You Only Die Once

Obviously, the title of this essay is a play on YOLO—You Only Live Once. YOLO is like carpe diem for idiots, basically an excuse for people to do dumb shit, like YOLOing GameStop call options. My cats are smarter than the YOLO people.

Dying is one of the most important things we will ever do, and we spend precisely zero time thinking about it. We, as Americans, I mean. Americans are not terribly introspective about death. And then once it happens, we spend a few hundred bucks on cremation and end up in an urn on the piano, or scattered across San Luis Obispo. I do not understand the obsessive focus on cremation these days. As recently as 2010, 54% of people opted for burial, and 40% for cremation. Now, 37% opt for burial, and 57% for cremation. I guess the other six percent go for the woodchipper. Not much need for people to embalm the goner these days. I guess there are financial reasons for cremation, but the economy wasn’t so great in 2010, so who knows.

I don’t want to be cremated. Let me back up a minute—A few years ago, I wrote out a very detailed set of instructions for my wife to follow when I die, and sealed it up in an envelope and put it in her file cabinet. I said that I wanted a full burial, and not just a full burial, but the most expensive casket possible, with Bose speakers in it and a full wet bar. Also, I’m not an organ donor. Yes, I realize I am asshole for not being an organ donor. I am a little squeamish about people harvesting my organs when I die. I’m fully aware that I won’t need them when I’m dead. It’s just a silly superstition. I also said that I want a copy of all my books in the casket with me, along with the cremated remains of all my cats, except for the ones that are still alive, of course.

I want a lot of fucking people to show up for my funeral. A lot. I’m not an anthropologist, so I’m not sure which cultures hire mourners for funerals, but I would totally hire mourners. I’ve been to some big funerals, and I’ve been to some small funerals, and I can tell you that the small funerals are fucking depressing. You have probably heard the saying: “Weddings are optional, funerals are mandatory.” Sage words. I’m not a wedding crasher, I’m a wedding bailer. But I will make every possible effort to show up to a funeral, even if it means flying across the country at great expense. Usually it doesn’t require that—you only have to go a little bit out of your way. I went to a memorial service in Myrtle Beach about two months ago—it was about five miles up the road. What struck me was how the family told me that how awesome it was that I was there. And then I thought about some of my friends who couldn’t be bothered to get off the couch to pay their respects. The funeral is where you find out who your friends are.

Some people say they want their funeral to be a big fucking party. Like, you don’t want people to be sad, you want them to be happy, and celebrate your life. I get where they’re coming from, but I’m pretty sure I want people to be sad at my funeral. Devastated, actually. Of course, that is dependent on the cause of death. Dying suddenly is easy on you, but hard on the survivors. Dying slowly is hard on you, but easier on the survivors. In a previous essay a while back, I said that I really wanted to get cancer, and that’s why. I can shoulder the burden of pain and discomfort—I don’t want to put that on others. There is no worse death than one that is random. You go to Tanger Outlets to get some boxer briefs from the UnderArmour store, and you get strafed by a mass shooter. You die in a fire. Or you just get killed in a plain vanilla car accident, something that kills 35,000 people a year. Nope, I want to get stage 4 cancer of the anus. I mean, things can’t get any worse for my anus than they already are.

You have to think about this stuff, though. Cleaning up the mess after someone dies can be incredibly time-consuming, compounded by grief. If you are the type of person with 14 different bank accounts, 8 different credit cards, 27 different subscriptions, including a monthly payment to AdultFriendFinder, you are going to make a lot of work for your significant other when you pass. That’s one of the good things about cancer—you have a bunch of time to get organized. My mother is the most organized person in the world. I know where she keeps her papers, and I can be done with the process in a day or two. My finances are significantly more complex, but I left instructions for my wife in that sealed envelope. It’s never a good idea to hide money, so you should probably let your wife know about that account in the Caymans. And for the love of God, make sure your spouse knows where the life insurance papers are. I saw a 60 Minutes piece a few years ago about how life insurers don’t really go out of their way to pay claims unless someone bothers to send them a death certificate. I’m a capitalist, but I hate insurance companies. I think that is perfectly acceptable.

But most people don’t think about this stuff. Earth to ding dong—you’re not going to live forever, and not only are you not going to live forever, you might die tomorrow. Here’s one for you—I knew a guy who got into a blowout fight with his wife and then went out for a night ride on a moped and was killed by a drunk driver. The last words his wife ever spoke to him were fuck you, or something to that effect. Talk about guilt. One thing I think about a lot is that anytime I see someone, or talk to them on the phone, it might be the last time we ever speak, which is an argument for treating people with love and tolerance at all times. I had a very good friend commit suicide in 2019, and I did the rewind thing—I thought back to the last time I talked to him and what I said, replaying every word. If you’ve ever lost someone close to you, you do the rewind thing. This is why married couples always say “I love you” when they hang up the phone. It’s boilerplate, but you do it just in case. I would love for the last words I ever spoke to my wife were “I love you.” Right? Right.

To be perfectly honest, I didn’t think about any of this stuff when I was 22. Everyone knows that 22-year-olds are invincible. Live hard, die young, leave a smoking crater—that was my philosophy. Not my philosophy at the moment. Never trust a fart. Never waste a woody. These are the words I now live by. I went to the movies about three weeks ago and the woman behind the counter gave me the senior discount. Do I really look 60? I must. Well, I look pretty good for 60. My uncle James, a brilliant orthopedic surgeon, told me that statistically, people die in their 50s more than in their 60s. If you can make it to 60 without getting heart disease or cancer, you’re in the clear. He ended up getting pancreatic cancer at age 59 (and survived). I turn 50 in March. If I really want to get depressed, I think about the fact that I will be about 60 percent of the way through my life. That’s why I live like there is no tomorrow—and you should, too.