Death and Dying

Obituaries are sad because a life in summary seems small on paper no matter how great a person might have been alive. Plus, obituaries often include needless information; frequently you will see an obituary that reads something like, "Mrs. Jackson, aged 97, died of liver failure.” Is it necessary to specify the cause of death when a person dies at the age of 97? Unless a 97-year-old dies skateboarding or on board a famous ocean liner that sank, an obituary that reads, “Mrs. Jackson died. She was 97," is plenty.

My friend Alan once was off work for several months due to a workplace injury. After weeks of not working – when the fun of not working wore off -- he began to feel ashamed for drawing workers compensation when he wasn’t hurt badly. He began to wonder how history would treat such a freeloader. He began to think about his obituary.

At first he wrote several versions himself, and sheepishly he showed me one. I asked him exactly when it was that he toured with Cirque de Soleil. He said that he was learning to juggle and planned to audition soon. When I told him that newspapers often check facts before printing articles he got totally angry and grabbed the obituary out of my hand and crumpled it up.

Since he couldn’t come up with an obituary that satisfied him, Alan began to wonder about his funeral. Over a beer one afternoon he asked me whether I would come to his funeral. Even though it was a stupid question I assured him that I would. Alan did not seem satisfied.

The next day, Alan rented an apartment across the street from a busy cemetery. It was his plan to observe as many burials as possible during the month he rented the apartment to give him a good idea of how many people would be a good showing at his own burial. Alan had plenty of time to watch burials since he wasn’t working. He started a journal to keep track of the number of people attending burials, the sorts of caskets used, the amount of flowers.

After only a few days Alan became dissatisfied with watching burials from across the street. He couldn’t hear what was being said about the dead person from that distance. So he got a black suit and put it on every morning and wore it all day so that he’d be prepared to walk across the street and mix into the crowd surrounding the gravesite. Every night for two weeks he’d talk excitedly with me about the lives of the people whose burials he attended. He even showed me how proficient he’d become at crying on command. “Watch this,” he’d say and he’d weep convincingly.

Before the month ended a cemetery worker recognized Alan and confronted him about his constant attendance at burials. Alan told the guy that it was no big deal - he just knew a many people in town, and they all seemed to be dying lately. Because he always speaks loudly, several people attending the burial turned to shush Alan as he defended himself to the cemetery guy. Alan panicked and took off running.

If you’ve ever run through a cemetery you’ll know that it’s not easy to get up to top speed as you navigate the many headstones. It’s like one of those obstacle courses. Well, it wasn’t but a few yards before Alan fell headlong over a smallish monument to someone named Sherman who died in 1967.

Alan jumped right back up from behind the Sherman headstone to discover that everyone at the burial had turned to see the commotion behind them. He said that his first thought was to do the sign of the cross, kiss his thumb and then turn to go with his head bowed, which he did. I guess the cemetery worker was so impressed with Alan’s piety that he just let him walk away.