Category: My Story

Writing Our Own Eulogy

A friend died recently. I wasn’t able to attend her memorial service, but her sister sent me the eulogy, given by Sandy’s best friend. Or at least that’s what I assumed, as the eulogy was read by Anne, her life-long friend, and it referred to Sandy in the third person. Only later did I find out that Sandy had written the entire six pages. She had suffered from a terminal disease for decades and had been in Hospice for more than a year, so Sandy knew the end was coming and had plenty of time to craft how she wanted to be remembered. Or at least how she wanted to make a final statement about her life.

In the eulogy she enumerated her accomplishments—both big and small–including art director and teacher; waitress; woodworker; novelist; contractor and builder (she built her own cabin in the mountains). Spiritually, she started out as a Presbyterian, studied Buddhism and was drawn to the Quaker philosophy. There was so much I didn’t know about her, and I wish I had.

She chose one story to tell about herself: Before leaving on vacation, she covered her lilac bushes with netting to keep the deer from eating them. Unfortunately, a bull snake got stuck in the netting, but when Sandy returned she figured out a way to get the snake out without hurting it (and herself). The story showed her sense of humor, bravery and love of animals, but I wondered why she chose that one out of all the stories she could have shared with her family and friends after her death.

And it made me wonder which stories I would tell about myself, if I chose to write my own memorial. Out of everything that’s happened to me, would I choose something humorous that would entertain people, or some life lesson that I want to share with my family and friends? Which accomplishments would I list—learning how to kayak? My interview with a famous photographer? Becoming adept at meditating? Just like writing your memoir, writing your obituary makes you look back at your life—hopefully with pride but also a bit of wisdom.

Maybe one of the pleasures of writing your own obit is controlling the narrative, so you can imagine the looks on friends’ and families’ faces—either fondness, sadness or some combination– rather than not having any idea of how you’ll be portrayed.  It’s better than a random anecdote on one’s online memorial page. I can only imagine the stories someone, such as a neighbor, might post. I’m probably not the first person to talk to the animals in my yard but I rather not have my lasting memory be of the old lady who asked the birds if they wanted more seed or the squirrels how they liked the apple pieces I threw out of the window.

Sandy isn’t the first person I know who crafted their own eulogy. After my former neighbor died, I found his obituary in the local newsletter: “By reading these words, you’ve probably figured out that I’ve left this life and am headed to my next destination.”  Dan wrote about his childhood growing up on the family farm and what it meant to him, his work as a pharmacist, and the last few years of his life doing volunteer work, including at a shelter that cared for the homeless and where he donated his truck. He ended his piece in his characteristically folksy manner:

Well I could go on for a bit more, but, frankly, I’m really tired and ready to get outta here. Time to git ‘er done, if you know what I mean. Much love to all that I cared about and cared for me in return. Y’all have been great. You made my life good to the end.

What’s the best way to take a bow out from the world? Leave them laughing or crying?

One of the last sentences in Sandy’s obit was “If people say upon my death that I was essentially kind, then I’ve lived a good life.”

That seems like not much to ask for. May we all be so modest in our obituaries.

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Technology Is Not My Friend

Sure, the Internet has a lot of benefits, but when you’re as technology-illiterate as I am, a simple email can cause a crisis. I recently got notice that my blogging service (if that’s the right term) was shutting down at the end of the month. I panicked because if I didn’t retrieve my 450 posts, they would be lost forever, and I had no idea how to save them.

Fortunately, I found someone who could help me save those precious posts, but now I’m struggling with setting up a new blog on a new service. It’s like learning a foreign language. The new blog pages are filled with strange symbols and words I don’t recognize. As my memory has deteriorated and as technology has gotten more complex, I’ve started to feel increasingly helpless. It’s not a good feeling.

I know that younger people are completely comfortable with technology. Maybe for that reason, it’s hard to find tech people who can help. Only we older ones need assistance. And when I do find guidance, I find that my language doesn’t match theirs; we’re using different phrases to describe the same thing, so I flounder, use long explanations to match their one word: “that thing where you start out and then after that you go to the next page. . . .”

