FEAR No. 051 – Tomorrow

A few weeks ago, when the family was on the verge of ending their respective Christmas breaks, and the prospect of school and work loomed on the horizon, we decided to take a trip to the local movie theater and take in a flick of the kids’ choosing. This meant Mooter was in charge of the movie-picking because Booger could care less. Unfortunately, this also meant we’d have to see something where singing and dancing were involved. Those are BFam’s absolute FAVES! We’re always telling him to hush up, him with the Broadway and the Fosse and the jazz hands.

No, not really.


After we gave him his Diazepam, we headed out for a rousing hour-and-a-half of Alvin & The Chipmunks: The Squeakquel. While BFam and I were lost in our thoughts of nothing killing us quicker than this, we walked into an aunt and cousins of his. Ironic we thought of death around this time because it was during this run-in she informed us a relative was in hospice and didn’t have much time.

Nerds.

Two days later, we received a text with the address of the funeral home where the memorial arrangements had been made. The weekend of the would-be anniversary of our first date (yes, we are that pathetic), and subsequent thirteen years together, were spent mourning. I’m sure we could have thought of much better ways to spend a momentous occasion. But, as we were finding, life and death don’t work that way.

I hate funerals. Obviously, I don’t know anyone crazy about them, but I’m a special person who hinders on morbidity. Inviting death over for a chat, possibly an interview, is nothing new for me. While everyone is crying and mourning, speaking words of remembrance, I’m reading the obituary and thinking of how I would want to be remembered when my time comes. What I’d want people to say about me. I don’t have many friends. I don’t know many people. Who would come? Who would carry my lifeless body to my final dirt nap? BFam is one of my only friends, so I’m tasked with burdening him with these questions. Poor BFam. He just shakes his head and pats my hand like an old man pats his senile wife who yells at the potted plants thinking they’re the cat.

Not many people like talking about death. Judging by the lack of wills most families have prepared (including my own), not many like thinking about their mortality either. “I’ll do it tomorrow,” they say. The relative that passed was hit with a terminal illness, and it wiped her out in a matter of months. MONTHS. She was fine one minute, gone the next.

Part of my FEAR list hit on worrying about how I’m living instead of how I’ll die. Obituaries are a good way of summarizing the life of a person and, so far, mine is blank. I hate to tack on to my morbid outlook, but maybe creating my own obituary will give me some goals and aspirations. I’ve got a life to fill up today. Who can see tomorrow?

Cover Image: Timeless Winter by =Alexandru1988