On the Lighter Side

Terri Schiavo, may you rest in peace.

This morning, a dear friend sent out an email instructing her closest pals, myself included, not to resuscitate her. We're even encouraged to call Kevorkian, Dr. Death himself. To quote, "just make sure I’m not hooked up to anything and if I am, one of you guys has to pull the plug, give me a lethal injection or get someone else to do it." She's not even 30 and the DNR is in place (informally).

If Terri Schiavo has left a legacy, it is this: she certainly got everyone talking. About life, about death, about what constitutes life and the quality thereof, about religion and the law, about the power of the Media to frame a story however they see fit. (Personally, I don’t think there is such a thing as The Media, but that’s a whole other blog.) We're finally freely discussing The End, how to plan for the inevitable, be it a surprise or a lengthy and painful process, and how to deal with it.

Folks, if there is a subject in which I am thoroughly conversed, it's death. I do funerals like others do breakfast or Happy Hour or a shit break. My best black is always pressed—2 outfits, one will never do—and ready to go. I grieve like a pro. For a while there in the early to mid 1980's, I was on the Chicago leg of The National Funeral Tour. It was sponsored by my family and Little Company of Mary Hospital. If it died in Illinois, I helped bury it. My childhood was spent at Brady Gill Funeral Home, and this was reflected in the strangest ways. For the longest time, I thought my Uncle Marty came with grey gloves, that he wore those pall bearer gloves all the time. My brother got whacked, too. He wasn't even 12 before he had to carry his first stiff. Lucky jerk. Healthy, normal Americans don't read the obits to find out what they're doing in the coming week. But morbid Irish Catholics do! Though it comes at a price, I won't shit you there, I've also discovered a few "perks" from the wealth of my experience. I am the Miss Manners of Croaking Rituals. Worried about what to say to the bereft? Come talk to me and I'll school you in a rehearsed, yet sincere, "I am so sorry for your loss." Do not forget the follow-up hug. Wrap your arms around the mourner as though yours are the limbs of healing. Literally hold them and their pain. I'm good, right? And I'm not faking it, by any means. It's straight from the heart y'all. I ain't frontin'.

In my family, we bond at funerals by telling racist jokes. Nothing brings estranged bloodlines together like the punch line of, "What did Jesus say to the black people before he died?" Fret not when fearing the awkward silences with Aunt Nancy and the twins. Fire up a Truly Tasteless Joke. Have at least 3 ready to go at all times. And mix it up, too. Don’t always go ethnic. Remember, homophobia is still hysterical. My memorable “how many dykes does it take to ______” zingers are the only reason any of my relatives talk to me at all.

Last but not least, there's booze. It can be found in the "kitchen type room" at most funeral parlors. That's where they also keep the juice and soda for mixing your cocktail, or drinking straight, but who would do that? In this space, you are encouraged to breast feed, snack on your grief with cake and cookies, smack your 5 year-old, meditate on familial violence and ponder the toll alcoholism has taken on your loved ones. If there's no booze there, run as fast as you can to the nearest gin mill and stock up.

Here are some suggestions you might want to chew on while you're obsessing about your death and the impending deaths of those you love:

What do I Wear? Prêt a porter, dammit! This is wicked vital. My grandmother, who had impeccable taste in clothing, got buried for eternity in a Pepto Bismol pink polyester suit, one she wouldn't normally be caught dead wearing. (I deserve to die for that pun.) Don’t let anyone else dress you! There’s no costume change, baby, so write that shit down! If you decide on hot pants and a Pistons jersey or your favorite pair of PJ's, make sure someone knows. Myself? I just wanna go out NOT wearing a bra, and if I could also get cremated in my favorite loafers (no socks), that'd be great.

To Funeral or Not to Funeral? Some peeps want to keep it all somber and dignified, while others prefer to party 'til they puke. We Irish Catholics have the best of both worlds: the wake and funeral mass are totally buttoned-up affairs, but we get to the funeral luncheon and it's an open bar-a-thon. If you're into folklore, this is when you whip out the mini-tape recorder, because you'll not likely to hear a geriatric family member use the words, “wrestled a chicken to the ground and pissed on it” ever again. PS—Little memorial ceremonies held weeks later suck ass. No body = no fun.

Sir, Would You Like Your Casket Open or Closed? Tough call here. I've seen a corpse or two in my lifetime that shoulda been kept under coffin only. Display a picture of the deceased from better days, for Chrissake. Otherwise, good luck eating ever again. But in most cases, I am all about the open coffin. If I do nothing else in this world, please let my lifeless form creep people out for hours on end. Extra points will be awarded to the brave souls who openly touch me. Bonus for the boobs, of course.

Oh Oh Oh, Listen to the Music! Pick it out ahead of time, or they’ll be belting out the old standards, “Amazing Grace” “Eagles Wings,” yuck! And who’s on the mic but the parish organist who can’t sing for shit and whose vowels are the most nasal in the land? Music feeds our souls, thus, gather the tunes you love and share them with your friends and family one last time. Dude, the playlist I have in mind guarantees waterworks 100%. I’m talking hidden death-themed classics like “Paradise City.” Go ahead, try not to cry. I dare you.

ONE MORE THING: BABY, I GOT YOUR MONEY. Divvy fairly now, you cheap ass. But do it in writing! Get ‘yoself a will, and don’t let any of those crazy fuckers fuck with it when you’re on your deathbed all retarded and incapable of rational thought. Money crap will destroy a family, trust me.

Have a real nice day.