Across the Pacific
As I was flying across the Pacific--the boundless ocean below and vast, bubbly clouds all around-- I felt connected to my own mortality. How is it this metal machine can stay aloft in turbulent air? Why do some planes mysteriously crash or disappear while the majority of them make it safely to port? My life could end in a split second of miscalculation or freak weather or insanity (not mine, but someone else's)-- I'm not afraid of dying. I'm just not ready. As hard as being human is right now, I know there are hundreds of reasons to stay. This is the dance. To live fully knowing that this moment or the next could be our last.
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On the plane, I was reading "The Sacred Wound: Healing From the Death of a Child" by Lois Gold. It's an unassuming book by a Portland therapist who lost her 16-year-old daughter in a plane crash. I saw myself on the pages, resonated with her journey, and found myself nodding my head as I read. Yes! Yes! and thank you, thank you for forging a path. "Each act of surviving a tragedy is an odyssey terrifying and inspiring."
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I looked out the window as I considered her words and had Hunter in my heart, and there, right beneath the wing, was a rainbow heart illuminated for a moment in the sky. I smiled. I'm getting it, honey. Thank you. This numinous experience was immediately brought back to earth with the realization that I now have to update my estate plan. My only heir has died. I have new and painful decisions to make. It's more complicated by owning a business-- though gratefully I've found two amazing humans to partner with and so the stress of having a succession plan should I suddenly die or become incapacitated is greatly reduced. But here I am, flying with Amy to Hawaii. If this plane goes down, our estate plan doesn't reflect the new reality of our lives.
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Being a responsible adult is a pain in the ass-- AND I have seen, up close, the devastating impact of people that chose to ignore estate planning, leaving their children, spouses, siblings, and parents to mop up the mess. I will not do that even though it hurts like hell to have to remove Hunter's name from being my beneficiary. Just saying that brought the tears along with an immense lump in my throat. I have life insurance for his benefit. I wanted him to get the house once we are both gone. Who will care about personal items that should remain in our family? My lineage has ended, at least from a bloodline perspective. Wow.
I remind myself what I tell my clients-- plan as though you just died the night before. What would you want? Money and assets do not have to stay within families-- think about friends, charities, and organizations that have meaning. Consider what matters most to you and how your resources can continue your legacy. Who has had a deep impact on your life? You can gift them and acknowledge them upon your death.
In my career as a financial planner and therapist, THE hardest thing to get people to do is to complete their estate planning-- it brings us to the most primal and challenging questions. You have to face your own death. You have to admit that it's possible you could lose cognitive ability such that someone else would need to make decisions for you. You have to grow up and be mature enough to not want to burden your loved ones. This is the ultimate act of love. And as with many acts of love, there is sacrifice involved, just as there is when we spend hours driving our kids or spouses or parents to medical appointments or take care of an ailing loved one. We put ourselves aside with the thought, "what would I want if I were this child who finally found their passion, this parent who is feeling so fragile, this beloved spouse going through chemo?"
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If I've learned anything in the past five months it's that love is a VERB (thanks, Patti Digh)-- sure, it's a feeling in my heart, but that's not enough. How am I willing to demonstrate my love even when inconvenient, or uncomfortable? It's equally important to show myself this level of love-- to set boundaries, to take deep care of myself, and to honor what I need. Putting love into action without adequate emotional reserves is harmful. I may not be able to give or listen or spend time with people as I have in the past... but rather than completely withdrawing I have to notice what I do have to give. It could be a word or a photo or a short email of thanks. That will have to suffice, for now, because more would bankrupt me of the emotional assets that I need to heal. Baby steps. I'm taking baby steps.
