What to Do When I'm Gone: A Mother's Wisdom to Her Daughter

by Suzy Hopkins

Obits are more than just a formality. They are one of the few written records of your time here. The collective memory of a person’s existence fades quickly; after a generation or two you’re wiped off the face of the earth.

“She shared her wisdom, love, and light with everyone she met.” Oh, come on. Let’s be honest. Plus I’m pretty sure there’s a traffic cop near my office who would disagree.

If you’re the kind of Rollerblader I was, all you’re thinking is, “I’m gonna fall I’m gonna fall I’m gonna fall!” This is good. You won’t have time to dwell on real or imagined memories, sorrow, or angst. You won’t have time to think, “Oh no, I yelled at my mother the last conversation we ever had.”

That’s OK. You had no way of knowing it was the last time we’d talk. Feel bad, feel sad, roll on.

Death is uncivil; thank-you notes are civil. Expressing gratitude forces you to focus on living people who care about you rather than on the enormity of your loss.

Grief will suddenly send your mind racing back to a face, place, or time, or veering wildly ahead to your sad orphaned future. Your thoughts are just that: thoughts, not reality, and honestly, you can’t always trust them.

Grief isn’t the only byproduct of a death. And death isn’t just subtraction. You’re left with a treasure of memories

that can be triggered by sights, sounds, smells—a record of how my life enriched yours.

I see happiness as contentment with what you’re doing right now. That may be nothing at all, or something ambitious, or something in between. It’s a sense of not wanting to be anywhere else.

You’ll fall and break something. Doctors will have to cut things out of you, then they’ll put fake stuff back in. At some point you may have trouble walking. And sitting. And eating. And hearing. And sleeping. You get the idea.