Please don’t think I’m just plain nuts, but I was so excited and emotional last week when the tombstone I designed and ordered in early 2023 arrived and was set in the cemetery three stones away from my mother’s. Maybe I was happy because I was pleased with the result, sad because it hit me as final, and grateful—my nephew and his family supervised the occasion in my absence and placed a vase of beautiful fresh flowers in front of the stone. He sent pictures, and my floodgates opened.

It’s challenging to think of our final burial place without considering obituaries—I recommend we all write our own. I have written mine, but the setting of the tombstone motivated me to write a new one with a touch of humor. In the process, I realized how different life is perceived depending on who writes it: family, friends, or ourselves. Never before had I thought how varied the stories could be.

I then read a recent obituary, and it was very long and detailed. I write short columns for the Sentinel because I only read long, drawn-out things if they’re books. A friend told me he wanted his obituary to be the size of a want ad. I laughed and said, “That’s too short. I knew someone whose family did not take the time and energy to write an obituary—just published a death notice in the Denver Post. So sad.”

I guess I was in a mood as I wrote a new one:

The Perfect Ending

I died in my sleep in Venus under a beautiful red, orange, and yellow Chihuly chandelier after an exquisite pescatarian dinner with all my kids and grandchildren around the table. I died feeling loved.

In the morning, after the initial shock wore down, laughter took over my family, champagne flowed (as I’d directed for when my time came), and they told stories. I laughed with them. If nothing else, life is funny.

They were thankful I never moved in with them. They agreed I would not go down in history as a good cook, tried not to laugh about my innate lack of balance, gut-roared when somebody mentioned the 4-H rooster, and discussed how I could be so intelligent, naive, and clueless in the same conversation.

They proved I had lived while I lived.

Reality hit, and they had to figure out how to deal with my body and obituary.

I then felt complete and joyful—having my final resting place ready and an obituary they could tweak reduced their stress and anxiety. I also left endless fuel for laughter and the truth that everything living also dies. It’s all good. They know I will never leave them alone.

Until the next time: Live while you live.

Jennifer Goble, Ph.D., LPC, is the author of “My Clients…My Teachers,” and the blogger and writer of Rural Women Stories: www.ruralwomenstories.com.

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