Facing the Rising Sun

The three-week anniversary of Roy’s death is approaching. The Memorial Service was Sunday people came and went. I am left with a house full of flowers, cards, and left over programs, from the service, reminders everywhere of his beginning and ending. Deep feelings of emptiness overcome me at times now. There were nearly 200 people at the Memorial from all walks of his life a testament to how many people loved the man. They walked away back to “life” headlights glowing on the future. For them the Memorial was an event to say goodbye and celebrate his life; for me the service felt like a stop by the roadside… I will continue to drive through a thick fog, with no headlights, praying that I do not cross the centerline into head-on traffic.

His ashes sit on a small table near his chair. They are much heavier than I expected. The urn is a beautifully, woven basket of dark and light natural cane that Roy would love. I did not anticipate the comfort his remains would bring me. When my daughter handed me the big cloth bag with the name of the funeral home printed across it, I let out a deep sigh, another level of reality that he is not coming home but something to cling to. I hesitantly removed the urn lid. Inside I found a thick plastic bag of ashes tucked inside and labeled with his name, a number, date of birth and death; official and impersonal. I poked the bag the ashes yielded to my touch they were soft and reminded me of his beer belly. Rubbing the gritty material between my fingers through the plastic I closed my eyes. Is he all there? He left me with clear instructions to spread his ashes in the Columbia River where it meets the Pacific Ocean. I am not ready to let go! Strangely his ashes feel like all I have left of him, the physical him, so confusing because in the next minute I feel his spirit and energy resting peacefully in all that is left living.

Since his illness and subsequent death my days have been filled with ups, downs, and contradictions. He is “officially” dead because a piece of paper says that he died of respiratory arrest as a result of esophageal and gastric cancer. Each day the mailbox is full of documents to file and bills to pay, a reminder that his “legal” life is continuing. I canceled his cell phone, and credit cards; I remind my self that I must remove him from the car insurance. His health insurance company has made it very clear that I am no longer covered unless I pay the COBRA. I have health insurance through my work, one less thing of concern.

A widow and widower in the U.S. qualifies for a $255 Lump Sum Death Benefit to pay for their departed spouse’s funeral. What year was that benefit enacted? I must complete a form but I am too overwhelmed at the moment. I stack it in the “do later” pile of papers that cover the dining room table. It will cover a few Subaru Forester tank fill-ups.

Last week I began to slowly reclaim some of my old life. I returned to my full-time job and back to my dancing classes. The mornings and evenings are difficult. Breakfast alone with the radio tuned to NPR… I hear an interesting news story and have the urge to call out “Hey Roy you have got to hear this…” No answer, but the thought of what I wanted to say echoes in my head like a voice bouncing off the walls in an empty room.  Returning home from work at the end of the day brings the tears. I remind myself that he is not on a trip; I am alone. I have strange “Roy Moments” as I call them. I turn on the television to watch the news. A message flashes across the screen warning me that the DVR is 99% full. Of course it is; Roy is not here to watch his beloved programs! I delete the programs and feel like I am deleting a part of his life…I guess I am.