My dearest daughter,
If you are reading this, then you understand that I am not going to wake up from my nostril transplant. I realize it must be trying for you to simultaneously become an orphan and find out that Manhattan Eye, Ear, and Throat Hospital does not have a money-back guarantee. Even though I will never again be able to post selfies or latte art on Instagram, do not be sad. Remember, after Daddy died, when you told me that I deserved some “me time”? (Or was that Hilda in the Saks fur department?) My point is, I have had a wonderful life, especially after the death of Daddy, and now it is time to give back. No, not the Oscar de la Renta chinchilla. (Fluffy mauled the collar.) I am talking about re-gifting my body. (Also, Fluffy’s.)
Therefore, I direct that after my death my remains be distributed to the countless people in the world who are less fortunate than I, even in my current state.
I would like my eyes (contact lenses included, of course) to be donated to a destitute blind child who aspires to see the Tartan plaid called Royal Stewart. When blessed with sight, the child should agree with me that Renoir is pre-Hallmark trash. The child must be attractive, because, otherwise, what’s the point?
My outer ears and cochlea—which have heard the sweet humming of a G5 Learjet and the sound of a baby wailing ceaselessly to be fed—I bequeath to a deaf ward of the state who, like me, can’t wear gold earrings of less than eighteen karats, because of pesky allergies.
My nose, irreparable nostrils and all, should go back to Dr. Savadove. As anyone can plainly see, he gave me Bunny Dash’s nose when what I wanted was the nose of Delia Manoogian, who, let’s not kid ourselves, had copied the proportions from Kay Kling. On second thought: if Bunny wants a backup, it’s hers.
Wasn’t it Christ who said to turn in the other cheek? I suppose I am one-upping Him, then, because I would like whatever is left of my face to be sold at an auction to raise money for a 501(c)(3) foundation in my memory that gives away my body parts for tax write-offs. Make sure that somewhere—the new Whitney would be nice—my name is incised on a marble frieze, in lettering no less prominent than that of Koch, Schwarzman, and Geffen.
Also, in the name of medical advancement, shouldn’t someone at a foundation study my blood, since it is probably ninety-three per cent artificial sweetener?
Before anyone takes my legs, apply self-tanning lotion. While you’re at it, I’d like an eyelash tuck, a chin up, a toe reduction, an elbow peel, a neck twist, a knuckleplasty, and a manicure, all of which should be charged to my estate. Make sure you arrange for the first appointments of the day, because that’s when surgeons are most alert.
Have I ever mentioned Forrest, my adorable trainer at SoulCycle? He gets dibs on my brain. Tell the locker-room ladies to show him how to use it.
Let Mr. Marciano, your virile algebra tutor from ninth grade, have my breasts. He paid for them. (Even you can do the math now, sweetie.)
Certainly, compassion and charity toward the afflicted and the distressed are our moral duty (Christ again?), but I hope that you and Joey know how much family meant to me. To the tired, the poor, and the huddled masses yearning to breathe free—and by that I mean Daddy’s uncle Howie and aunt Lenore—I return the unused Febreze tabletop air purifier, which is still in the box.
No, precious, I didn’t forget you. I gave Joey the money, but would you like my dental veneers? Dr. Ohrstrom said that they have five good years before you’ll need to replace them. Remember to use non-abrasive toothpaste and to never eat lingonberries.
One more thing. Promise me that you won’t give my intestines to anyone, no matter how needy, who likes clams casino. And don’t use my skin-renewal cream. I’m saving it for later.
Sincerely, I was,
Your loving Mother ♦