Just in Case I Die

It’s funny how traveling abroad forces you to get in touch with your mortality.

When I was a kid, I wasn’t afraid to die. In fact, I vividly remember praying that God would let me die before I turned twelve years-old. I was probably nine at the time, but for some reason, I believed that the age of accountability was one’s last year as a pre-teen. When I grew up, I thought that was a very strange conversation to have with God, but it turns out I wasn’t the only kid threatened with fire and brimstone and the eternal gnashing of teeth. A friend of mine said she once prayed that God would turn her into a rock. In all reality, my prayer was much less ridiculous.

As a young adult, death really never crossed my mind. In fact, to this day, I am really unsure how I survived my early twenties. I did some very dumb things. I experimented with drugs, drank excessively, and worked in shady places with shady people doing even shadier things than me. No, not United. That job saved me, but that’s another entry.

I really didn’t think of death again until my grandmother began to die. And my grandfather did die. My grandfather was a healthy man. He collapsed on the golf course, and died a few months later from a brain tumor. My grandmother suffocated for five years at the mercy of emphysema and COPD. She swore until the day she died it was only an allergy. The order of their deaths made no sense to me. I don’t mean that cruelly. I loved them equally. But I began to wonder when it would be my time.

Now, I didn’t really obsess over my own death. I don’t even think I really cared yet about dying. I hiked and camped alone, this time minus the chemicals that made hiking much groovier when I was in my late teens and early twenties. Yes, I used the word groovy. I subjected myself to many newsworthy possibilities, but I was never afraid of the finality of my life. In fact, the likelihood of being lost on a trail, or having to use the hunting knife under my sleeping bag excited me.

Recently, however, I began to fear death. As soon as I learned I was traveling to Vietnam without my family, I started preparing to die. And while that may seem morbid to most, especially my husband, I have suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to organize. I have likened my actions to the nesting phase of a pregnant woman.

Keep in mind I am not entering a country burdened by a current war or high crime rate. Vietnam, in fact, has a lower crime rate than the United States. But for some reason beyond my comprehension, I feel it is prudent that in the event of my untimely death, my family knows where important things are. Like the glue gun. And the Neosporin. In just two weeks, I have organized every single drawer in the house: bathroom drawers, dresser drawers, night stand drawers, refrigerator and freezer drawers, and craft bin drawers. I have organized the pantry, the garage, the closets, and the filing cabinets.

I have ensured that my husband donates my clothes, my bike, and my organs. He must keep Karleigh in a car seat until she weighs eighty pounds. No exceptions. I don’t care if she’s in Middle School. There are things far more embarrassing. He is to never allow Hudson to play football. Ever. Boys have enough mental issues without the help of extra injuries caused from repeated concussions. Berkley must never take dance lessons again. The amount of make-up and hairspray used at a dance recital is, I’m sure, deadlier than Napalm. Aaliyah is to never jump on another trampoline. Ever. Straddle jumps are for cheerleaders, not softball players. I sort of verbally plagiarized that from Coach Weese. I did change basketball to softball, though. Moriah has to choose a major and stick with it. Soon. She will be consistently reminded of the four-year plan. And finally, I have instructed Kevin to never remarry the Rebecca DeMornay hand that rocks the cradle type. My children deserve a mom more like June Cleaver. Or Peg Bundy.

On a serious note, sort of, I am looking forward to my trip to Vietnam. I just have control issues, and being in (on?) an airplane for twenty-two hours somewhat lessens my ability to make my own decisions. I cannot control crazy fundamentalist passengers, deep vein thrombosis, drunken pilots, or engine failure, and that is very unsettling to me. Realistically, though, the odds of my fears are very low, unless you count that episode of “The Twilight Zone” where William Shatner sees a gremlin on the airplane wing. That could totally happen.