1,370 Pounds of Fear

Someday after I die, my sons are going to have to go through my stuff, and I have to admit that I find this thought both amusing and a little terrifying. Not because I'm hiding anything particularly scandalous, or at least nothing they'll be able to prove, but because I know how much stuff I've accumulated over the years that makes perfect sense to me and will make absolutely no sense to them. I can already picture it. One of them will open a drawer, pull out some completely inexplicable object and ask the other, “Do you have any idea why Dad kept this?” The answer will almost certainly be no. Eventually somebody will say, “We probably shouldn't throw it away,” and into a box it will go. That box will be labeled DAD'S STUFF and moved from closet to closet for the next twenty years because apparently one of the things we inherit from the people we love is the inability to throw away their weird crap. That's funny when we're talking about old ticket stubs, charging cables, or whatever other treasures my children someday discover. It becomes considerably less funny when the thing they're trying to find is an insurance policy, a bank account, an important password or the answer to a very simple question: What did Dad want us to do? I've spent enough time around death to know that dying leaves behind more than grief. It leaves behind an astonishing amount of administrative work, and unfortunately the electric company, Netflix and the HOA don't receive some cosmic notification that says, “Marty died Tuesday, please stop sending him bills.” The financial machinery of a person's life keeps humming along until somebody who is very much alive starts shutting it down. That's something we don't talk about much when we talk about “final expenses.” We usually mean the funeral, and certainly that's part of it, but the funeral isn't the only bill that survives us. There is a strange stretch of time between someone's death and the moment their financial life finally comes to rest, and somebody has to live through that stretch. Usually, that somebody is a person who loved us, and they're doing all of this while grieving. They may be planning a funeral while trying to figure out whether the mortgage has been paid, which bills are automatically drafted, how long the electricity needs to stay on and what accounts need to be closed. Someone may have to miss work or travel. There may be a car to sell, subscriptions to cancel or a dog that suddenly needs somewhere to live. I've seen enough grief to know what it can do to an otherwise perfectly capable person. People forget things. They read the same piece of paper three times and still aren't sure what it says. They can make a dozen decisions at the funeral home and then become completely overwhelmed deciding what everybody should eat for dinner. Yet right in the middle of all that, we sometimes leave them a scavenger hunt. Where's the will? Did Mom have insurance? Who's the beneficiary? Where does Dad bank? What's the password? And eventually, “ Why in God's name was he still paying $14.99 a month for this?” The more I think about it, the more I wonder whether planning for our death is less about having everything perfectly arranged and more about simply leaving fewer questions. Most of us aren't going to leave behind a beautifully organized binder with labeled tabs containing everything our family could possibly need. If you have one of those, congratulations. I admire you and also find you slightly suspicious. The rest of us can at least tell someone where the important things are, what we've already arranged and what we want done. And if we have life insurance, perhaps we should make sure the person we've named as beneficiary actually knows the policy exists. That's also why I've started thinking differently about final expense insurance. Yes, it can provide money for a funeral or cremation, but it can also provide something less obvious: a little financial breathing room during that strange period when someone is grieving you while simultaneously trying to wind down the life you left behind. It isn't supposed to turn someone's death into a payday, nor does everybody need a huge policy. It’s simply money that’s there when the person you chose as your beneficiary needs it, without you having to predict which expense is going to arrive first. Maybe “final expense” is actually a misleading name because death doesn't come with one final expense neatly printed at the bottom of a receipt. It comes with bills, responsibilities, decisions and questions, and eventually the people who love us have to sort through all of them. Someday my sons really will go through my stuff. They'll throw some of it away, keep some of it and probably find a few things that make them wonder what exactly was wrong with their father. I hope they laugh. I hope they find things that bring back stories and, for a moment, bring me back into the room with them. But here's what I don't want. I don't want what I leave behind to become something they have to carry. I can't spare them the grief of losing their father someday. There isn't an insurance policy in the world that can do that. But I can leave fewer questions, make a few decisions now instead of leaving those decisions to them and provide some financial breathing room for whatever that day brings. Maybe that's what a loving legacy looks like. We can't make death easy for the people we love, but we can try to make what comes after it a little easier. Because death doesn't cancel autopay. But love can plan ahead.

