Wills, Obituaries, and Such Like Death Talk

Be careful – the universe is a mega eavesdropper!

No macabre images please! Image by Melk Hagelslag from Pixabay

I don’t like to talk about stuff related to death. I know it is inevitable. It is coming soon. Anyday now. But I don’t want to invite it in as if I have been waiting for it! I am even afraid to use a cover image that depicts death. Only happy, chirpy images for me.

No, please! I don’t want to talk about it. I am known for my ability to stay in a state of denial. Even wrote a book called Eye Am In Denial!

I’ve been brought up in a culture where talking about death that has not happened is considered bad luck. We don’t do conversations that start with “when I die.” Dear God, if we say it, it might happen.

I don’t know any close relatives in my family who made wills. My parents didn’t. I was lucky to have been the only child. What little they had, came straight to me. I still had to run around, deal with paperwork, and beg neighbors for signatures to prove my connection to my parents. But I am ok with that. What I am not ok with is discussing the impending death of any of my loved ones.


I have watched several movies and shows where people act like they are dead and the families hang their photos on the wall. My recurring thought is — how can they act like they are dead? Aren’t they worried that it will come true?

I know! I know! You are shaking your head and saying, “Of course, it will come true. Some day. Inevitably.”

But I reiterate! Why act dead and let the universe stop and think, “Waitaminute. Does this guy want to be dead? Ok. Bam.” And the next minute the actor is really dead. It could happen. I am sure I can pull up some obscure statistics to prove how many people died while acting like they were dead.

Here’s one statistic I found easily enough on Wikipedia. There are plenty more.

1817: An actor known as Mr. Cummins died on stage while playing the part of Dumont in The Tragedy of Jane Shore by Nicholas Rowe, at the Leeds Theatre in Hunslet. He died of ‘ossification of the heart’ (aortic stenosis) on 20 June having uttered his final words from the play “May such befall me at my latest hour …”.

See — call me superstitious now!


The first time I watched the scene in Despicable Me where Agnes looks at a stuffed unicorn and says, “He’s so fluffy! I’m gonna die!” I was mortified. My mind could not accept that someone would utter such words willingly. And then one day, my kid repeated the dialog when she saw something super cute. I almost fainted on the spot. I shushed her and looked all around to make sure the universe was not listening. I may have closed the windows too, I can’t remember what I did in my state of panic.

I am somewhat able to accept hearing such lines now because I’ve been given a lot of practice by the kid!! Hmph!


I am telling you — this whole notion of making wills and writing obituaries in anticipation of our own death is nothing but a beautiful gilt-edged invitation card to The Reaper.

Writing my own obituary, you say? My God! Unthinkable. It means I think I am going to die. Perish the thought! Why would I think that? Do you not know that the universe is busy listening in on our words and even thoughts? And it is a master at misinterpretation.

So — nope. Thank you. Not writing my own obit. Not baiting death.

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