Sometimes Gary and I talk about death. 

OK. I mention death now and then. Gary talks more of Eternity. But last I checked you’ve got to do one to get to the other. 

I’m not a Genny-downer, not even close. I just say things that come to mind. Like when I peek into my husband’s study and see he is so locked into whatever is in front of him, he may forget to come out.

“When I die, you’ll need to set a timer to remind you to take breaks—get out of this room, and stretch your legs,” I tell him.

He just smiles, but I mean it.

It isn’t that Gary never leaves the house. He hits the gym often and goes for walks on a regular basis. But the study is his absolute, hands down, favorite room. Once he cozies in, he’s all in. It’s my job to extract him from its clutches. 

Who will step in after I’ve checked out?

That’s why I tell the kids, “If I die, you’ve got to get your dad’s nose out of the book he’s reading and take him to a baseball game, a museum, or a park—anywhere.”

“Noooo, don’t say that!” they wail. “Stop being morbid.” 

What they call morbid, I call realistic. 

Sometimes, Gary walks through a room while I’m cleaning window blinds.

“When I’m gone, go over these with a Swiffer twice a month or they’ll get ahead of you in a hurry. And clean under the toilet rims. Or I guess you could hire a cleaning service.”

He just keeps walking. 

Oh, well, at least I know he’ll run the vacuum cleaner occasionally. And he won’t starve. Gary’s a good cook.

Too bad the poor guy was cursed with a wife whose hands and feet have only known warmth during her three pregnancies. My blood circulation stops cold at my wrists and ankles. 

Sometimes, after we’ve turned in for the night, I croon, “Want me to put my foot on your leg?” 

“Nooooo,” he laughs and rolls away.

That’s when I say, “You won’t know if I die in my sleep because my hands and feet are always ice cold. Don’t call 911 until you’re sure I’m dead.”

I got that last bit from my grandmother.  She used to pull my 12-year-old self close, look me in the eyes, and say, “Genny Ann, promise me you’ll make sure I’m really dead before you let them take me away.”

Shivers ran through me the first time Grandma said those words. People could be mistaken for dead when they’re still alive? Yikes.

I’ve given Gary the usual instructions. A modest service. No viewing. (I don’t want anyone looking at me if I can’t look back.) 

Cremation, probably, though I could still change my mind. If I go to the crematory, put me in a tennis shoe box when they send me back. No expensive urn, please. 

There are plenty of empty shoe boxes on the closet floor behind my clothes. Yes, a tennis shoe box is perfect for storing me until I’m scattered hither and yon.

Speaking of which, I’ve told my husband, “When I punch my ticket to Heaven, keep the traditions going with the kids and grands.” 

Cookie parties. Christmas stockings. Christmas lights. “The Quiet Man” on St. Patrick’s Day. The Fourth of July at the lake.

Our girls will help him.

I’ve shared these dying thoughts, not often, but more than once. Still, I’m not convinced Gary has tuned in. 

“Can you tell me the things I’ve said about when I die?” I asked recently.

He rolled his eyes and said, “Burn your journals.”  

If I die, will someone please send this column to my husband?