If you are childless or unmarried you really don't have to worry about it -- whatever happens will happen and you won't know. But surviving spouses and kids change everything.
For example, my husband has become increasingly concerned over this issue, and he wants me clued in on what I might have to do. Suddenly he wants to be buried in the ground in a wooden box, worms and all. He's even taken to visiting a nearby cemetery where he might end up, behavior I find appalling since I consider burial a harsh end to what is basically the magical miracle of life.
What am I saying? That I choose not to slowly disintegrate with worms in me, on me or even near me, although for extra bucks you can get a concrete-lined coffin to keep the critters out. Instead I prefer to be cremated. And unlike when Hitler did it, now you can have your ashes incorporated into a beautiful glass orb which can then be placed in a garden as a snow globe. How artful!
Enter my practical son, who thinks worm-eating sounds better than burning. He worries that future generations, i.e. his kids or his kid's kids (all yet to be born) will eventually consider the glass ball (a.k.a. Grandma) a piece of junk and confine it to a trunk in an attic, or even throw it in the trash.
Admittedly, dying is sometimes a drag, but death shouldn't be. After all, it's bad enough that you're dead, why make it worse? I say light me up and let my spirit soar. How can it if it's stuck in a box six feet underground?
I know this post is not funny at all, and for that I apologize. Death is many things but funny isn't one of them. To compensate I include the cartoon above, which is good enough for a laugh. (Yuck it up while you still can.)
hahaha -- at the cartoon, not the blog. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. So I guess you have to decide if originally, in the primordial ooze, you were ash, or dust. I'm going with dust, but it might just be an aesthetic choice
ReplyDeleteIf it was ooze, you weren’t dust or ash. Nope, you were GOO! Isn’t that pleasant? Like Snot.
DeleteI want to be fried and dumped in my stream, or if I don’t own my little stream, perhaps in a ditch by the road. My daughter can think of me fondly when she drives up the road