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Fulfilling a deathbed vow, especially one involving consequences to others, is a responsibility that can’t be taken lightly. Even a casual promise ought to be honored, as I found out after making what seemed like a frivolous deal with my elderly friend, Allan.
Over the years, that light-hearted promise took on greater significance, and I was determined to honor his final wish.
Allan and I met in Grief Group in 2011, shortly after we both lost our spouses, during that grim stage when well-meaning friends and family tell you it’s time to “move on” — Where to? Why? How? — while you linger in numbed shock, still speaking of the departed in the present tense as though that would make it true. During one of the sessions, our moderator attempted to lure us into the “here and now” by inviting us to speak of something new and positive that had come into our lives.
We all stared vacantly at each other until I blurted, “Happy Hour!”
I hate eating alone. I was one step away from dining out of a skillet over the kitchen sink while listening to NPR. Allan was sick of reheating “bereavement casseroles” that people left on his doorstep. He began meeting me for Happy Hour. And we became fast friends while grazing on small plates and decent wine at half price.
Allan was in his mid-80s and I was a good 20 years younger, but we’d found common ground in that period of grieving when even the most empathetic friends are tired of hearing you talk about a deceased spouse. But that’s what Allan and I did, without feeling self-conscious about sharing endless personal memories.
“Alice is — was — the dazzle in my life,” Allan confided over happy hour margaritas one afternoon. I nodded, having recently lost the “dazzle” in my own life.
Although I’d never met Allan’s wife, Alice, I got to know her through his stories about their life together. The two loved adventure travel and immersing themselves in local culture. On canal boats in Europe, they’d operate the locks on their own, tie up at the riverside and then bike into a village for dinner.
They hiked in the Himalayas, and Alice, a marathon runner, led the way. The first indication that Alice was ill came during a trip to the Galápagos Islands when she seemed unsteady and fell a few times. I nodded with understanding. After frequent falls, my husband had been diagnosed with a neurological disease, Progressive Supranuclear Palsy.
Allan also spoke of his wife’s great sense of fun, her “sparkle and daring.”
“She’d do anything for a laugh,” he said, “You know, when I go, I’d love to have a glamorous ‘mystery woman’ dressed in black lay a single red rose on my casket. Alice would get a kick out of seeing me have a send-off like that!”
I instantly volunteered to serve as his “mystery woman” — and we both laughed. But over the years, Allan would off-handedly remind me of my commitment. I assured him I took my promise seriously but joked that he better give me a heads-up if I needed to get my black dress pressed.
When I began spending more time working in New York, I deputized my friend Maggie, a young documentary filmmaker, to stand in for me should I be unavailable in Los Angeles when the time came.
Twelve years after making my pledge, Allan’s daughter I’d never met sent an email to everyone on his notification list that her father had passed away, aged 97. But I was in London when I got her message. As luck would have it, Maggie was filming on location in Paris. Neither of us could return to Los Angeles in time to appear as a “mystery woman” at Allan’s funeral service the next morning. We scrambled, determined to find someone willing and able to take on the role.
Many phone calls and texts later, Maggie’s friend, Emma, an English actress new to Los Angeles, said she was game to step in for us. Tall and elegant, with long red hair, Emma was ideal casting. That night, Maggie and I got a full report of her star turn at Allan’s funeral.
Ladies,
Mission accomplished! I feel it went as well as it possibly could have gone. I was most fortunate to be directed to a parking spot with a vantage point, so I could see Allan's family and friends gathering at the chapel. Most importantly, I could time being one of the last to go inside.
I made my way down the center aisle to the casket and placed my single red rose next to a picture of Allan and a folded flag, observed by everybody. Then slowly, with head held high and (I like to think) the demeanor of a woman in mourning, made my way out again with everyone looking. I half expected someone to call after me and was quite relieved to make it back to the car without having to explain myself.
I hope I did right by dear Allan. I'm only sad that I never got to meet him. I'm truly honored to have played a part in his send-off. Thank you for asking.
Love to you both,
Emma
Allan got his final wish, a true “mystery lady” he’d never met, “dazzling” mourners at his funeral — and giving Alice a good laugh. For me, fulfilling my promise meant doing the last, best thing I could for a friend with whom I’d found comfort and understanding in a time of grief.
Have you ever fulfilled a friend or relative's dying wish? What was it? Let us know in the comments below.
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