“You are invited to my pre-mortem wake and roast, a somewhat morbid, deeply irreverent, but joyous celebration of me. This is time for celebrating my life, loves, and dark, twisted sense of humor. Bring your stories (hysterical, at my expense), your tasteless jokes, and any and all expressions gleefully macabre. Come party with the man who has never passed up the chance to poke cancer in the eye and laugh about it.”

This was the invitation that friends received for Jay Lake’s wake (a ceremony traditionally held before a funeral, after someone has died). In case the phrase “pre-mortem” didn’t tip you off, it was an unusual event. Because, like everyone else, Jay Lake will someday die. Unlike most, however, Jay threw himself a wake before the end of his life.

Jay is a science fiction writer, avid blogger, and cancer patient. He’s been living with colon cancer since 2008, and earlier this year received a diagnosis of nine to twenty-four months to live. But “the man who has never passed up the chance to poke cancer in the eye and laugh about it” didn’t take this sentence lying down. Instead, he threw himself a wake while he was still able to attend—and turned what could have been a morbid affair into a beautiful, humorous, and personal celebration of his life.

Jay wasn’t only alive at his wake—he was the life of the party! 

I love the idea of a “live wake,” and this isn’t the first one that I’ve heard of. While “live funerals” and “live wakes” aren’t exactly commonplace, I hope that the idea of celebrating life and accepting the inevitable will become more conventional. By acknowledging our own mortality, honoring the lives we’ve led, and doing it all while we’re still here, I think that we, as a culture, can have the lives and deaths that we want and deserve. As a speaker at the JayWake pointed out, “We are all terminal, after all.” 

via Metafilter

Five lessons from guest blogger Roz Jonas

My father died, suddenly and unexpectedly, at the age of 79. He and my mother had lived for almost 50 years in a three-story home that, over time, had grown too large for two people—and then quickly became much too large for just one. My mother lived alone in the big house, but because she did not know how to drive, she was dependent upon me and others for her transportation needs. After a year, she asked for help in selling the house and moving into an independent living facility, the kind of caring community that would meet her needs as she grew older. While she waited for an apartment to become available, she moved in with my husband, our young daughters, and me. Exactly 18 months after my father died, my mother died in our home, just as suddenly and unexpectedly as my father had.

From all of this—experiencing the sudden death of a parent, dismantling a home and a lifetime’s accumulation of treasured items, welcoming an elderly parent into our family, and then encountering death in our home—I have learned valuable lessons.

My father died in a hospital emergency room. The physician who delivered this awful news to my mother and me simply said, “I’m sorry. He expired.” When I found my mother dead in her bedroom, I was obliged to call the police, who must investigate a sudden death before the coroner, and then the funeral home, can be contacted. The police officer who came to our home emerged from my mother’s room and said, “Well, I don’t see a knife or anything.” Only with the passage of time was I able to see these two comments not as thoughtless and uncaring expressions, but rather as reflections of discomfort with death and dying.
Lesson: Do not let the insensitivity of others affect you.

I was so determined to help my mother deal with my father’s death, the end of her 56-year marriage, and the sale of her home and most of its contents, that I neglected to pay attention to my own feelings of grief. I attended to her needs and incorporated her into our family’s life, but I did not pause to reflect on my own loss. By the time my mother died, fresh and accumulated grief hit me like a ton of bricks, and threw me, my parents’ only child, into depression. After months of crying in the shower and the car, formerly the places where I had done my best and most creative thinking, I sought the assistance of a therapist, who helped me to cope with the sadness I felt.
Lesson: Give in to grief, and get help if you need it.

In the weeks and months following the deaths of my parents, after the friendly wave of phone calls and visits and prepared meals had subsided, many well-meaning friends and colleagues—particularly those who had not experienced the death of a loved one—seemed to regard my bouts of sadness as if I’d had a head cold from which I surely must have been long recovered. My husband innocently wondered when we could restore my mother’s room to its former status as a guest room. I felt a kind of pressure to return to normal, but was not yet ready to get there. I felt instinctively that I would know when the time was right—and one day, it was.
Lesson: Grief takes time.

