This is part one of two essays, as I explore one of my 12 favorite questions about mortality - Where grief is inevitable, how does its value enrich one’s life? Do you have a living trust or will? (Thanks for your curiosity and feel free to contact me.)
Airline safety card. Photo by Calle Macarone on Unsplash
My tears fell on the Southwest Airlines safety infographics as I obliged the flight attendant's perfunctory lecture. On April 17, 2002, my sister-in-law called to tell me my Dad died unexpectedly. A heart attack. My Mom, a retired registered nurse, revived him before the ambulance arrived.
Code blue at the hospital. My brother was with Dad after he died.
March 2002
Easter was at the end of March. I didn't visit my folks for mass this year because I'd fly up later in April. I planned to tell them more about how it was going - my switch from being an independent air quality consultant to a full time employee at an energy consultancy firm. Meanwhile, we still talked regularly, and I’d leave messages longer than the available space on their cassette tape voice recorder.
Dave and I skipped Easter mass to be couch potatoes. We powered through Blockbuster DVDs while stuffing our faces with Banquet pot pies and ACT II microwave buttered popcorn. Dave pointed at the screen during one of the many frontal nudity scenes of his chosen movie Sirens -
Whatd’ya think about Portia de Rossi's boobies?
Smirking and rolling my eyes at him, I sarcastically blurted,
At least I’m not staring at my Dad’s black 3-ring binder, listening to him drone on about its content at every holiday family meal.
Neither of us knew the value Dad's binder would have in seventeen days.
April 2002
I was 38 years old when Dad died. My Catholic high school friend, Dave, drove me to the San Diego airport within a half-hour of my flight’s departure. After ninety minutes of quiet sobbing at my window seat, I deplaned in Oakland.
Puffy eyes. Snot-dripping nose. Grief-stricken.
Twenty minutes later at my parents' home, I was not prepared for the hugs of relatives delaying my bee-line march toward the kitchen. The half-filled rice cooker in the kitchen counter corner was eclipsed by the colorful and seemingly endless platters of Filipino food - chicken adobo, pancit bihon, shanghai lumpia, arroz caldo, pancit palabok, sinigang, leche flan, cassava cake.
Blech.
That night, it all looked gray and beige. The aroma? A nauseating medley of ginger, garlic, soy sauce, and vinegar. I ate anyway - nourishment for the next day's funeral home visit and memorial preparations. Met with an advisor, scheduled a meeting with the parish priest, gathered photos, serached for Dad’s contacts of friends and colleagues. Then, more food throughout the novena - nine days of prayers.
As organized as Dad was, he hadn't planned his own funeral. My brother and I calmed my hyperventilating Mom while selecting a casket. After signing forms in an incense-infused meeting room, we paid for the funeral arrangements. Then, we drove to the plot where Dad would be buried days later.
Numbness.
Dave flew up for Dad's funeral and stayed a few days. Coincidentally yet jarringly, his nephew's memorial service immediately preceded Dad's service. Sadly, his nephew drowned. Dave watched his nephew's casket wheeled-out of the chapel while Dad's casket was wheeled-in.
Surreal.
Dave offered to pick me up whenever I flew back to San Diego. Lovingly, he snickered about how I'd probably miss seeing that black 3-ring binder.
Indeed.
Black 3-ring binder
Dad's binder was the proverbial put on your oxygen mask first to take care of loved ones. The binder was an answer key to the administrative side of how to death of a loved one - canceling memberships, obtaining death certificates, assuring Mom would receive her due from insurance companies and the military's survivor benefit program.
Dave was partly right. I would miss the binder, but I’d also miss hearing Dad’s logistics-minded, matter-of-fact voice narrating the contents of that damn binder.
Step one: Where to find the binder after he dies
Step two: Dad imagined how my brother and I would divide the labor as he flipped through pages and tabs
Steps . . . (trust me, there were more steps)
When Dad started the yippity-yap - assets, beneficiary, executor, fiduciary, probate, revocable, power of attorney, settlor, successor - we knew binder-time was almost over. He’d emphasize the importance of finely reading the 1994 pour-over will and living trust.
Binder closed.
The value of Dad’s binder? Our family’s solace after he died. Time better spent to wander in the murkiness of our grief, because of his guidance to successfully navigate the administrative minutiae of a parent’s death.
Puffy eyes. Gratitude.
December 2019
I absurdly debated with a friend about getting a living trust -
Friend: It’s super easy.
Me: I don’t have children like you do.
Friend: Who said anything about needing to have children? You have your mom, brother, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew.
Me: My net worth sucks.
Friend: Susmaryosep! Okay, use the law firm I used. You’ll get a discount when I refer you.
Me: I don’t even own property.
Friend: STOP! Doesn’t your Mom have a living trust or will?
Me: (silence) AHA!
This was the beginning of MY 3-ring binder.
I was 56 years old when I executed my living trust. Definitely easy enough.
October 2023
At the end of this month, I turn 60 years old. Still no children, happier with my net worth, now a property owner.
You: When is the best time to plan for death?
Me: The sooner the better, and it’s never too late to have AHA moments - and a living trust.
I used to cringe hearing “living trust” and dizzying estate planning jargon. Not anymore. I smile - I’m reminded I’m alive.
This is me, hoping you put on your oxygen mask first for those you love, encouraging that your life’s journey includes your living trust.
Thanks to: Becky Isjwara, an Editor in Cohort 11’s Write of Passage, for feedback, suggestions, and perspectives - inspiring me to craft a follow-on essay; Ken Rice for your impressions, comments, and thoughtfulness; and Hari Tiruna who unknowingly shaped the direction of this essay. Wishing you more birthdays to come.