When I faced the reality of having open-heart surgery, I was forced to face the fact that I wasn’t going to live forever. Never really having accepted that before, I realized that, as James Taylor put it, “Life is finite.”
And I’m not ready.
I don’t mean emotionally, but I don’t have everything in order. Yes, I have a will, a personal representative and a burial plot, which puts me ahead of many of my friends. But I can’t seem to get the basic information down on paper, such as bank accounts. Or make a plan for my more important belongings.
Is it true that no plan is a plan? I hope not; I don’t want to leave a mess for my cousin from New York.
Should I worry? Do I really have that much?
I hear my friends’ voices saying, “You’re always downsizing, Vicki.”
“How much could you have left?”
“You’re really a minimalist.”
Then I start to think about what my retired attorney told me: that it was the sentimental items that caused the family arguments, not the money. If I don’t make arrangements and put pen to paper, I fear my beloved childhood dolls could go to a thrift shop or my Valentines be put into a yard sale. One time I went to an estate sale and found a family scrapbook. I told the family member who was in charge; he said it was a mistake and took it back.
Seeing framed portraits on sale at Goodwill makes me sad. But if I don’t get all my pictures and photos labeled, maybe mine will be thrown out too. Sometimes the younger generation has no idea who these relatives were.
I won’t go so far as labeling the backs of furniture, waiting for the “rightful heirs” to claim them, as some people do.
When I tell my friends about my fears of not having things ready and ask them about their plans, I hear various responses.
“So what? I won’t know.”
“I don’t care what happens after I’m gone. Let them bring in a dumpster.”
“Let my children take care of it.”
Although my parents had their affairs in order, I still took years painstakingly going through their belongings: donating, giving to colleges and museums, gifting something special to just the right person, therefore making sure my parents would be remembered.
Will anyone take all the time to do that for me?
The Swedish writer who is the proponent of “death cleaning” argues that you need to take charge of your items and “not leave them as a burden for others.” I have seen people overwhelmed by the undertaking of cleaning out a family’s estate, so I agree with her. But yet I stall.
I do have a handwritten list of sentimental items to be distributed. But I keep changing my mind over who would want them. And would these people treasure them? And who would benefit from my collections?
Finally, after much delay, I purchased a fireproof box to store important documents in. Two months later, still in its own box, it sits on my bedroom floor. Either the lack of motivation or the dread of mortality is preventing me from using it.
I know I must plan and organize. What am I waiting for?
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