I was sick all weekend, including today, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day—a paid vacation day at my company. No Marty Party for me (credit my husband for that fun phrase). All of my ailments were in my head and face, which I’m being treated for, so I dutifully took my handful of pills and lazed around the house. Then I got a burning sensation in the center of my chest. My husband said that I had heartburn, but I knew better. I told him that I was dying and that we’d better get our will written—stat. He told me to lie down (code for “knock it off and be quiet”).
He then surprised me. “Hey, do me a favor,” he said. “When you die, will you give me a sign from the next life so that I know there is one?” I wasn’t surprised at his request for me to contact him. But, I was surprised that he needed proof that there was a next life; Catholics are supposed to know this for a fact.
“What kind of sign?” I asked.
“How about flicking the lights in the house three times, when I’m home, the day after you die?”
“I guess I could do that,” I said. “But what if there’s an electrical storm that day and everyone’s lights are flickering?”
He gave that some thought. “You’re right. We need a backup plan.”
We pondered for a while and then he said, “Play our wedding song on the station I’m listening to in the car the day after you die.”
“You want me to play Summer Wind, sung by Frank Sinatra, on the classic-rock station you listen to?”
“Yeah, that’s a good plan. Then I’ll know you’re contacting me from beyond.”
“But, how am I going to get a rock DJ to play Frank Sinatra? Or, what if you’re listening to that 24-hour sports-talk station?”
“You’ll figure something out,” he said.
Suddenly, my heartburn was worse than ever.
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