Growing up, we had paper everywhere in the house. Sometimes it was a spiral notebook, other times it was a stack of scrap paper cut into squares and held together with a rubber band. You could always find them in the same places – in the kitchen next to the phone or on the countertop next to the toaster; in the living room next to her chair; in her purse; on her dresser. Such was life with my mom.
There were notebooks of all shapes and sizes. My mom kept track of everything – the budget, where money was spent, who did what when, birthdays, anniversaries and pregnancy due dates, grocery lists, errand lists, money given to the kids or grandkids, or what she needed to be sure to tell each of us on our weekly update phone call. She was forever jotting something in a notebook, and “the notebook” became a running joke among the kids.
The Most Important Notebook
As my parents got older, mom began keeping two separate notebooks that were held sacred. We all knew where they were at all times. One was to document my dad’s health as it declined – his medications, eating, swallow abilities, doctor appointments, what the doctor said, who she talked with, hospitalizations, why hospitalized, how long he was in, what he was like when he came home, changes to medications, changes to his abilities. You name it, it was in there. Details and dates were her specialty, and went with them to every appointment, pharmacy and hospitalization. That notebook was the roadmap of my dad’s health, and our guide for his care should something happen to mom.
The other contained their end of life wishes. Sure, they had their official paperwork done long before it was needed. But “The Notebook,” (best said in a dramatic voice) as it affectionately became called, a simple 99-cent spiral notebook, became our lifeline when first my dad, then my mom passed away. It contained all the information we needed to have exactly the kind of funeral and send-off they wished. It contained their fully written obituary (excluding date of death, of course, although my mom was pretty strong and I bet if she’d written her date in she would have gotten her way), pall bearer names, songs, readings & gospel, who they wanted to speak (and not speak), which priest they wanted (and didn’t want), who would bring the sacrificial gifts to the altar, what color of flowers they preferred, where the funeral trust was held (and a running tally of its value), which funeral home to call, what they wanted to wear (and don’t forget the underwear & shoes) and who was the keeper of the clothing until it was needed (me), which caskets they had bought, and the liners they had selected (blue to match my dad’s brown eyes – his bad joke; pink for mom because everything else was to be blue to match her beautiful blue eyes), where the lunch was to be held after the funeral, what paperwork and financial accounts needed to be updated right away and in what order, and….which direction each was to be installed at their mausoleum plot, aka “pigeon-hole parking” as dad called it (dad facing sunrise; mom facing sunset).
The Lifeline
When my dad died, the first thing someone said was “grab the notebook.” While our wonderful hospice providers were amazing supports, they too were awestruck at “the notebook.” Through our grief, while supporting my mom, we were able to plan and execute a beautiful tribute to my dad, complete with full military honors. Afterward, mom felt her plan needed two very specific updates. Her lunch to focus on fellowship and family, not a drag-out event. Her lunch was to be held right after mass, and before the mausoleum, the opposite of dad’s. If people want to go see their “drawer,” that’s up to them; let ‘em come. Otherwise they can go home. And, shorten up that visitation. Two hours is enough time to mill around. Mom wrote both notes in the notebook just days after dad’s funeral.
So, my sister became the keeper of the notebook as my mom’s health declined. Six years later, when we said goodbye we turned to her and said “grab the notebook.” When we met at the funeral home to plan her tribute, notebook in hand, the director was surprised how quickly our meeting went – 30 minutes on the outside, and that was only because we couldn’t decide on one or two designs for the prayer cards! Again, because of the notebook my mom had exactly the kind of send-off she’d wished for – we did it her way (which again, if you knew my mom that wouldn’t surprise you!).
When I share this story, people either laugh or think, “why would they care? They won’t be there!” Or they think it’s morbid. Why would someone be “fixated” on their own funeral? But then I tell the rest of the story…when you lose someone who means the world to you, regardless of whether it’s expected at the end of a long illness or through an unexpected tragedy, one of the most difficult things to do is plan a funeral. No matter how you slice it, it’s the absolute final goodbye and something that’s difficult to acknowledge, and there are a million unexpected decisions you must make. You want to give them a beautiful send-off, but in your haze of grief it’s difficult to make even the simplest of decisions, like one prayer card or two.
The Greatest Gift
I view my parent’s notebook as the greatest gift they could have given to us – it was a plan that would carry us through. It was the lifeline we needed at our most difficult moments. It was a source of laughter, and memories of conversations, and many, many jokes told throughout the years. And, it was an outlet for our tears.
So, I have embraced my mom’s wisdom and started my own notebook in the hopes that someday my family will simply have to say, “grab the notebook.” And, you can bet I’ll be specific. None of this “ascending the pearled stairway” or “angels greeted” stuff. I died. Period. Don’t waste my money on a fancy funeral. Throw a party and celebrate a life well-lived. Tell great jokes, share fun stories, drink fine wine, and eat delicious food….I’ll pick up the tab.
