What to Do When I'm Gone Read online

  This book is dedicated to our moms.

  Also by Hallie Bateman

  Brave New Work:

  A Journal to Help You Unleash

  Your Inner Artist

  Love Voltaire Us Apart:

  A Philosopher’s Guide to Relationships

  (illustrator)

  If Our Bodies Could Talk

  (illustrator)

  Contents

  Introduction

  DAY 1: Make fajitas

  DAY 2: Let people in

  DAY 3: Brush the dog

  DAY 4: Write my obituary

  DAY 5: Clean your house

  DAY 6: Visit an all-night diner

  DAY 7: Bury me

  DAY 8: Go Rollerblading

  DAY 12: See a blockbuster movie

  DAY 15: Bake brownies

  DAY 17: Smile and nod

  DAY 18: Throw something

  DAY 21: Take a hike

  DAY 26: Allow me to explain the stuff you found while cleaning out my house

  DAY 45: Say thank you

  DAY 76: Breathe in

  DAY 110: Create a new holiday tradition

  DAY 144: Bake a pecan pie

  DAY 170: Jump on the trampoline

  DAY 231: Celebrate your birthday

  DAY 285: Buy a great pair of shoes

  DAY 320: Stop doing stuff you hate to do

  DAY 365: Make chicken and dumplings

  DAY 400: Replace me

  DAY 450: Look in the mirror and see yourself the way I saw you

  DAY 500: Take a bath

  DAY 550: Make a decision

  DAY 600: Get some perspective

  DAY 650: Cure your heartbreak with curry

  DAY 700: Raise the volume

  DAY 750: Eat chocolate

  DAY 850: Talk to me

  DAY 900: Look up

  DAY 950: Make chili

  DAY 1,000: Take a risk

  DAY 1,500: Have kids

  DAY 1,775: Do drugs

  DAY 1,800: Sing the lullaby I used to sing to you

  DAY 1,900: Make amends

  DAY 2,000: Enjoy this dream

  DAY 2,500: Suffer

  DAY 3,000: Talk to your kids about death

  DAY 3,500: Make beauty

  DAY 4,000: Think of me unexpectedly

  DAY 4,500: Pinch yourself

  DAY 5,000: Go to work

  DAY 5,500: Ask questions

  DAY 6,000: Make a quiche

  DAY 7,000: Prioritize

  DAY 8,000: Redefine happiness

  DAY 9,000: Sharpen your pencil

  DAY 10,000: Take a field trip

  DAY 11,000: Climb out of a rut

  DAY 12,000: Watch a funny movie

  DAY 13,000: Step lively

  DAY 14,000: Make a duck-it list

  DAY 15,000: Drop a crutch

  DAY 17,000: Get a cane

  DAY 18,000: Show compassion

  DAY 20,000: Plan your dream death

  A Note on the Author and the Illustrator

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  When I was a kid and fears of death came to me in the night, I’d wake up my mom and she would console me.

  Am I going to die?

  Yes, but not for a long, long, long time.

  Are you going to die?

  Yes, but not for a long, long time.

  As I got older, death entered our casual family discourse. Over dinner, we would engage in the burial-vs.-cremation debate, or my mom would issue one of her decrees: “If I ever become a drooling mess, just shoot me.” As with most things, joking about death was our way of acknowledging its inevitable presence. We spoke about it in the light of day so that when we faced it later, alone, it wouldn’t be so scary.

  One night, when I was twenty-two or twenty-three, I couldn’t sleep: That recurrent and agonizing prospect of losing my mom slipped in again. This time I decided not to push the thoughts away. I allowed myself to vividly imagine my mom’s death, to feel the pain of the moment I learned she was gone.

  With sleep an ever-more-distant prospect, I went even further: I imagined the next day, and the day after that. The earth would continue to spin, and I’d be left in a world without her. My map would be gone. The ground beneath my feet would be gone.

  Who could I call to ask how to cook a potato? Who would listen to me talk about my work for more than five minutes? Who would tell me everything? Who would forgive me for everything? How could I possibly navigate this world without the person who brought me into it?

  I cried. Then I had an idea. The next morning, while we made breakfast, I asked my mom to write a book of step-by-step, day-by-day instructions I could follow after her death.

  She laughed. Then she said yes.

  Hallie Bateman

  This could go on for days. Step away from the phone.

  DAY 1: Make fajitas

  Vidalia onions

  Olive oil, butter

  Fresh garlic, diced

  Serrano pepper, seeded, diced

  Green, red, and yellow peppers

  Chili powder, cumin, salt, pepper, and cayenne

  Chicken breast or firm tofu

  Fresh tomatoes

  Flour or corn tortillas

  Cilantro, salsa, avocado

  Whiskey

  Slice a giant pile of sweet onions. You’ll be crying, but the dish will be worth it in the long run.

