I’m 19, healthy, and I think about dying. You should, too.

At 6:15 pm, you and your dinner party each pull out a chair from the long table. Before you is a feast so glorious, it could be your last. Bread rolls with fig preserves and butter. Peppered roast asparagus. Alfredo fusilli dusted in parmesan. Glazed yams steaming.

You and your dinner-mates settle in, brimming with anticipation. On your left is a man you met five minutes ago. On your right is your best friend.

Thank you for participating in my Death Dinner this evening, you begin. Everyone please pick up your copy of “5 Regrets of the Dying” and flip to chapter 2, page 31. 

             I crafted my own Death Dinner last Tuesday. In a BuzzFeed-style quiz, I crafted my guest list, chose dying-related “assigned readings”, and explained the reason I wanted to host a Death Dinner. Pausing for a moment to think, I hovered over the line “I want to live fully and I understand that difficult conversations are sometimes the most liberating!”

            I am young (in my late teens) and have neither lost family nor been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Yet, I think about death often.

Death Over Dinner[1] is an organization that promotes healthy conversation regarding death, including financial matters, end-of-life decisions, and funeral desires. While their target audience is typically those who have received a recent terminal diagnosis, or have just been told they have dementia, the site also has a tool that creates “dinner plans” for those who simply want to talk about death in one of the few places that doesn’t consider the topic taboo. 

The concept is rising in popularity. As it should be.

More Americans need to be willing to have the death conversation. We’re all familiar with that terribly icky feeling that comes in waves upon reaching a golden age of awareness, or when a close relative or a beloved pet dies. Some people remain purposefully avoidant of the word “death.” But, I believe that even those who aren’t actively ill, like me, should consider their mortality to some pragmatic degree.

There is reason to consider these thoughts. Modern medicine allows patients with injury to vital organs (once a lethal ailment) to survive, but just barely. Ventilators will force your chest to rise and fall. Machines may filter blood in lieu of functional kidneys. Intense chemical concoctions may stave off prolific cancers. But only for so long. Those with terminal illnesses may be presented with the idea of palliative, or end-of-life care, an empowering series of treatments aimed to optimize comfort and reduce suffering. While these people often receive world-shattering news of their diagnoses, they are, in a way, lucky to have been afforded the ability to plan months or years in advance. We all die someday; those with terminal illnesses just know when.

A pediatric intensive care unit nurse I spoke to for a project told me she has witnessed good deaths and not-so-good deaths. To her, a good death—one that is painless, planned, prepared—is respectful. A bad death – prolonging treatment to no avail – can be torture.

For infants, who have no say in their medical directive, parents must make the decision to continue or stop treatment. But, she had worked with older children and teens who died on their own terms. Diagnosed with terminal illnesses, they opted for options that increase quality of life. “These options are empowering for the child,” the nurse told me. Involving the patient introduces a sense of power in what are often powerless circumstances. Specifying medical and treatment limits may also relieve families of the burdensome decision they have to make if their loved one has been incapacitated. After all, only you know what you truly want.

The summer before college, with my parents, I created a power of attorney. The document appointed my parents as my designated decision-makers in the event I couldn’t make the difficult choices myself. While signing a POA or will before your twenties might come off as morbid—like stockpiling Spam to prepare for the apocalypse —the reassurance can be comforting.

Planning for death also provides you with the autonomy to decide what happens to your body post-mortem. Personally, I found this agency strengthening. I’m eco-conscious and a regular blood donor. Even in death, I want my passions to live on.

Per my California license, I’m a registered organ donor. Though not solidified in formal writing, I’ve opted for an environmentally conscious burial like human composting, an alternative to environmentally degrading methods like cremation. I am partial to the idea of human composting; it’s beautiful, green, and the molecules that make you you can take on a new form—like a tree.

Death is a loaded topic. Some people might not be ready yet—and that’s okay. Starting these conversations can be difficult, especially if those around you practice different faith systems or have yet to confront their own mortalities. While we continue to live, our cellular workings fighting entropy with order, resisting death with breath, planning is forward thinking. Encourage them to embrace approaching post-mortem planning. As a sort of last “hurrah.”

So, invite your friends, coworkers, or internet strangers to dinner. Send them your favorite chapters from “Nothing to Fear: Demystifying Death to Live More Fully” by Julie McFadden. Lay down the fancy table cloth. Set the timer for the pot roast. Pop a brownie tray in the oven. After all, food and death are two of the universal truths in our world.

[1] https://deathoverdinner.org/ is the website where I first discovered the Death Dinner invitation maker