Notes on the end
I heard about this thought experiment the other day- if you die at home, what clues around your home might indicate how you died? Sometimes our bodies don't tell the whole story. I hate to admit to being of an age where these types of thoughts occur far too often. I'm sure we've all thought briefly about how we'd look when we die. Is our hair clean, is my underwear clean? Just today I had a moment of imagined humiliation of having to call 911 because I couldn't get my knee-high wellies off. What started as a minor irritation because I couldn't get them off standing up, turned into terror as I couldn't get them off at all, and I could feel my feet swelling with each new tug. Then, literally on my back, not getting a good grip on a wet and snowy boot, or even being able to bend my leg close enough to grab onto it if I could, I had a truly scary moment. Not a near death experience, but a reminder of the precarious nature of life, the health and wellness we take for granted.
If I had to call 911 and the paramedics came, what would they surmise about me based on my environment. A ridiculous woman who wore the wrong shoes to shovel four feet of snow? The not so nimble woman who couldn't get her own boots off? A woeful woman who had no one else to do it for her?
Or would they see a woman in good enough shape to shovel 4 inches of snow?
A woman who takes care of her car, her home, her things.
A woman who gets up and gets out and gets the job done.
A woman still in her exercise clothes, a woman who takes care of health.
And what if I slipped and broke my head open, and this was a fatal 911 visit?
The scene would tell the same tale but with one difference-
Someone would dig further as they sorted through my things, trying to clean my home up and away.
And that someone would read my love for my family in all the pictures I have displayed of their faces.
They'd know how much I love God by reading my journals.
They 'd know I love California by my wall of travel, all photographs I took myself.
They 'd know I love the color green and plants because my home is covered in both.
They'd know I took care of myself by the food in my fridge and cabinets, and the dumbbells in my guest room.
They'd know I love to read, and the books I love, by my full bookshelves.
They'd know I love my cat with her beds and her food and shiny coat.
They know how much my Dad meant to me by his pictures and his name on my business cards.
They would know I am a Jeep lover and obsessed with the ocean.
They’d read about the work I’ve done in all the saved cards and newspaper clippings and momentos of a well-loved career of service.
My home would tell the tale of who I was and how I lived and who I loved.
I am prepared. I might not be in control of how or when the end comes, or how embarrassing it might be. I might not have decided to wash my hair that day, or made good choices about my under garments, but my home will not be a crime scene. It will be a love story.