  Heat equal amounts of olive oil and butter in a large sauté pan, add the diced garlic and serrano pepper, then pile the onions on top. The gym I went to always had cooking shows playing on TV while the women worked out; go figure. Anyway, I didn’t get in great shape but I learned a lot, including that the weight of that onion pile will aid caramelization—the slow sweetening of the final product.

  So just cook over low heat for 20 to 30 minutes, letting the onions do most of the work.

  Tumble the pile now and then until it’s nearly caramelized. Sprinkle the mixed chili powder, cumin, salt, pepper, and cayenne on top, stirring to distribute the spices while cooking a bit longer. Lay thin slices of green, red, and yellow peppers on top; this will make you feel like an artistic genius and less like crying.

  Next, cook a chicken breast (or firm tofu if you’re a vegetarian) and add thin slices to the onion-vegetable mixture.

  I like to cut the tomatoes in quarters or eighths. But hell, who cares, they’re going to mash down anyway. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and stir them into the mix in the last few minutes of cooking.

  Serve with fresh tortillas, chopped cilantro, good salsa, and thin slices of avocado. Great job. Now don’t you feel better?

  Of course you don’t. Pour yourself a stiff glass of whiskey.

  DAY 2: Let people in

  The doorbell is going to ring and you’re going to get up and open the door and greet the people and let them in. Talk. Listen. Cry. Serve them tea and toast if you’re up to it.

  DAY 3: Brush the dog

  Get all the tangles out of his fur. It’s not the dog’s fault I died.*

  *Unless of course it was the dog’s fault, in which case brushing him may not be your highest priority.

  DAY 4: Write my obituary

  It used to be that obits were free and written by journalists. They included basics about your family, schooling, career path, contributions to your community.

  Now most are sent in by family members who can’t write very well and focus on obscure highlights: “She was devoted to her beloved dachshund, Dinky, with whom she shared so many joyous years.”

  Obits are more than just a formality. They are one of the few written records of your time here. The collective memory of a person’s existence fades quickly; after a generation or two you’re wiped off the fac
e of the earth.

  If I had planned better, and died later, I might have written it myself. But obviously I ran out of time. So get together with the people who knew me best, talk for a while, and realize how little you actually know about my life.

  What NOT to include

  “She moved to Florida in 1987, to Funkville in 1993, to Cleveland in 1995, then shacked up with a man she later regretted even knowing, before settling in Tacoma.”

  I can’t even remember all the places I’ve lived, and it doesn’t need to be part of the permanent record.

  “She loved crossword puzzles and [endless list of boring hobbies].”

  Nobody but my immediate family needs to know that I made mosaic tile flower pots, played piano badly, bought season tickets but only saw two plays a year, or cooked with the same six ingredients for the past twenty-five years.

  “She died peacefully with her loving family at her side.”

  I don’t think it’s possible that everyone dies peacefully. I’m guessing some people die screaming. Everyone should have access to their own gallon of morphine at the first sign of pain.

  “She shared her wisdom, love, and light with everyone she met.”

  Oh, come on. Let’s be honest. Plus I’m pretty sure there’s a traffic cop near my office who would disagree.

  DAY 5: Clean your house

  You are numb. It’s time to put your home in order. Give everything a place. Make it make sense. Make your room the exact opposite of the randomness of existence, the mercilessness of mortality.

  Life’s a crapshoot. By staying calm and organized in the face of it, you will be able to find your socks when you need them.

  DAY 6: Visit an all-night diner

  You need a good friend right now, one who will come right over, even if that means flying across country. Tell her exactly what you need, whether you need her to listen, cry with you, chat up a storm, or sit together in silence.

  Go to your favorite all-night diner. Eat pie, drink coffee, and make small talk in which death is never mentioned. Or share what happened, how it feels to lose me. Tell her what I said that made you laugh, what I did that drove you crazy.

  There are no rules here. A good friend will understand, and a really good friend will bring a box of tissue. You don’t have to go through this alone, now or in the future.

  DAY 7: Bury me

  Have a service with family and friends, and play two songs for me: Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s “And So It Goes” plus Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” (If anyone complains about it being schmaltzy, well, so was I.) Then bury me in a nice country plot. I won’t mind being underground: I’m fine with rotting, fine with worms.

  I don’t think of cemeteries as depressing places, but as fascinating repositories of family history. Plus, when you want to buy a great condo, what do you look for? A place with quiet neighbors and a nice lawn. Put a headstone on top so you can find me. Make the inscription just cryptic enough that it encourages wild speculation.

  I love the idea of people talking about me after I’m gone.

  DAY 8: Go Rollerblading

  Your job today is not to think. Just be. When you’re Rollerblading, you can’t think in the conventional way, unless you’re a really good Rollerblader.

  If you’re the kind of Rollerblader I was, all you’re thinking is, “I’m gonna fall I’m gonna fall I’m gonna fall!” This is good. You won’t have time to dwell on real or imagined memories, sorrow, or angst. You won’t have time to think, “Oh no, I yelled at my mother the last conversation we ever had.”

