We don’t talk about that!

 

We don’t talk about that!

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I was excited. I had just signed the papers and prepaid for a cremation plan. It is the sensible thing to do. I live in Mexico. I, no doubt, will die in Mexico. Dying in Mexico is a hassle when one’s family and citizenship are elsewhere.

For one thing, the customs are different. If one dies on a Monday, one’s body is washed and dressed for viewing on Tuesday and the funeral and burial are Wednesday. Or even Tuesday.  

I live in a tiny retirement community. Most of the year, there are not more than a couple, or four other gringos here. In the middle of winter, maybe eight or ten. There is no need for a formal good-by production.

By my wishes, my end-of-this-life plans are even simpler. No viewing, no funeral, no casket. The funeral man will pick up my body, whether I did at home or in a hospital anywhere in the area, deliver it to the crematorium and return my ashes in a box.

Okay, just imagine the alternative. No plans. My daughter is my personal representative. She would have to drop everything in her life, make a fast, expensive, unplanned trip here, and, a stranger in a strange land, deal with decisions, decisions, decisions.

And all this cost me a thousand dollars, more or less, by today’s exchange rate. I was excited.

When I get excited I want to share the news. Several years ago, a group of us who’d graduated high school together, started keeping in touch with email. After these many years, we are closely knit, we talk about everything. Everything. I thought we did. Frequently we carry on all-day-long conversations, zinging messages back and forth between our various spots on the planet.

Of course, I wrote to them immediately. I figured this would be good fodder for intimate talks for days. We all share when somebody close to us passes over into the great beyond. (Forgive me waxing poetic.)

I waited. And waited. And waited. I’m still waiting. Not one of my friends responded. Not one. Not even a weak acknowledgment, “That’s nice sweetie. What are you making for lunch?”

The odd thing is that not a week goes by without one of us losing a friend, a relative, or an acquaintance. We talk about it. At length. Always.

Let me reassure you. I don’t plan to die today. But who does? My health is good. Creeping arthritis is a pain. I don’t seem to need any medications.

Just last week, I had a really ugly blood clot in my right eye. Looked like somebody slugged me a good one. Most of the white of my eyeball was brilliant stop-light red. I know what to do. Warm tea bags, right. But with a rare prudence, thought I’d get my eye looked at professionally.

I had Leo, my gardener-transportation-translator, take me to see Dr. Firmin at the Hospital Paris in Etzatlan. While all my vital signs were checked, Leo, sat over in the corner cringing. As each number was read out, he would say, “Your numbers are better than mine.” Each and every one. Leo is thirty-five.

My eyeball was healthy. The violent sneezing fit first thing in the morning probably caused the bloodshot eye. I went home, took my medicine for swelling, squinched in eye drops, and soaked my eye with another tea bag. Couldn’t hurt, right.

While I don’t plan to die today, I still think it sensible to plan for the unplanned, while admitting that is not my usual way, planning. When I first began talking about looking into a cremation plan, my daughter didn’t want to hear about it either. 

She mentioned what I was doing to a woman who works with her, a Hispanic woman. Alicia said, “My Grandma did that and it made it so much easier for the whole family. All the decisions were made and there was no fuss.”

What I don’t understand is why my closest friends went radio silent. Is it that we don’t want to think about the unthinkable? I do tend to blurt out whatever crosses my mind. That is unlikely to change.

Now I’m working on small changes to my last will. It is simple too. I’ve not much to deal with.

I really like the inscription I read about, used on a lot of Roman tombstones. Translated from the Latin, it reads, “I was not. I was. I am not. I don’t care.”

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

September 8, dry as dust, season turned.

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