Doc, Doc, Dockin’ on Heaven’s Door

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I have to confess I open up my junk mail if that’s all there is in the mailbox. I don’t know if that is a true sign I am turning into an old lady, or just curious. Well, it serves me right. There in a plain brown wrapper in an oversized envelope was a multitudinous stack of official looking papers, the crown piece being a “real certificate” with all that blue and white scrolly-doily looking edging. It announced that I, one Sally Franz, had been selected for $10,000 to serve as my insurance for Funeral and Final Expenses (read: embalm or cremate,) And I cannot be turned down for one of these policies.

And who “with my wondering eyes should appear” to be so kind as to let me buy insurance from them…wait for it…Physicians Mutual. What the what? A group, lo a mutual group, pals shall we say, of doctors. These docs want to sell me insurance for my funeral. Isn’t that hedging your bets?

You go to the doctor, take all the pills prescribed, submit your body to be poked, drained, hacked, pumped and then also on top of those payments I am also supposed to make sure I have insurance in case these very same fine physicians botch the job.

I would have felt much better if the insurance offer had come from Morticians Mutual. Not only is it a fine alliteration, I like knowing that the person receiving the benefit of my funeral insurance for “final expenses” is not the person who put me in there in the first, ur, um, last place.

It reminds me of the day I turned 45years old and received both an invitation to join AARP and an offer to buy a cemetery plot. I remember saying, “What happened to middle age? I was supposed to have a middle age!” I am still rather fond of the idea of middle age. It’s just that at 63, I am going to have to live to 126 to make that work. I’d do it too if I could just mess with Social Security. At the very least I should like to live to 103 along with Jiminy Cricket.

And as much as I hate to throw away such an official looking piece of artistry, I gotta tell you I have a much better plan. I am giving my body to science, the whole kit-n-caboodle. Of course by the time that happens there may be a great deal more caboodle than kit. But I figure in exchange for a great deal of skin, corneas, kidneys, lungs, and a few gold teeth (well, gosh I think they use everything by now) the way I see it, they don’t need to return the few outdated odd parts. Just take the entire enchilada.

No body means no “final expenses”. No body, urn etc. means no funeral. I will hold back a few grand in the will for a massive party and people can sing and dance, but not dance on my grave because I won’t be there!

Sally Franz is a former stand-up comedian, motivational speaker, and radio host. She is a twice-divorced mother of two and a grandmother of three. Sally has a degree in gerontology and several awards for humor writing. She is the author of "Scrambled Leggs: A Snarky Tale of Hospital Hooey,"and "The Baby Boomer's Guide to Menopause."