  That’s OK. You had no way of knowing it was the last time we’d talk. Feel bad, feel sad, roll on.

  DAY 12: See a blockbuster movie

  Why did this happen the way it did? Could it have been prevented? Are you tempted to blame me for how I wrote my own demise: smoking, drinking, lackluster gym workouts? Go ahead, rewrite my ending. I’m not attached to it anymore. Here are a few alternatives if you need help.

  Swallowed by a sinkhole

  Directed off a cliff by Siri

  Trampled in a Black Friday sale

  Heart attack (brought on by sheer love) while clutching a photo of you

  The point is: My story could have ended in a million ways. It doesn’t matter which one. If you asked a bunch of dead people if they were happy with how they died, I’m guessing most would want to rewrite their endings, too. However it happened, dead is dead. Go to the movies and get some popcorn.

  DAY 15: Bake brownies

  Until now you’ve been so busy that you haven’t had much time to think. But the forever nature of the loss is beginning to sink in. This is the new normal. You won’t get over it but in time you’ll get through it.

  Baking brownies will help, especially if you share them. This recipe is one your grandma used for many years.

  1/2 cup butter

  4 oz. unsweetened chocolate

  2 cups sugar

  2 tsp. vanilla

  4 eggs

  1 cup oat flour

  1/2 cup + 2 tbsp. all-purpose flour

  1 tsp. baking powder

  1/2 tsp. salt

  Optional: 1/2 cup chopped walnuts or pecans, or 20 red peppermints broken into bits (unwrap, put in a plastic bag, and gently have at it with a hammer)

  In a heavy saucepan, melt the butter and chocolate together over low heat, stirring frequently. Cool slightly. Add the sugar and vanilla, mixing well. Add the eggs one at a time, mixing after each addition.

  Stir in the dry ingredients plus the nuts or peppermint bits, mixing until just combined. Grease and flour the bottom of a 13-by-9-inch baking pan and spoon in the batter, spreading evenly. Bake at 325 degrees for 35 to 40 minutes. Cool and cut into squares.

  Brew a pot of good coffee while you’re at it, and figure out who you’ll share these brownies with.

  Make sure it’s not someone who’s going to carp about fat and calories; that’s the last thing you need. Look for a person who lights up at the mere mention of homemade brownies.

  DAY 17: Smile and nod

  DAY 18: Throw something

  Find something breakable. Just whatever is closest to you at the moment. Don’t think too hard before chucking it as hard as you can at the wall.

  You make a really good point. Life isn’t fair.

  Now clean it up so nobody gets hurt.

  DAY 21: Take a hike

  Your parent’s death is nature’s way of breaking the shocking news that it’s your turn next.

  I think of it as being next up on life’s diving board, preparing to jump or be pushed into a bottomless, unfathomable pool. This should not come as a surprise but somehow it does, and when you lose someone close to you, it may hit you with surprising force.

  This is not a day for swimming. Go for a walk in the woods instead. Think about the raccoons and bears and foxes who live and die there. They aren’t the least bit worried about life’s diving board, and after a while you’ll get used to the idea, too.

  Why go on if we all just die in the end? There’s a great reason. If you knew you were going to live forever, imagine how much time you’d waste. Amazing things can happen when there’s a deadline looming.

  DAY 26: Allow me to explain the stuff you found while cleaning out my house

  A moldering box of candy: I hid it five years ago so that your dad wouldn’t eat it, and then forgot about it.

  Passport photos: Sadly, perms were the style back then.

  Vibrator: What, mothers don’t have sex? All evidence points otherwise.

  High school journals: I had a lot of anxiety about everything, as you will learn (yeah, like you didn’t already know, right?).

  Foreign coins I couldn’t bear to throw out even though I can’t remember what country they’re from.

  Little notes to you and your brothers tucked in sealed envelopes: Those date back to my fear-of-flying days when I was certain I would die in midair and wanted you to find a nice note later on so th
at you would know you were loved.

  No secret affairs, no double life, no hidden keys to safety deposit boxes containing millions of dollars: I’m sorry, but I didn’t really have any secrets to keep. Believe me, you’re not nearly as disappointed as I am.

  DAY 45: Say thank you

  A lot of people have probably done nice things for you since I died. Write each one a thank-you note.

  Death is uncivil; thank-you notes are civil. Expressing gratitude forces you to focus on living people who care about you rather than on the enormity of your loss.

  It also forces you to leave the house and go to the post office, where you will have to practice something harder than gratitude: patience.

  DAY 76: Breathe in

  Grief will suddenly send your mind racing back to a face, place, or time, or veering wildly ahead to your sad orphaned future. Your thoughts are just that: thoughts, not reality, and honestly, you can’t always trust them.

  Kneel down on the greenest patch of grass you can find and peer into it. What you see—little bugs, colorful striations, the tangle of leaves—is real. Close your eyes, breathe in that earthy scent, and if you’re lucky, the sprinklers won’t come on.