THE VILLAGE IS THE PLAN

When my Dad, Rick, came home on hospice, dying of cancer at the young age of 62, I had no choice but stare into the face of Death. I was in my 30s, and my second child was still an infant. 

In the quiet hours between visiting with Dad, taking care of him, and tending to my young children, I embarked on a makeshift self-study of death. I read several books on the subject. I journaled and prayed. I wept.

For seven unforgettable weeks, Dad and I took long drives through the winding, rolling country roads in our little corner of Western Pennsylvania. We had time to say the things we needed to say, and to just sit together during late summer afternoons under the slanting sun. Through my grief, I watched in awe as nearly everyone who knew and loved my dad came to share memories with him, hold his hand, sing and pray with him, and tell him how much he meant to them. If you didn’t know what was going on, you’d think we were having a graduation party every day—there were that many cars parked in the driveway and on the street in front of my parents’ home. Every meal was provided, discretely dropped off in a cooler on the front porch by friends, neighbors, and acquaintances. He died peacefully in his own living room, surrounded by his loving family. I was right there with him.

The morning after my Dad’s funeral, his youngest brother, an active and healthy 51-year-old, dropped to the ground with his first—and last—heart attack. He was given CPR and emergency surgery. Exactly one week after my Dad died, my Uncle was pronounced brain-dead in the ICU.

This sequence of events has profoundly influenced every facet of my life. It is the main reason why I shifted my legal practice to estate planning, and it deeply informs my approach to this work.

I learned two great lessons during those months in Pennsylvania. 

First, I needed a Village. As a new transplant to Ann Arbor, I didn’t have close friends I could count on.  In Pennsylvania, I experienced deep roots—my parents had both grown up in the area. Hundreds of people showed up for my family, both during my Dad’s hospice and through the ICU death and memorial for my Uncle. No need went unmet. As I returned to my new home in Ann Arbor, I wondered, who would show up for me if tragedy struck? 

Second, I needed a Plan. Even though I was a lawyer and a young mom, I didn’t have a Will or any other documents that I might need. My Dad knew he was dying and had put a plan in place; my Uncle was young and healthy and, like most Americans, had not yet made a plan. I watched how good planning made my mother’s life (and by extension, my life) easier, while a lack of planning created difficulties for my Uncle’s family.

We all need a Village and a Plan. But here’s the secret: the Village is the Plan. They go hand-in-hand, because the central power in any estate plan is not the document or the bank account; it’s the relationships of trust, dedication and love that are memorialized in the documents. 

After my Dad and Uncle’s deaths, as I attempted to return to “normal life,” I wanted to–needed to–talk about what I had experienced and learned. I had made a previously-unimaginable kind of peace with Death, and I wanted to keep exploring the depths of the Ultimate Question. But I quickly discovered that there were two kinds of people when it came to the topic: those who could not touch it—the ones who used euphemisms and quickly changed the subject, and those who could converse fluently. Unfortunately for me, most people fell into the first category.

I realized that those who didn’t talk about death also didn’t plan for it. And that not planning made death harder, both for the dying and for those they left behind. Still with more questions than answers, I sought out opportunities to talk with people about death. I found the Death Cafe, hosted at the time at Crazy Wisdom Tea Room by Merilyn Rush, founder of The Dying Year. Talking and thinking about the end of life was the first step to creating a Plan.

I also started to intentionally build my Village. I had seen the power of deep community roots, and I had felt supported by those who showed up in our time of need. I wanted to pay it forward. I baked and froze lasagnas to deliver to those who might need a home-cooked meal. When a friend was in need, I dropped everything to be there for them. I made an effort to invite neighbors and new friends over for dinner and to show up to community events. With each effort, my life grew richer, more beautiful. 

There were many unexpected gifts on my path to a Village and a Plan. I learned that contemplation of death is not only an important step to “having a plan in place;” it is also a key component to all wisdom traditions—a lens for living a more purposeful and awakened life. Memento mori (“remember death”), as this practice is referred to in the West, is a powerful tool to clarify our priorities and cultivate gratitude for the preciousness of life. I was living with more intention and purpose. 

Four years after my Dad and Uncle died, my third child, Viggo Rick, was born with a severe genetic condition. Viggo was an amazing little boy who defied the odds by arriving earthside. He dazzled everyone who met him with his penetrating blue eyes and magical fingers. He completed our little family.

One of the many beautiful gifts of Viggo’s life was the opportunity to feel the love of my new village. My neighbors came together to finish Viggo’s nursery while we were in the NICU, as he had come early, before I was ready. Our family and friends and colleagues and classmates from all over the world sent meals and gifts and messages of love and support. One group of friends raised money for in-home nursing care; another raised money for a generator so that Viggo’s breathing machine would never lose power. Our older children were always cared for by loving families while my husband and I were in the hospital with Viggo. Others spontaneously pulled weeds or spread mulch to tidy up our neglected yard. One neighbor brought dinner on Wednesdays for a year after Viggo’s death, as I learned to carry the heavy weight of my grief.

I am still moved to tears when I remember all the love we received that year. My family and I are resilient not because of our intrinsic strength, but because of our village. If there’s one thing I hope you take from my story, it’s this: don’t wait. Start building your Village now, and make your Plan while life is still humming along. Reach out to the people you trust, talk about the hard things, get your wishes on paper. When life brings its inevitable twists, it won’t be the documents or the to-do lists that hold you up. It will be the faces of the people who show up, the hands that hold yours, and the love you’ve nurtured along the way.