7/4/24 (the blog)

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

As time moves forward, as it inevitably does, and two weeks, almost three, have already gone by since Michael’s passing, it’s become more and more apparent to me how deeply I was running on automatic pilot. From January 17^th on, my world was about getting done what needed to get done, which included learning all sorts of new skills.

*how to speak to doctors and nurses, constantly with a notebook in my hand to write down the answers so that I would remember them for more than a couple minutes. And how important it was to write down which doctor or nurse told me which thing.

*how to deal with a catheter and a feeding tube and an NG tube, and their aftermath. How to deal with multiple IVs. Understanding a TPN.

*how to use a gait belt.

*how to be always ready to help, while at the same time, stepping into the background, so that Michael felt independent and so he could see how he was improving.

*how to organize and dole out medications, that were four times a day, three times a day, two times a day, one time a day, and took up space on my counter like a pharmacy, and how to deal with that moment of terror when I thought I’d messed something up.

*how to keep my temper, though that was something I failed at often.

*how to do all the things Michael did around the house. How to do all the things he never had to do, but I now had to, dealing with doctor’s appointments, insurance companies, organizing home health aides, and so forth.

*how to blunt everything. Because it was the only way to keep myself from falling apart. And to keep him together.

*how to be the power of attorney, and to be comfortable with my decisions and act as Michael’s advocate and my own.

And the amazing thing is, this hasn’t stopped since Michael died. There are more decisions to make, more paths to follow, more instructions, more forms and paperwork, more, more, more.

Dealing with cremation, which is what Michael wanted, is surreal. In Michael’s case, the accident that took his life required him to go to a medical examiner before he went to the funeral service provider. The medical examiner had to release Michael. Had to return him to me.

And yet, as well-led as I was by the people around me, nothing prepared me for when I walked in to the funeral home for Michael’s Celebration of Life, to find him, his urn, sitting on the table and waiting for me.

It was so small. Beautiful. But small.

I had to try, very quickly, to acclimate myself to that urn embodying my husband. That was him.

This wasn’t the first time I dealt with this. When my father died a long time ago, my mother and brother took care of the selection of the urn. I was at the house when they walked in, my brother carrying my father in a shopping bag.

“I wondered if I should put on his seatbelt in the car,” my brother said.

Surreal.

I had to call the church to see if my father was welcome at his own service. The priest told me that if it was a funeral, we should bring the urn, because a funeral is for the dead. But we were having a memorial service, and so that was for the living. My father remained at home.

Surreal.

When planning the Celebration of Life, first the funeral home, then our daughter and my mother-in-law asked me if the cremains would be buried. I hadn’t really thought about it, as by that point, I was having to focus so much on just what my next step would be, how deeply would I take my next breath. I knew, for myself, I wanted to be cremated as well, and then scattered in the Pacific Ocean, in Waldport, Oregon, my favorite place on earth. Michael and I figured out and shared what we both wanted when we did our wills a couple years ago. But he hadn’t told me what to do with his ashes.

I looked on the website for one of our cemeteries and was startled at all the options for cremains. But the more I studied them, the further I felt from Michael.

And then I heard him.

Through this entire ordeal, six weeks in the first hospital, three weeks in the rehab facility, a week back in the hospital, then a final three weeks and six days for the last time in the hospital, Michael said one thing consistently, over and over again.

“I just want to go home.”

That’s what he wanted. “He’s coming home,” I told the funeral home, our daughter, and my mother-in-law. “I’m bringing him home.”

And so, when the Celebration of Life was over, I picked Michael up and carried him, much as I carried him every day since January 17^th. I brought Michael home. Like my brother, I wondered briefly if I should put a seatbelt on the urn while we were in the car. I didn’t. But I smiled.

He’s here now. Home. I finally got him here. There is no more pain. No more confusion. There is only comfort and familiarity. He is safe.

He would be so happy.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.