To get the group more comfortable
with the idea of helping someone else live joyfully
in spite of a terminal illness or die with grace
and dignity, we were asked to explore the feelings
and fears we had about our own death. To that end,
we were assigned to write our own obituary. It could
be as fanciful or as real as we liked. Some people
in the group chose the exact day of their death
and gave the statistics of their lives: birth and
death dates, names of surviving family, that sort
of thing. Call it silly superstition, but I didn't
want to tempt fate by naming the date, what with
manifest destiny and all. I did, however, pick a
season. I was comfortable with that. Too, I knew
I wanted my obituary to allow the essence of my
life to shine through, not simply list my degrees
or career accomplishments.
I also liked the idea of knowing that the end was
near, so I could really appreciate every moment,
live it, as they say, to the fullest. I'm a realist
in many ways, so I imagined that if I knew the end
were coming, perhaps I'd be at home recovering from
a lengthy treatment for one of the Big Three that
run in my family: cancer, diabetes and heart disease.
I imagined that the doctors would've sent me home
to be comfortable until it was time. Much like we
enjoy talking about how we'd spend our millions
if we won the lottery, I daydreamed about how I
would use those last precious hours. Since I've
written in a journal since my Big Chief tablet days,
I figured that writing a journal entry was a fitting
way to imagine my last day.
When I finished, I went back to read aloud what
I had written. After all, the second part of the
exercise was to read it to everyone at the next
training session. As I read I realized, to my surprise,
how much food figured in to my last day. I suppose
it shouldn't have come as such a shock. Food is,
after all, a celebration of the senses, a soulful
ritual of our lives. Food can bring memories bubbling
to the surface. Its textures and aromas can transport
us through time. For example, it's impossible for
me to make a batch of oatmeal cookies and not think
of my grandmother as I unabashedly gobble a big
spoonful of dough. Or to pull out a sheet of aluminum
foil and not think of my mother's Tollhouse cookies
neatly lined up on a sheet glistening in the light
of the oven's hood in the kitchen of my childhood
home. (Cookies, they're big with the women in my
family. Generations of us linked together by thick,
chewy discs of oats or chocolate. )
This obituary exercise introduced me to myself and
to the woman I long to become: A woman who savors
every trial and every triumph, every perfectly poached
egg and every fallen soufflé. A woman who
eats life up and gets drunk on love. Writing the
obituary sparked the beginning of a new journey.
I in fact got the promotion at my job only to discover
that the work didn't feed me. And after a year of
soul starvation I made the leap. I quit my job and
moved to a new town to go to culinary school, where
I would learn to feed others. I'm graduating now,
and even though my poached eggs always come out
scraggly and either a little over- or underdone,
my spirit is well fed and happy. And here is how
the journey began…
The Times
Anytown, USA
On this day, this spring day (because spring is
about new beginnings, and because it's more difficult
to be sad in the spring), a day that has never been
and will never be again, Melissa Wilbanks died,
at just the right time. In lieu of a traditional
obituary, Melissa requested that this journal entry
written the morning of her death be published.
Dear Journal,
This is it. Today's the day. I feel it, that deep
knowing that it's time to go. I think I'll begin
the day cooking for the family. I'll bake cinnamon
rolls and make omelets with vegetables and herbs
from the garden, and fry up salty slices of bacon
because it was my mother's favorite, and she is
on my mind today. I think we should eat outside
to feel the breeze and smell the jasmine, and I'll
use the fine china. I'll invite the whole family
along. And we'll laugh and eat to bursting, and
I'll pull the children to me and smell their sweet
heads.
There'll be no need for deathbed letters, for I've
tried every day to let the people I love know how
much they mean to me. A lesson I learned as a teenager
from my father's untimely death. Perhaps I'll order
them flowers to be delivered next week after I'm
gone-a reminder to taste and smell and touch and
see and listen to life while they can because it
wilts and withers away much too quickly.
After breakfast, I'll ask my husband to watch our
wedding video with me, and he'll indulge me because
he's such a romantic. We'll laugh about how many
photos I let him pose for with white chocolate icing
(his favorite) caked in the corner of his smile.
And when the golden sun beams through the bedroom
window and makes pretty squares of light on the
covers, we will make love. Yes, in the middle of
the day because he always told me how much he loves
to see my body in the full light of afternoon, which
made me feel so adored because I knew that all of
my flaws showed so clearly then.
As he naps, I'll dig in the garden and smell the
earth and brick it in my hands like the mud pies
I made as a girl at Grandma's. The roses need trimming
and the mint is becoming a nuisance. I'll fill a
paper sack with lemons from the tree and leave it
for the neighbor with my recipe for lemon squares.
And as I pick, I'll turn my face to the sun and
let it soak me to the bone. I'll relax a bit in
the creaky lawn chair with the cat, heavy and warm,
purring in my lap.
The rest I think should be a surprise-the mail that
will come, the friends that might call, the mishaps,
the quiet moments when he kisses the back of my
neck as I wash my cup from afternoon tea.
I'd like to be cremated and my ashes buried under
a tree in the park, where I've sat so often, thinking,
thinking, thinking. Yes, under my thinking tree.
And for the service someone should make Mom's recipe
for chocolate cinnamon cake-no nuts this time and
with dark chocolate icing. Coconut ice cream with
whole coconut cream would go perfectly with it.
And then I'd like to know that everyone celebrated
the fact that no matter how short or long, I lived
a full and happy life during which I loved deeply
and was deeply loved. The only thing that matters
in the end anyway.
