Terminally Lucid

Last words of Sir William Wallace (AKA Mel Gibson) in Braveheart. Don't tell ME his hairdresser wasn't on duty!

I have been with several family members and friends during their last days of life (a sad but not un-typical experience when you get to be my age). I’ve held their hands, shared memories, and prayed. I have NOT sung to them, because I didn’t want them to think they were in Hell. The common denominator? These dying folks were really quiet. Most of them were sleeping; all of them had stopped eating and drinking. No famous last words, no disoriented jumping out of bed. Theirs were relatively peaceful final hours. 

I’m glad for them, though part of me wishes they’d risen (!) to the occasion, and suddenly shared a deep, dark family secret, or their recipe for a perfect piecrust. But no such luck. 

 

Control freak that I am, I’m planning my far-in-the-future, super-dramatic exit from this mortal coil in advance. Just have to remember to write down this plan, because I don’t want to blank out last minute and drift silently away. I want my grieving deathbed witnesses to get their money’s worth!

 

It goes without saying that I will be dolled up to the nines—complete with a flowery bed jacket (does Temu sell these?) My dentures will be floating in a festive glass of champagne. My deathly pallor will be disguised by cosmetics. I prefer     Maybelline “Great Lash” mascara (no unsightly smearing should I begin to gently weep), and for my lips, I’d go for a shade of red that is kinda purply, but not too purple. Maroon? Plum? Hmmm. Will need to give this more thought. If I am still coloring my hair at that point, I will request that my hairdresser Sue join the mourners, and give my roots a quick touch up. To quote the very handsome, very deceased actor James Dean, “Live fast, die young and leave a beautiful corpse.”  Too late for the first two, but hopefully I can still attain the last!

 

I understand that overwhelming grief may cause my stricken visitors to forget my farewell utterances, so I highly recommend recording them; iPhone’s “voice memos” app makes this easy-peasy! These tapes can be used later, at my funeral, to induce even more tears and rending of garments.

 

My last meal? How about foraged morels, goose barnacles, and fugu? My friends tasked with collecting these rare items will feel more invested in the tragic beauty of my demise. Btw, fugu is a puffer fish that is deadly if poorly prepared (the liver, eyes and ovaries are extremely poisonous). I’ve always wanted to taste it, and since I’m dying anyway, why not?

 

I’ve read about “terminal lucidity,” a strange phenomenon where a person who has dementia suddenly snaps to at the very end, and starts reciting the Bhagavad Gita, or warbling hymns from their childhood. How perfectly cinematic! Even if I retain my memory, I think I’ll still treat my final earthly companions to an angelic “Pie Jesu” anyway, sung in my pure soprano.

 

Note to self: begin voice lessons, pronto.

Scratch the bedjacket. I want to wear THIS to meet my Maker.