An orange Post-it note still sticks to the inside cover of a folder I long ago labeled "Health Care Directive."
I immediately recognized my scribbled phrases crammed onto that little square of paper. And, even though I wrote them more than eight years ago, I clearly remember the context for my weighty note-taking.
" … comfort measures only."
" … life is for the living … "
" … know, please, that this is absolutely my wish."
The year was 2008. I was recently divorced with three children, one of them just 9 years old, and I found myself less inclined to put off the what-if-something-happens-to-me? discussion. I wasn't rich, but suddenly I was looking at my wedding china, my inherited art, even my modest 401(k), with queasy urgency.
I smile now at my many attempts, documented by arrows and circles and crossed-out words, to compose three equitable lists of my worldly stuff, weighing the financial and psychic value of each item in a desperate attempt to make sure that all three of my cherubs knew how much I loved them.
That was the easy part.