Before we start digging into the process of building a death book (I know, still need a better name for it), I’d like to walk through how I came to the idea of making one in the first place.
The idea came from my own father, more than anywhere else. Growing up, he would point out on occasion that he wouldn’t always be around. That he, too, was mortal. And that someday I’d be responsible for whatever he left behind. A few years ago, that day finally came. Sooner and more suddenly than either of us expected. But I think that’s how it goes more often than not.
Over the years, he would tell me little things to make note of when the time came. “I keep all my vehicle titles in this briefcase,” or “I’ve got a safe deposit box at this bank, and you’re listed on it.” Things that he thought would be helpful. And every time, I’d just nod and smile, acknowledging that he was doing his best to prepare me for a day neither of us really wanted to think about.
But of course that day came. Because it comes for all of us. And when I arrived at his house, I didn’t remember a single damned thing he’d ever told me over the years about where anything important was. Instead, my head was a hive of bees, trying to process a world without him in it. That’s grief for you.
When I started clearing out his home, I discovered that he’d become a bit of a hoarder in his later years. Not horribly so, but nothing that made the task easier. I had to dig through drawer after drawer of random envelopes, old bills going back decades, file folders organized in a system that made sense to him, but only him. There were 13 rooms in total that I had to go through, and it ended up taking me two months to do it. Partially because of the sheer quantity of it all, but also because every single thing was another little piece of the man I’d never see again. And that makes everything harder.
The entire time I was there, going drawer by drawer and room by room, trying to make sense of a life lived, I kept wishing that he’d left me a road map of some sort. A guide to it all. A will would have been a great start, but that was something he’d never gotten around to. I’m guessing many out there reading this also don’t have one. (Pro tip: write a will! It’s not hard, and it will make things easier for those you leave behind when that time comes.)
When I finished packing up and clearing out 69 years worth of accumulated things, I’d found most everything I was looking for. I had people who helped, and for whom I am forever grateful. But what I never found was that map. Some things came back to me, like when I’d opened a random briefcase in the back of a closet and found a handful of vehicle titles. His words would come back to me, and I’d kick myself for not having remembered. I kept saying I should have written it down when he told me. But then I realized, he should have written it down when he said it.
And that’s when I started my own death book. I know I’ll die someday. But I do not know when that day will come. And I would hate to put my son through that same process. So after I got home from burying my father, I started writing down my own notes. Things that would help those I leave behind. And that eventually evolved into my death book.
Tomorrow I’ll dig into the details more. But I want to leave you with one last suggestion. The holidays are upon us. Families are gathering once again. This is a great time to start talking with people about end-of-life planning. I know, it’s a great way to ruin the mood. But if you do it right, if you just plant the seed of the idea, maybe it’ll take root, and maybe, when the unescapable occurs, it’ll make someone’s early days of grief a little easier. Maybe even your own.