The Last Party

When I first caught a glimpse of my dead mother in her casket, I let out an audible gasp.

It wasn't the shock of seeing her lifeless form or the horror of viewing her bloated body that prompted the gasp. It was the shapeless, polyester, leopard-print smock.

It was the type of tasteless, bargain-basement garment that my mother wouldn't have been caught dead in. Who says the grim reaper doesn't have an ironic sense of humor?

After my careful orchestration of our mother's funeral, I couldn't believe that this had happened. But the tasteful ensemble I selected for her no longer fit her puffed-up body; the funeral parlor did a last-minute switcheroo.

I vowed there and then that the same fiasco wouldn't happen at my own funeral. Of course, I'll skirt the whole "What do I wear to my own funeral" issue because I opted years ago for cremation. But I figured that there were other details that I didn't want to leave to chance or guesses made by emotionally distraught loved ones.

Six years ago, I started fantasizing about my own final party: Invitations. Location. Guest list. Music. Food. Mood.

After I received my cancer diagnosis in late January, my plans throttled into high gear. While driving to San Diego for a business meeting in February, I couldn't stop thinking about the details. But I learned pretty quickly that my friends and family did not find this amusing. I viewed my planning as a fun diversion; they saw it as a morbid obsession and cut me off immediately.

When we vacationed with friends in Hawaii in February, I went on a flight of fancy about my funeral plans while we sipped mai tais and watched the sun set over the Pacific Ocean. To my surprise, they not only listened but chimed in with their own plans and jokes. ". . . wants to be cremated and have his ashes scattered across the ocean, but I told him we could save time and money by just flushing them down the toilet." I was having the time of my life while talking about death.

I haven't given death or my final service much thought since then because I've been too busy enjoying life. But yesterday during lunch with two friends, the topic came up. "I like to plan and control everything in advance," my young, healthy friend admitted. "Why shouldn't I plan this too?" "Yes! People don't understand that I'm not being morbid when I do this," I chimed in.

It's just that I don't want to end up with the equivalent of a leopard-print jacket at the end of my life.

QUESTION OF THE DAY: Do any of you think about this? What are the details? What would be your nightmare equivalent of a polyester jacket?