“It is impossible to experience one’s death objectively and still carry a tune.” (Woody Allen)

I knew I shouldn’t have answered it, but my ego hijacked the keyboard before better judgment had a chance.  It was late, and I was the kind of tired that is wired so tight it makes one feel as if you’re a character in The Walking Dead when I saw a post in a “Life After Death” social media group I usually browse in my free time.  A fellow insomniac typed a plaintive “I want to go home. What should I do?” Instead of doing the sensible thing and scrolling past, I grabbed my keyboard and launched into a lengthy philosophical explanation of why we’re still stuck here on Earth.

Big mistake. The keyboard vampires came out. Even the atheists joined the fray. Before long, the transcendental fur was flying.

When I finally fell back into bed, exhausted yet still wired, my mind decided to continue the work of the vampires who had left off. Scenarios of my earthly transition raced through my head, including one I would very much like to avoid.

It involves dying peacefully in my bed—but not realizing I’m dead. Instead, I hear the faint chatter of a party in my living room, perhaps with a little Sinatra playing in the background. Heart pounding, I walk out of the bedroom and notice that the lights I had carefully turned off earlier in the evening are all glowing.  And there they are: sitting on my green velvet couch and wandering around my living room—my mother, my father, a few aunts and uncles, and perhaps some assorted friends. All deceased. All waiting to welcome me home. It would be the ultimate reverse birthday surprise party, the one I never asked for.

Contrary to what many people might desire, I don’t want my first moments of vaporous existence to include an immediate family reunion. I still have a few wrinkles in some of my earthly relationships, and I’m hoping to iron them out on the other side, with St. Anthony acting as referee. I’ve always liked him as a saint, and in every religious icon I’ve seen, he’s wearing sensible sandals. I trust a man who comes prepared for eternity with comfortable footwear.

Or worse, what if the immediate moments following our transition involve being transported to an airport-like setting, where other recently departed souls are waiting for takeoff? If moving walkways, not airplanes, carry us to our final destination, will they be clearly labeled?

Will we be forced to carry two suitcases: one filled with all the wonderful, kind things we’ve done in this lifetime, and the other with the not-so-kind? And will we have to pay extra for our heavier sins?

Here’s how I want to leave this earth: I want to rise from my body and see a rainbow-colored bridge stretching out before me. Feeling light as a feather and happy as a clam, I’ll cross it at a leisurely pace, taking my time until I see a cluster of wagging tails racing toward me—the animals I’ve loved so deeply throughout my life. At that moment, I suspect I’ll pick up the pace.

As for the humans, heaven can wait.