You have to give us enterprising Americans credit. We know how to make a buck. So it shouldn’t surprise you that someone has figured out a new way to make a buck on death. There is a company called LifeGem, which specializes in cremating and then creating high quality diamonds from the ashes of a loved one, so you can keep them with you, always. I guess there is a market niche for this kind of service, but I have to admit it escapes me. I’m not sure I would know exactly what to do with the diamond. It is an interesting idea, though.
Family Reunion
If the new technology catches on, it could give rise to a whole new kind of social interaction. We would hear comments like, “I never thought your brother was very smart, but he’s absolutely brilliant, now.” Or, “She was always such a dull woman, but she certainly sparkles, today.” Instead of arguing over who gets our late Aunt Helen’s antique dining set, we can actually argue over who gets Aunt Helen.
A bizarre concept, but death has always been an interesting subject to me. I’m sorry about the buzz-kill subject matter. But I’m kind of fascinated by the fact that I’m not worried about it, except for the possibility of pain. I don’t get real excited about pain. I agree with Woody Allen, who said, “I’m not afraid to die. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” I’m sixty-four, so I probably should be starting to form an opinion about it, but I can’t seem to work up a good case of fear. Maybe I’m too dumb. When I was young, I thought old age was to begin around age 60. Now that I’m 64, I’m pretty sure it begins around age 65. Next year, I am planning to do a formal revision of that policy. It’s kind of like raising the ceiling of the national debt. It’s a procedure that seems to be working well for me.
I don’t mean to make light of people who suffer the pain of worry about their own demise. It’s just that it seems to me it isn’t a thing that merits much thought. I mean what are you going to do about it? I think it makes more sense to worry about life, because a lot more things can go wrong in that arena. The I.R.S. worries me. So do earthquakes, now that I live in California. Hurricanes used to bother me, when I lived in Tennessee. Utah drivers concern me, no matter where I am. But I just don’t seem to be able to work up a good case of worry over my own death. You would think that religious people would be the non-worriers and secular people would be in charge of worrying about death, but it doesn’t seem to work out that way. My father believed in an afterlife and once told me he looked forward to death, in a way, because he was anxious to reunite with his wife. A long time ago, I had a good friend who was a scientist and an avowed atheist. I visited him in the hospital, when both he and I knew he was dying, and he said, “I’m not at all worried about death. Nothingness won’t hurt. I’m fine with that.” Personally, I’m not a particularly religious man, but I’ve never experienced one moment of worry about my own death. I figure it’s out of my hands and it will work out, somehow. One of my favorite philosophers, Voltaire, probably summed it up best on his own deathbed, when he was asked if he would renounce Satan. He responded, “This is no time for making new enemies.” You have to appreciate a guy, who knows how to cover his bases.
I do have some thoughts on the subject, though. I don’t want a funeral. For one thing, there is a strong possibility that nobody would show up, which would be embarrassing. On the other hand, if people did show up, they would all be stuck with an hour of sonorous speeches, outlining all the mundane events and sketchy accomplishments in my life, made by people who are clearly working hard to find ways to make mundane events sound important. A better idea would be a big Bar-B-Que, with lots of great food and drink. Frankly, I honestly think I would prefer to be cremated. Really. Let me explain.
A while ago, I ran into a piece written by someone much smarter than I, who outlined how they would like their death handled. I have decided to steal it, whole cloth, and make it my plan, too. I don’t even know the name of the person who wrote it, but whoever it was has my thanks. It is my philosophy, exactly. Here it is:
“The day will come when my body will be upon a white sheet, neatly tucked under four corners of a mattress, located in a hospital, busily occupied with the living and dying. At a certain moment a doctor will determine that my brain has ceased to function and that, for all intents and purposes, my life has stopped.
When that happens, do not attempt to instill artificial life into my body by the use of a machine. And don’t call this my deathbed. Let it be called the bed of life, and let my body be taken from it to help others lead fuller lives.
Give my sight to the man who has never seen a sunrise, a baby’s face or the love in the eyes of a woman.
Give my heart to a person, whose own heart has caused nothing but endless pain.
Give my blood to the teenager, who was pulled from the wreckage of his car, so that he might live to see his grandchildren play.
Give my kidneys to one who depends on a machine to exist from week to week.
Take my bones, every muscle, every fiber and nerve in my body and find a way to make a crippled child walk.
Explore every corner of my brain. Take my cells, if necessary and let them grow, so that someday a speechless boy will shout at the crack of a bat and a deaf girl will hear the sound of rain against her window.
Burn what is left of me and scatter the ashes to the wind to help the flowers grow.
If you must bury something, let it be my faults, my weaknesses and all prejudice, against my fellow man. Give my soul to God. If, by chance, you wish to remember me, do it with a kind deed or word to someone who needs you. If you do all I have asked, I will live forever.”
NOTE TO LOVED ONES: The above is exactly what I would want. I can’t think of a more fitting exit, than to return the body I lived in, to the “life force” as completely as possible. Putting my body in a box and burying it in the ground seems stingy to me, somehow.
SECONDARY NOTE TO LOVED ONES: If you can’t manage that, how about this? When I die, give LifeGem a call. Create the biggest, brightest diamond you can, hang it on an eighteen-inch gold chain, place it in a gift box and mail it to Dolly Parton, with a note suggesting that she wear it daily. Heaven attained.
In any case, I will never be able to sum up my life more succinctly than Sir Winston Churchill did his. “I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter.”