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.