When I turned 80, I thought the biggest challenge would be remembering where I left my keys or dealing with aching joints.
I never imagined it would be facing my own funeral plans.
It all started when my daughter came over one afternoon, looking unusually serious. She handed me a folder and said:
“Mom… we need to talk.”
Inside were brochures for burial plots — not just one, but three. One of them had my name on it.
She explained that my grandkids had taken the initiative to “get things organized” after seeing how many of my friends had passed without their families being prepared.
“They wanted to make sure you’re laid to rest in peace,” she said gently.
I sat there, stunned into silence.
I wasn’t sick. I wasn’t dying. In fact, I still drove myself to bingo night and took daily walks around the park.
And yet, my own grandchildren had already picked out a spot for me.
At first, I tried to laugh it off. I joked about picking a plot near the lake so I’d have a nice view. But deep down, I was heartbroken.
Not because I was upset about death — but because I felt like they were ready to let go before I was even gone.
Later that week, I visited the cemetery with my granddaughter, who proudly showed me the reserved area.
“It’s beautiful here,” she said. “You’ll love it.”
I smiled, nodded, and told her I was proud of her for thinking ahead.
But inside, I was breaking.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
All I could think about was how quickly they had moved on to planning what comes after me — while I was still very much here .
The next morning, I made a decision.
I invited all my kids and grandkids over for dinner — not for a celebration, but for a conversation.
I looked at them and said:
“I love that you want to be responsible. But I’m not done living yet.”
They stared back, surprised by the emotion in my voice.
“I don’t want a reserved plot. I don’t want eulogies written in advance. I just want to enjoy the time I have left — with you.”
Silence filled the room.
Then came the tears — from all of them.
One grandson admitted he thought he was doing the right thing because “everyone does it these days.” Another granddaughter said she didn’t realize how final it would feel to plan something like that.
We talked for hours — about life, death, fear, and love.
And by the end of the night, they agreed to cancel the reservation.
Not because they didn’t care.
But because they finally understood:
Just because someone is older doesn’t mean they’re ready to be forgotten.
Now, every Sunday, they still come over for dinner — same as always.
But instead of talking about what happens after I’m gone…
We focus on making more memories while I’m still here.
Because sometimes, all an old soul needs is a reminder that they’re still part of the story.
And sometimes, all a family needs is a little perspective to remember what really matters.