Of course, I don’t know what I’d do without the Internet. Google has helped me translate my doctor’s medical terminology into something I can understand. When I need to research butterflies’ life cycle or how salamanders in a nearby lake survive in winter, the answer is at my fingertips rather than going through numerous books. What’s the number of annual visitors to Rocky Mountain National Park? Without the Internet, retrieving this information would take many phone calls, trying to find the right person, and many hours.

I’ve tried to keep up with the Internet, but as soon as I learn one new feature, another one comes along. It took me a long time to figure out what emojis signified and then to start using them. One I use frequently is the thumbs up, but I just read that younger people use this sarcastically, so now I’m worried that the thumbs up I recently sent my neighbor in an enthusiastic gesture will be misinterpreted.

I notice the withering look from the young checker at the supermarket when I take too long to figure out how to pay for my groceries. Where do I tap the bird emblem? Does it go up or down? I know I’m not the only older person who struggles with technology. AARP offers computer help, my hometown senior center has classes, and customers at the local Geek Squad are mostly seniors who need help getting their computers working. My cell phone provider, the one aimed at seniors, has customer service staff who talk kindly and slowly without condescension when I call with another stupid question.

Sure, there are seniors who can figure out the Internet with no problem, just like there are people in their 90s who still climb mountains. But I still print out my boarding pass because I’m haven’t yet set up the “wallet” on my cell phone.

Maybe it’s all relative. I think of my mother who, in her 80s, was given an iPad to play with and explore the Internet, maybe send some emails. But she was happy just to play Solitaire on her computer. That’s as high tech as she wanted to get.

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Becoming an Old Woman

For many years, especially after I turned 70, when people asked my age, I would always reply, “But I don’t feel 70 . . .  (71, etc., fill in the blank.) But over the past year, I suddenly started feeling old. Mostly I blame it on losing some physical abilities. The arthritis in my knees has gotten bad enough that I can no longer do the hikes I used to— such as climbing up steep trails to alpine lakes. Since my knee operation last April, I’ve slowly increased the distance I can go, but now I have to be satisfied with walks around the neighborhood rather than mountain hikes. If I try longer hikes, I get winded easily.

Meanwhile, my spinal stenosis is diagnosed as “moderate,” a common condition among older people, and now I’m careful when I lean over to garden or get dishes out of the dishwasher. I’ve crossed over some threshold—the one from moving effortlessly without thinking about my body—jumping on a bike or lifting a heavy load—to being careful. I’ve had to get rid of the image of myself as strong and capable of performing any task that was needed. 

I watch younger people bound up stairs without a thought, while I slowly take each step, planting my foot in the right position so not to feel pain.  “Careful” is my motto, followed by “slow and steady.” For someone who has always loved moving—hiking, swimming, kayaking, snowshoeing–it’s hard to adjust to a slower pace. And I’ve given up skiing altogether.

In an airport recently, arriving late one night, I found myself in a swarm of travelers apparently eager to get home. I tried to keep up with the crowd’s fast pace, but I feared that if I slowed down, I would be mowed over. With the world moving so fast, it scares me to travel now.

Just over the past six months, the arthritis in my hands has gotten worse. Every door handle is a challenge to open. Turning my key in the car ignition is painful, and so is typing–my physical therapist advises using voice-to-text. When I cut vegetables, I use a padded knife and try using my left hand instead, but it’s awkward and I worry about cutting myself. When I open a jar, I have to think first: would this hurt my right or left hand more? How do I avoid the most pain? 

I grow more crooked every day, even though I do exercises to combat that, like laying on the floor and stretching out my arms. I convince myself that I won’t be like my father, who, in his later years, was so bent over that he only saw the floor when he was walking. But then I catch myself in a storefront window and am surprised to see someone who resembles an old woman painfully stooped over.

When I get up in the morning, I slowly unfold my body, find my feet and then push myself up, feeling all the aches and pains that belong to an aging body. I walk to the bathroom holding on to the dresser to steady myself. I don’t bound out of bed anymore.

It’s strange to have to constantly think about how my body works, but on a certain level it’s comforting, because I’m taking care of my body—as lovingly as possible. I no longer move heedlessly or carelessly. When I feel pain in my hands, I massage them with cream or carefully exercise them. When my knees start hurting when I walk, I’ll find a way to shift my weight to lessen the load and pain.

When I look at my hands now, I see my mother’s, thin and gnarled. What arises is a tender memory of her, now gone five years, and tenderness toward my own aging body.

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