I am not a big fan of funerals — never have been. The first I can recall attending, intellectually, was my father’s. I say intellectually because I don’t actually remember the event, I just know chronologically it was the first I had ever attended.
That bit of information fits nicely into the way my brain seems to have organized itself from the age of ten, not coincidentally the year my father died of a massive stroke. Oh, he didn’t die right away… he just lost his identity and capacity to really communicate, and then had a few more strokes and then lost his capacity to breathe unassisted. Funny things, strokes… they indiscriminately wipe out bits of information in your brain — memories, language, and even the autonomic functions like how to control certain muscle groups or even breathing. A person can have one stroke and die on the spot, or they can have a hundred of them and still be sharp and coherent, able to get around with some difficulty.
I say that my brain organized itself because I have very few readily available memories of my childhood, and the hardest to come by are the ones of my father. Somewhere down the line, I managed to shut down, and out most everything before the age of eighteen. Sure, I have a few that I can recall, but it’s only been after many years of searching, or stimulus by something that triggers a flashback.
The popular theory is that I punished myself for something, possibly caused by confused feelings of guilt swarming around my ten-year-old brain that somehow I was responsible for my dad "getting sick" and going away. I was sheltered from the whole ordeal by my family, thinking that seeing him in a near vegetive state would completely destroy my young fragile mind. Well, I guess that going from seeing him walking around to lying in a casket with no between stage to come to grips with the whole thing was so much better. Looking back, the best thing they could have told me was that he died on the spot, allowing me to start the grieving process rather than hold hope that I might get to see him again. Alive.
I can only guess that the guilt stems from the fact that I saw him trip and fall a few days before he had the stroke, and didn’t tell anyone — one of the few memories I don’t have to struggle to recall. Yes, it’s silly… why would I have told anyone about dad having a clumsy moment? It doesn’t make sense, but then again at that moment of emotional trauma, a ten-year-old’s brain isn’t thinking rationally. My mother reassured me at the time that it was unrelated, but I suppose it made no difference.
So, I went into shutdown mode for eight years. The once very diligent student with the high IQ started fumbling in class. I became surly and violent. In high school I hung out with a few unsavory folks because I thought they were the kind of people I deserved to be with.
To this very day, and as a direct result I believe, I have a horrible memory. My short term is nearly non-existent, and I must write everything down and have written or emailed reminders to keep me on track. I have spent the last fourteen years of my life getting a grip on that aggressive, angry and violent side of myself. Having overcorrected in the wrong direction for many years, I think I have swung the pendulum back, and am currently in a near-happy middle ground (not perfect, but good for me).
It took me eight years to get over the anger, and shed the unfounded guilt of my father’s death. It has taken me longer to catch up those years that escaped me. I will spend a lifetime regretting what I have lost, both as a result of nature — my father — and as a result of my own mind — memory and an education unhampered by mental roadblocks, amongst other things.
There are many things in my life that I do not regret as a result of the unconscious path I chose at that young age. I might never have met Lady, the one influence in my life, above all else, that gives me joy and true peace of mind. I might not have developed the budding artistic and creative portion of myself that sprouted at the age of seven. I might not have thrown myself headlong into computers and technology, never to look back.
The one thing that has stuck with me all these long years is my dislike of funerals. As obsessed as I am with special effects makeup, skulls, and horror flicks, you’d think they wouldn’t bother me. I find the funeral as we know it today a barbaric practice — and that’s a misnomer as I believe that the Vikings, considered barbaric by today’s society, handled death properly.
The practice of gathering friends and family together and parading them in front of the lifeless husk of a loved one who has died so they can say "goodbye" to the empty shell is ludicrous. If there is any way that the departed soul can hear your parting words and well-wishes for the next life, they’ll hear it equally as good if you were in a bar with a drink in your hand celebrating their life as they would if you were weeping, having thrown yourself across the casket in abject grief. Why subject people to that?
I have reached a point in my life where I refuse to go and view the body at funerals. I want my final memories to be of them in life, not of them lying in a box, having been flushed out like a fish with Tammy Fae thickness makeup on them to make them look more… well, alive. I’ll make my peace and wish them farewell on my terms.
This may be interpreted as "not dealing with death well", but frankly, I think I’m dealing with it better this way, than lots of folks deal with it the other way. It’s my way, thankyouverymuch. Admittedly, in the case of Lady’s recently departed Aunt Wilma, I didn’t deal with her having the strokes as gracefully as I would have liked, but it hit a little close to home. Her funeral was another thing entirely.
Here’s what I want when my own time comes, and believe you me, I’m going to put this all in my will:
First, I want to be cremated — in the cheapest-ass cardboard casket to be found. Hell, put me in a Kenmore refrigerator box if you can. Toss in a few really good cigars so my ashes can mix with the best (hey, when you go, go in style). I do not believe in planting dead people in the ground, as nothing will grow except grass and weeds. No sense in taking up valuable real estate just so I can rot in it. Transport me home in a jumbo sized coffee can.
Second, cremate me as quickly as possible. That day if you can… long before anyone else has a chance to see me. I don’t want a buffet-like procession of my friends and family paraded by my dead body.
Third, I will have hopefully by this point in time created a mold from the Tiki statues that reside in my back yard. Mix my ashes with some good-grade concrete and pour me in. Let the concrete set-up, de-mold me, and stand me up in the garden, preferably in a place of honor.
Fourth, no funeral. No Wake. No somber gathering, damnit. I want there to be a festive, roaring party in my name. Treat it like a surprise party that the guest of honor hasn’t arrived to yet. I want everyone to show up wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops — it’s gonna’ be a Luau! You are allowed to grieve for five minutes, and then you are thereby ordered to have a good time and get stinking drunk. Laugh, eat, and drink. Celebrate my life, don’t mourn my death as there is nothing that can be done about it, and I don’t want your memories sullied. Tell stories about me, make jokes at my expense. After the party, go home and fuck your brains out… dedicate a boffing to me. No sense in wasting a good buzz.
Fifth, about midway through the party I want everyone to go out the the garden and shout a toast to me and DeJockamo! Wake the fucking neighbors! Raise your glasses high, drink deeply, and pour a small measure of it onto my blocky, concrete head. Afterwards, go in and resume partying.
As the years go on, I imagine my little Tiki self will get handed from person to person, maybe even left to the young couple who buy the house in the years to come. That’s nice. I like that thought.
Sure, it all sounds a bit strange but it seems a fitting way to face the curtain with a bow. And think of the groovy story you’ll have to add you your catalogue of stories to tell about me. Now that’s a form of immortality I can deal with.