My parents, perhaps as a result of fear of change or just simple inertia, had lived too long in their home. Disposing of that house and its contents was a tremendous and challenging task. Which items to keep, which to sell, which to donate? Each thing brought back a memory of my parents, and at times the decision making process was almost physically painful. Thinking back on it now, many years later, I look around my own home and understand that one of the greatest gifts I can give to my own children is to move while I am able, and to downsize all that I have accumulated in 40 years of marriage.
Lesson: Move while you have the energy and vitality to do so.

For many years, I saved those items that I felt connected me in some way to my parents: the hat, watch, and wrist brace my father wore the day he died; the glasses, robe, and slippers my mother set aside before she went to bed and died. I also kept a corner fringe from the prayer shawl in which my father was buried. These objects represented a tangible link to my parents; I kept them first in my home office, and then moved them to storage in my basement, where I kept them in my mother’s hope chest. And then one day, cleaning the basement, I knew it was time to throw them away.
Lesson: Time does heal all wounds.

Roz Jonas has served as a member of the board and as board chair of NARAL Pro-Choice America, as chair of the board of the Community Foundation for Montgomery County, Maryland, and as a member of the board of directors of the Jewish Community Center of Greater Washington. She is the co-creator of Sarah’s Sisters, a series of programs designed to enrich the lives of Jewish women and create a culture of receptivity to women’s involvement as agency lay leaders. She lives in Maryland.

Scott Simon, host of NPR's Weekend Edition Saturday, has been sitting with his mother in a hospital Intensive Care Unit during her final days. He's been chronicling their time together on his Twitter feed with grace, humor, and heartbreaking honesty.

via Metafilter

For as long as I can remember, every night when my dad would arrive home from work and turn the handle on the apartment door, my family’s 100-pound black Labrador, Maggie, would run full speed ahead towards it and launch herself onto him. It was her (slightly slobbery) way of welcoming him home. After my dad got sick, though, we decided we had to put an end to the ritual.

When he returned home from the hospital, weak from the blasts of chemotherapy he’d received, we were concerned that Maggie would knock him down. So I entered the apartment first and held Maggie by the collar, hoping I was strong enough to restrain her. As dad walked in I tightened my grip, ready for Maggie to fling herself at him. And Maggie did use all her might to break free from me. But then something amazing happened: she walked over to dad and started linking his fingers. She was gentle and restrained and yet still full of love. And from then on dad’s loyal four-legged companion remained by his side at all times, sometimes even nudging the port in his chest with her cold wet nose.

We thought Maggie was incredible—so intuitive! So understanding! And, to be fair, she was. But my family was not alone in our magical experience of our dog’s capacity for love and comfort when my dad was sick. She was a dog, and canines in general are impressive; in so many ways, dogs just know. And because they are such extraordinary creatures, they’re hired not only to assist the physically impaired (guide dogs for the blind, for example), but also to help those who are in need of emotional and psychological support.

Over 40 years ago, a nurse named Elaine Smith noticed the positive reactions that hospital patients had to a chaplain’s Golden Retriever who would go on rounds with him. Smith started taking dogs to nursing homes, where the dogs brought both companionship and comfort to the elderly. In 1976 she founded Therapy Dogs International, a volunteer organization that helps certify comfort dogs, known as “therapy dogs,” and makes them available to people who need them.

Now, dogs are welcomed in hospitals and in therapeutic settings, where they recognized for bringing happiness and psychological comfort. After the school shooting in Newtown, CT, a team of Golden Retrievers was brought into the classrooms to soothe the children who witnessed the tragedy. And after the Boston bombing earlier this year, dogs were brought to visit the victims in the hospital.

Dogs have the instinctive ability to sense when a person is in need of love and affection, and also to provide it. Maggie didn’t know any of the details of my dad’s illness, but she did know that he needed love—and she gave him that, fully and selflessly.

For more information on comfort dogs, visit Therapy Dogs International, Pet Partners, or Lutheran Church Charities.

