Today’s post is a departure from Mortality Movies. It’s about mortality and your money.
On Monday, March 30 at 2:00 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time/12:00 p.m. Mountain Daylight Time, join Gail Rubin and Doug Lynam, author of the book Taming Your Money Monster: Nine Paths to Money Mastery with the Enneagram, for a LIVE Substack conversation about how we handle our finances.
Doug’s Substack is called The Holy Trinity of Finance. Gail’s Substack is called Mortality Movies with The Doyenne of Death®. Both are TEDx speakers and members of the National Speakers Association.
What follows is an essay originally written for Woman’s Day magazine in 1997. It has been updated to reflect Gail’s money journey since this was written.
Lessons from the Screaming Dead Man
My refrigerator has long doubled as a life coach.
These days it still offers up comics, postcards, magnets, and clippings full of off-the-wall wisdom. Some of them have been with me for decades. “No, Mother, I haven’t met Mr. Right yet, but I have met Mr. Cheap, Mr. Rude, and Mr. Married.” Another reminds me, “Blessed are we who can laugh at ourselves, for we shall never cease to be amused.” And for romantic due diligence: “If you want to know how he’ll treat you, ask what he thinks of his mother.”
But one image has stayed with me more than any other.
A cartoon skeleton, the Screaming Dead Man, shouting into the cosmos:
“What was I saving my money for?”
I first pinned that Screaming Dead Man postcard to my refrigerator nearly 30 years ago.
At the time, I thought I understood the question. Back then, I was very proud of being a saver.
Childhood Money Management
As a child, I collected nickels and quarters in a white box covered with orange and neon pink flowers. Later, I paid for half of my college tuition and felt quietly heroic. In my twenties, I faithfully contributed to an IRA, as if my future retirement depended on my early virtue.
Saving meant security. It meant independence. It meant never having to ask for help.
When I felt the pull to move to New Mexico, I did not just follow my heart. I followed it with a budget. I built a financial cushion and stepped into the unknown.
That turned out to be wise, because I became self-employed.
It was the kind of work where no one could fire me. It was also the kind where no one was obligated to pay me next month.
At that stage of my life, I was single, with no dependents, and a strong belief that I could handle whatever came my way.
I could have bought an outrageously expensive pair of cowboy boots if I wanted to.
I usually did not. But that skeleton had a way of making me think twice.
Money and Family History
My relationship with money did not begin with me. It came with a family history I was still learning to understand.
In 1932, my grandfather had talent, charm, and artistic ambitions. He also had a wife, twin babies, and the Great Depression.
Art lost. He took whatever work would support his family, including jobs as a sign painter and graphic artist. He provided stability, but he also became intensely frugal. No one got an easy break, not even family.
In public, he was lively and engaging. At home, he could be demanding and difficult.
My mother grew up in that environment and became both strong and careful. She built a different life with my father, who brought kindness and steadiness to everything he did. Together, they created not just financial security, but a sense of comfort.
At the time I wrote this essay, I believed I was following their example.
Money Uneasiness
Then life became more complicated.
For the first time, I felt uneasy about money. My savings were no longer growing. Income was uncertain, and I was responsible for two mortgages. One of them was tied to helping my brother, who was on disability, to buy a home.
I did not say much about my concerns. I did not have to. My parents noticed.
My mother offered to send money from her Social Security.
At that point in my life, I had never asked my parents for financial help. Accepting it felt like crossing a line I had spent years carefully maintaining.
Instead of arguing, I cried.
When the check arrived, I called to thank her and cried again. That is when she told me something I had never heard before.
Years earlier, when she was struggling financially, she had asked her father for help. He refused.
“It hurt deeply,” she said. “I promised myself I would never do that to my children.”
Her check was not just financial support. It was an act of repair.
My parents had this saying on their refrigerator: “Money isn’t everything, but it sure keeps the kids in touch.”
At the time, I thought it was just a joke. Now, with the benefit of years and experience, I understand it differently. Money and family are rarely separate. Beneath financial decisions are layers of emotion, memory, and meaning.
Back to That Question
So, what was I saving my money for?
Back then, the answer seemed simple. Security. Freedom. The ability to take risks and pursue creative work.
Now, looking back, I see that money was never just about the future. It was also about the past.
My mother used hers to heal a wound left by her father’s refusal. My grandfather may have used his to cope with a life that did not unfold the way he had imagined.
And me? I was asking the question before I fully understood it.
Money and Mortality
That Screaming Dead Man magnet is still on my refrigerator. He is still asking.
The difference now is that I have lived with the question long enough to recognize it is not meant to have a single answer. I’m still single (actually a widow now), with no dependents, and I still have a strong belief that I can handle whatever comes my way.
In the almost 30 years since I first wrote this, I did eventually loosen my grip on the purse strings. For one thing, I have a serious fondness for fancy cowboy boots. I bought not just one or two pairs, but a full-fledged collection, with beautiful leather, intricate stitching, and bright colors.
There is just one small twist.
At some point along the way, my feet decided to grow. I went from a size 8½ to a 9½, which meant a dozen pairs of those gorgeous boots no longer fit. I recently carried them into a consignment shop in Santa Fe. I will get a nice chunk of money when they are purchased by another boot aficionado.
I still have another dozen pairs, of course. Many of them feature skulls and skeletons, which I am happy to consider a business expense.
Some lessons take time.
So, what was I saving my money for? These days, I have a better answer. I was saving it so I could use it. To help family when it matters. To take risks when they call. To buy the boots, even if I do not keep them forever.
Money, like life, is not meant to be held onto too tightly.
Eventually, one way or another, we have to let it go.
Gail Rubin, Certified Thanatologist, is a pioneering death educator and the author of five books on end-of-life issues, including the forthcoming title, 98.6 Mortality Movies to See Before You Die.