By Bob O’Connor

Copyright buffalonews

All of us go through countless rites of passage in our lives: the first day we go to school, graduations, first car, first real job, first kiss, marriage (perhaps divorce), and on and on. Having just turned 70, I am now experiencing the rites of passing away.

It’s not that I have plans to check out anytime soon, but it is wise to start planning for that inevitable date with the grim reaper. So my wife and I met with an elder law attorney to discuss the various options for insuring our four children get our home and other assets.

One such option would put our house in the kids’ names and they could sell it out from under us. I love my offspring and would give up my life for them, but I draw the line at giving up the place where I fall asleep in front of the television.

We went for Option No, 2, wherein the house is in the children’s names, but we retain the right to live there as long as we want. Unless you are the Waltons or the Osmond family, I don’t recommend giving your children the power to make you homeless. We are too old to sleep in bus shelters.

We also signed a slew of documents naming our children as health care proxies and estate executors. We granted them power of attorney and endorsed something called a living will. It is strange and unsettling giving the people you once diapered control over your finances, real estate, and even life and death decisions.

You gave them the gift of life and they now decide when to pull the plug on you. One of our boys cracked that they may decide not to even plug us in. If there is an afterlife, I will haunt them all.

We were also offered the opportunity to plan our own funeral arrangements. Talk about morbid. There is something icky about selecting a casket, choosing pallbearers or picking out your cemetery plot. It did get me thinking, though.

First, I want my obituary to be long and full of accomplishments I never attained such as “ advisor to President Nixon” and “taught Josh Allen to throw a spiral.” I don’t think anyone fact-checks an obit, so I might as well make myself a Harvard grad and a Nobel laureate.

My funeral mass must be huge, even if my family has to bus in strangers to pack the church. Like my Irish ancestors, I want professional mourners to wail and moan and carry on over my untimely passing.

The ultimate Catholic honor is the concelebrated mass. That scoundrel, former Sen. Ted Kennedy, had seven priests saying his funeral mass. I want 12, with a couple of bishops and a cardinal thrown in. The American-born pope should fly in to do my eulogy.

I also want big names for my pallbearers; I’m thinking ex-presidents Clinton, G.W. Bush, Obama, and Biden, plus Michael Jordan and Beyonce. The singing should be performed by Gladys Knight and the Pips. I’m willing to settle for one Pip.

As I said, I’m not ready to go yet. Statistically, I’ve got 14 years to annoy my spouse, embarrass my children, and shame my seven granddaughters. I intend on showing up at all their first dates dressed as Rambo and holding the severed head of a teenage boy.

Besides, I want plenty of time to accomplish what every loving parent desires: to spend every last cent of my children’s inheritance.