation, and the terms of that agreement. Yes.

She had alerted me that she was prepaying for the funeral, so I sort of knew? Still. Sitting there, staring at the forms and the various checked boxes and the copy of her payment… A random question zapped to mind. If you can prepay your death, conversely you must be able to take out an installment plan, no?

I let that go. I was more concerned about a detail I didn’t see anywhere in the Ts and Cs, which appeared to cover the cremation in full, but …

How to put it?

“So…Mom…it’s just not clear whether ...” I paused.

“Spit it out,” she said.

I groped for a phrase that would capture the idea that eluded capturing.

“Well,” I said, lowering my voice, “It’s not clear whether the contract covers pick up and drop off.”

“Oh!” She looked relieved. “Yes, I’m pretty sure I asked about that.”

Like I said: Every angle!

***

In the previous installment of my mom’s death plans, I described how nerve-shredding it was for me (and my brother, though he’s a bit more patient) to get her to answer even basic questions. Like: the password to her laptop. Or: Did she ever officially give my brother power of attorney?

(No, she hadn’t. And in case this is useful to you — although I’ve vowed to never again dispense useless advice about people and money — it turns out that remembering you’ve given someone power of attorney doesn’t mean you have actually done so.)

So, this time I tried to reduce any delusions expectations I might have had for a pleasant afternoon. And tried to find me my silver lining.

Imagine if Mom had NOT wanted to make up for the mistakes of the past by leaving us the gift of a well-organized death?

What if dying made her so anxious that we never knew any of her thoughts on the matter?

What if, at the time of her death, we were left with a mess of unopened bank statements and the steely grip of probate?

Maybe this process was a little bizarre and uncomfortable. But it could be worse.

***

In a story I wrote recently for Next Avenue, about what couples need to know about survivor benefits — a beach read if there ever was one — the financial expert I interviewed made a fantastic point. So, even if I’m out of the advice business, take it from Mari Adam, a legit financial advisor in Boca Raton.

Do a run-through, she advised, while everyone is still alive and you can ask questions, get answers, and straighten things out.

A financial dress rehearsal for your death.

This won’t appeal to everyone. For many families, the whole dying thing + money is too fraught and emotional. I get it. But running through all the death details is surprisingly useful. I’m learning so much. Like: How does anybody die around here? It’s too complicated.

Also: There are limits to this clear-eyed thing. Mom called me the other day — just a quick call, she said — to ask if my son would like to be the bearer of her ashes. It was a bit much, honestly. And I told her so. Was her departure imminent? Had she booked a flight? What on earth, Ma?!

She just laughed.