May I request that I go via a massive heart attack or a massive CVA (cerebrovascular accident), something that will do me in in 5 seconds or less?
I hate pain, so please, make sure I’m adequately anesthetized. I heard endorphins can do the job. Please let them kick in before the pain does.
I don’t care if you donate my viable organs to whomever may need them.
I would prefer DNR to being indefinitely brain dead.
May I also ask that you visit me first before you come for G. It’s hard to imagine a livable life without him.
I want to die in a flowing red dress made up of tulle or Alencon lace.
I want to have a great make-up artist to do my cadaver’s face.
I don’t mind the casket I will be buried in but I would hate for it to be any other color but white.
I want Karen Carpenter, Air Supply, Whitney Houston, Barry Manilow, the Bee Gees, Carole King and Rey Valera songs in my wake. Boo hoo if the attendees hate sappy 70s and 80s lovesongs, they’d better put up with them or else I’ll rise from my casket and fix the darned CD player myself!
I want all my friends to visit me at least once during my wake or burial. I understand your busy schedules, guys, but as this is my last request, you’d better put out or suffer the consequences. Bwa ha ha ha!
I would prefer to be cremated. But if my loved ones so desire, I wouldn’t mind being buried in toto. Please don’t bury the casket with me, all those trees just for my cadaver! Bury me in a biodegradable sack or cloth or whatever. Donate the casket to those in dire need.
If I do get my way, post-mortem, and got cremated, please scatter my ashes to the following places that I have lived in and loved (you can ask G for details, as I won’t go into specifics here):
1. The building where I studied high school — unfortunately they are now razing it to the ground to give way to a mall.
2. The apartment in Manila where I got rid of my virginity.
3. The hospital where I learned how to be a doctor. The second one, not the first.
4. The place where we used to run on Sundays, and where someone sang Martin Nievera’s “Valentine” to me one night 11 years ago. Yes, I remember, even if he’d probably filed it away under the heading, ‘cheesy things i did which i am never doing again’.
5. That space in the college of medicine near the canteen where someone told me he loved me for the first time and to which I replied, “I’m not really sure I know what love is.”
6. That space under the stairs where all sort of shenanigans happened.
7. Okay, you can get rid of the darned ashes in the beach of my hometown, the one where I spent the first 4 years of my life.
Consider this post my advance directives.