I went to see the new Spider-Man movie, got myself tangled up in thoughts about webs, connection, and our rather inconvenient need for other people, and decided I had found the Unlikely Altar . I even wrote about it in my last blog, Trust the Web . I figured I was done with Spider-Man . But I guess Spider-Man wasn't done with me. One day as I was driving home from a funeral home, I heard something that made me think about the movie all over again. I was listening to a podcast, The Big Picture, and one of the hosts, Amanda , said something almost in passing. She said the real villain of the Spider-Man movie was loneliness . The other hosts didn't really acknowledge it and the conversation moved on. But I couldn't shake it. The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if she had seen something hiding in plain sight; something that I might have missed. The trailer tells us that Spider-Man is up against " a powerful villain no one can even see. " Maybe that's not just a clue about the movie's mystery. Maybe it's the movie's deepest truth. Because loneliness was everywhere in the story. It was there every time Peter Parker walked past someone who used to know him and didn't get so much as a second glance. It was there when he sat alone in an apartment that used to be full of people. It was there in the quiet, unglamorous fact that the world had simply moved on without him. Nobody made a big deal about it. Because that's not how loneliness usually works. It doesn't announce itself, instead it just keeps piling on. It is that way in this movie and it is that way in real life. The strange thing about loneliness is that there isn't just one way it finds us. Sometimes it finds us when someone dies. Sometimes a marriage ends, or a friendship that once seemed permanent quietly disappears. And sometimes nothing dramatic happens at all. We're just lonely. I mentioned this idea for the blog to a good friend of mine, and his response stopped me. His mother recently lost her husband and now lives with him and his family. She isn't alone. There are people in the house who love her. There are meals and conversations and all the ordinary movement of family life around her. But her world has been getting smaller. Her husband is gone. She can no longer drive. Friends who once called or texted don't seem to anymore. "Mom is experiencing that now," he told me. "Even with us around." And then he said something I haven't been able to forget. "I see it every day." Maybe that's what we misunderstand about loneliness. We sometimes treat it like a math problem. Put enough people in the room and loneliness should disappear. But it doesn't work that way. Sometimes you can be deeply loved and still deeply lonely. What you miss isn't " people " - - you miss a particular person, a particular life. The one who knew how you took your coffee. The familiar voice from the other room. The freedom to get in the car and go somewhere, the job where people knew your name, the routines you never realized were holding your world together until they were gone. Maybe loneliness isn't always an empty room. Sometimes it's the empty spaces left inside a life that is still very much full of people. I've seen that kind of loneliness in my work. I've seen it at funerals where a widow or widower is surrounded by a room full of people who genuinely love them, while knowing that eventually everyone will go home. And so will they. Except they will go home without the one person they desperately wish were going with them. I know something about that kind of loneliness too. Chances are, you have too. Sometimes it lasts an evening and then there are times when it lasts much longer. Sometimes we know exactly why it's there, and sometimes we couldn't explain it if we tried. We can be lonely in an empty house. We can also be lonely at a crowded table. Maybe that's why loneliness makes such a good villain. It doesn't need a mask . It hides in the quiet apartment, the empty side of the bed, the phone call you don't make anymore. Nobody claps when it's defeated because most of the time nobody else even knew it was there. And I don't think Spider-Man ever really beats it. Not for good. But then I'm not sure any of us do. Maybe that's because loneliness isn't always something to be defeated. Sometimes there is no fixing the empty side of the bed. No replacing the person who knew how you took your coffee. No giving someone back the life they had before the world changed. Maybe, for now, the point is simply to notice. Not because noticing leads somewhere, not because it's the first step toward fixing anything. It doesn't solve the math. Counting heads in a room never made anyone less lonely, and neither will counting the people who noticed. Noticing isn't a means to an end here — it's the whole point. That's the Unlikely Altar this time. Not the web itself, but the moment somebody stops and sees the person standing in it, caught, and says so out loud. Amanda, catching it in a sentence almost nobody else heard. My friend, seeing it in his mother every day, in a house full of people who love her. Somebody, once, seeing it in me. Maybe that's how we keep weaving the web. Not by making loneliness disappear. By making sure the lonely don't disappear with it.