My father is 75. Despite his decent genetics, growing up in 1950s China wasn’t exactly a health retreat. Famine, political movements, and poverty took their toll before he even turned 18. But to his credit, he spent the rest of his life trying to compensate—regular exercise, a balanced diet, and an unwaveringly positive attitude. I always thought he’d live well into his 80s or 90s, gracefully defying the odds.
That all changed this year. He fell three times due to sudden dizzy spells, fracturing his right wrist, his back, and then his left wrist. He was bedridden for months, needing frequent care. The kicker? He was in China, and I—his only child—was in the US with my own family. I couldn’t be there to help, and my dad, in his infinite wisdom, decided it was best to spare me the worry by keeping the situation a secret. (My parents divorced when I was 15, but somehow, they still teamed up on this one—teamwork makes the dream work, right?)
One day, though, it hit him. He realized he was staring at his own mortality and decided it was time to come clean. When he finally did, I booked my flight to China right away. It took two conversations before he could open up and share his final wishes. After a few long moments of silence, he just said it, no sugarcoating: “When I die, I want to be cremated. No one can take my ashes. No funeral, memorial, or burial. I lived, I died, and that’s that. I don’t have much to leave behind, but I know you don’t care about that. I don’t want you to have to travel back to China every year to tend to my grave. So, that’s what I want.”
Now, let me introduce myself a bit. I grew up in 1980s China, a time when life was improving, and I had a solid foundation of love from my parents. Death rituals felt normal in my childhood—nothing to fear, no mystery. The body of the deceased loved ones would be on display in narrow alleyways for family, friends, neighbors, and passersby to say goodbyes and pay respect. There were tears, sure, but also celebration—after all, life was meant to be lived fully. I grew up without any fear of death, at least the ones from natural causes, because it was simply part of life – we live, we die, and we live on in our loved ones’ memories.
As I grew older, I realized that not everyone shared this view. In fact, death and dying were often seen as taboo, wrapped in fear, anxiety, and even denial. As I embarked on my spiritual journey, I realized what a gift it was to be fearless and accepting of death and dying. So, I took death and dying classes, and eventually built a website, Care Registries, to help families with end-of-life planning and care because I wanted to show people that a “good death” was possible, one that’s as peaceful and meaningful as life itself.
Now, back to my dad. You’d think my parents would naturally share my views, right? After all, I’m their daughter. But, surprise! Death is a taboo topic in China too. Even saying the word “death” could invite misfortune—or worse, a curse to speed up someone’s departure. This fear of death only deepened as China modernized. Paradoxically, the spiritual wisdom of Taoism and Buddhism embraces death, but it never quite made it into mainstream thinking.
So, my dad’s final wishes took me by surprise. I wondered: Is he too accepting of death? Was he disillusioned with life? Did his final wish reflect bitterness, or disappointment in how things turned out? After a few moments of trying to find the right words, I said, “Dad, if you’re so open to discussing death, how about we work on a Legacy Project together?”
He looked at me, puzzled, and asked, “What’s a Legacy Project?”
I took a deep breath. “What means the world to me isn’t materialistic possessions, but the life experiences you have lived and are willing to share with me. When you told me about your childhood, I was too young to appreciate it. Also, there were always lessons in your stories so I didn’t really truly listen. Now I’m older and realize that is the biggest treasure you could have possibly left behind – for me, your grandsons and their children. I will respect all your final wishes, but I don’t want to lose your life experiences or your legacy.”
At that, both of us were fighting tears. My dad hesitated. “But I made a lot of mistakes in life…” I knew what he referred to. My parents’ divorce because of my dad’s infidelity, his prison sentence from bribery, and his attempts to get money out of me after prison – had all left scars. Yet, there was also so much more to him. His resilience, his generosity, his determination to survive through the Great Famine, and how he forgave and cared for his father.
My grandmother died at 36 during the great famine in China, and my grandfather became absent because of his deep grief. My dad, 10 years of age, left to fend for his own survival and his little brother’s. He would wake up early and hungry to wait for coal trucks, then carry two buckets of coal across mountain peaks, just to earn a few coins to feed himself and his little brother. When coal trucks became rare, he begged, borrowed, and stole food. Many kids his age died during that time, but through his hard work, resilience, and resourcefulness, he and his brother survived. Despite my grandfather’s absence, my father never faltered on his responsibility as a son. He treated my grandfather with respect, invited him to live with us, and took care of him till his last days. His actions reflected the importance of funeral planning not just in the ceremonial sense, but in how we care for one another while we’re alive.
My father lived a complicated life, through which I realized that we all have dualities – kindness and mistakes, strength and vulnerability, light and darkness. When there was duality inside of each of us, there would be duality in life. What was important was the learning and the growth from those life experiences. Like a rainbow, life is a spectrum of colors. We label them good and bad, and we have preferences of one over the other. However, when colors are missing, we would have no rainbow. Life too comprises many “good” and “bad” experiences, but without the “bad”, the “good” wouldn’t shine as brightly.
I responded to my father “When I was young, I saw things in black and white, and I blamed you for breaking up the family. I was ashamed of your prison sentence. I was furious when I found out you tried to steal from me. Now that I’m older, I have learned to accept you as a whole person – flaws and merits. We are all imperfect, so why judge each other? All I want is to preserve all your life experiences – ‘good’ and ‘bad’ – so your grandsons and their kids will get to know you as a real person, not a perfect, fictional character.”
We cried together, not in sadness, but in joy and release of pent up emotions. Our relationship, once marked by ups and downs, was now built on a foundation of mutual understanding, respect, and forgiveness. It wasn’t an easy journey, but we had grown together, creating a beautiful rainbow of our shared experiences.
We agreed to add Legacy Project as part of his final wishes – an embrace of life’s impermanence, while preserving the richness of his life story. In my 45 years, I had never felt closer to my father. And I’m pretty sure he’d say the same.
Dear readers, I encourage you to have an open conversation about end-of-life planning, final wishes, and legacy projects with your loved ones. Yes, it may be difficult, but it can also bring clarity and peace. Most importantly, this co-creation will bring you closer together.
Don’t wait for the “right” moment—take the first step now. Sit down with your aging parents, listen to their stories, and share your own. Together, you can honor their wishes and preserve their legacy for future generations.
For resources and tools to guide these conversations, visit Care Registries. Start today and make a lasting impact.
