Death Wish

DW and I were talking about death, the other week, as couples do (what... you don't?), and we were remarking at the fact that we haven't updated our wills since our kids were in diapers. Because DW is still working out her father's estate, wills are foremost on her mind.

Back in the late '60s, DW's parents had the forethought to purchase their own plots at a cemetery, on the outskirts of town, and they purchased extra room for their offspring and any partners, as well. As we laid her dad to rest, next to his wife of more than 60 years, I muttered to DW, "I don't want to be buried here."

It was not meant as a slight against her parents: I loved DW's folks, who had been nothing short of kind and loving towards me, as though I was one of their own. My desire to be placed in the ground in a coffin or urn just didn't have its appeal for me. I didn't need to have a marker, with my name printed on it, to be a constant reminder of where my remains had been stashed. And I didn't want to have a funeral home's hand in my pockets.

DW told me that we'd discuss this matter later, and when we did, I was just as adamant. "I don't want to be buried in that cemetery," I repeated.

"Well, I'm keeping some of your ashes and I'm having them mixed with mine, and at least a bit of you will be with me when my time comes and I'm placed next to my mom and dad."

For years, I've been wondering how I wanted my remains handled. (I know, I'm such a joyful person.) Seriously, in this time when we consider the environment and the sort of world that we want to leave for our children, I think it's time that we give serious thought to how we go out, responsibly.

At times, I've joked, "throw me in a bog and let nature take its course," or, "just put me in the green bin and roll me to the curb on collection day." But now, I'm wondering if that's not such a bad idea (the first one, not the green bin).

I really don't want to give a funeral home any money. I don't need a fancy coffin or an urn. I certainly don't want to be embalmed—one more cocktail for the road?

I don't want any visitations or services. DW understands that when my time comes, I want her to reserve space at whatever bar I would tend to frequent (or perhaps one of my favourite Ottawa breweries?), invite all of my close friends and family, and have a party.

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And what do we do about my body? Well, I've heard that there are some places where you can have a truly green resting place, though I expect you don't rest for very long. Some parcels of land have been allotted for burial grounds where you aren't placed in anything, save maybe a biodegradable sack. Here, you truly let nature take its course.

That's what I want.

DW can quietly bury me in a wooded area. If the kids want to be with her, I'd like that, too. No fuss: no muss. No head stone, no indication that I'm there at all.

The other week, when DW and I talked about our need to update our wills and about our final wishes, I reminded her that I strongly object to being placed in a cemetery.

"Some of your ashes are coming with me."

"I'm not being cremated. I want a green burial." We talked about the area in Prince Edward County: lovely countryside; good breweries and tasty wineries. "Please put me there," I requested.

"Okay, but I'm hacking off a finger. Part of you is coming with me."

"Fair enough," I said, adding, "if you're going to take a part of me, take my schlong. I like the thought of it being forever with you." We laughed, though DW also whispered "Jesus" under her breath.

"But wait," I reconsidered, "what if there really is an afterlife, in which all your desires are fulfilled. I just might still need that."

"You're likely going to Hell," DW said, "where, for torture, you'll be offered such carnal desires but would be without your 'schlong,' like a Ken doll. I might as well keep it." More laughter.

Problem solved.