What if cellular death doesn't happen all at once, with an organism's cells dying simultaneously, but rather in a wave, with death spreading from cell to cell? A new study recently published in the journal PLOS Biology proposes this very idea—and suggests that scientists may be able to stop this "cellular death wave" before the entire organism has died.

David Gems at the Institute of Health Aging at University College London, who led the study, explained:

“We’ve identified a chemical pathway of self-destruction that propagates cell death in worms, which we see as this glowing blue fluorescence traveling through the body. It’s like a blue grim reaper, tracking death as it spreads throughout the organism until all life is extinguished.

“We found that when we blocked this pathway, we could delay death induced by a stress such as infection, but we couldn’t slow death from old-age. This suggests that aging causes death by a number of processes acting in parallel.

"The findings cast doubt on the theory that aging is simply a consequence of an accumulation of molecular damage. We need to focus on the biological events that occur during aging and death to properly understand how we might be able to interrupt these processes.”

via Discovery News

A few weeks after my father died, long after the funeral and shiva were over, it hit me that my dad was really gone. Since I’d lost a piece of myself (metaphorically), I thought I would add a bit (literally): I would get a tattoo in remembrance of my beloved dad.

I went to announce my decision to my family; I was so proud to tell them that I was a willing to endure the pain of hundreds of tiny needles to have my dad’s initials, B.M., forever displayed on my body. My mother responded, “B.M.? Really, Elizabeth? You are going to have ‘bowel movement’ written on you? Are you going to have it on your bum? You’ve lost your father, don’t lose your mind.” Mom won that round, and 6 years later I’ve yet to get my father’s name as a tattoo.

But lots of other people do. While I’m still not completely over the idea, I’m not really a tattoo person, and it’s probably never going to happen for me. But everywhere I go—on the street, on the subway, at the coffee shop, and especially online—I see people with memorial tattoos. After spending more than a little time perusing selfies online, I’ve come to the conclusion that, while some people have gotten tattoos that are true works of art, others probably wish they had a mom like mine to convince them to hold off.

Here are some of my favorite memorial tattoos for dads that I’ve found recently:

I’m fixated on and fascinated by memorial tattoos, and in the coming months I’m going to be writing more about memorial tattoos and sharing more photos that I find. If you have a memorial tattoo, I would love to see a picture and hear the story behind it. Please share in the comments below.

Public speaking is really hard for most of us. Speaking at a funeral, when emotions are heightened, can feel even more challenging. But whether you're delivering a eulogy or reading a poem or prayer, know that you can do it! To help, I’ve put together a few helpful tips to help you successfully speak at a funeral or memorial service.

For more of my videos, visit Everplans' YouTube channel.

It's official: Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Cambridge (aka Kate Middleton) has given birth to her internationally anticipated baby. And it's a boy, delivered at 4:24 GMT.

Considering how buttoned-up everything is at Buckingham Palace, it's likely that new parents Kate and William won't dawdle in completing all the New Parent Estate Planning Taskswriting a willpurchasing life insurancesetting up trusts, and naming a power of attorney. And if you're a new parent (or a not-so-new parent who just hasn't gotten around to it yet), we'd like to encourage you to get your estate plan in order, too. Cheerio!

via HuffPost Royal Baby

Marcus Daly is a former wooden boat builder who took his skills and became a casket maker. Daly crafts exceptionally personalized and beautiful caskets, but what separates them most from others is the love and respect that he puts into each and every casket he makes.

This soft-spoken craftsman preaches the importance of carrying the casket and physically “shouldering the burden.” He feels that by making burial “too convenient...we’re depriving ourselves of a chance to get stronger so that we can carry on.” Daly notes that by physically holding the deceased and committing them to the ground you are not only offering a final helping hand to the person who died, but also helping yourself to move past the loss.

My takeaway from this video, and a strong belief that I've held for years, is that we as a culture should take a more active role in funeral rites and rituals. I agree with Marcus Daly: by bringing ourselves closer to the people we love who've died we may find inner peace and strength.

via The Awesomer

A viewer of my videos wrote in: "I'm going to a Catholic wake for the first time. Will there be an open casket? What if I'm too nervous to look at the body?"