Life Happens . . . so does “What am I to do now?”

First… as in life happens and so do choices, is the decision about moving “the body.” Such a cold term for the man, the companion, counselor, best friend and love of my life since I was 20 years old; the man who lived to make me happy and, with deep devotion, laboured faithfully to keep our island’s vegetation pleasurable, a source of enjoyment day by day.

Before notifying the funeral home, a choice … move him to the morgue for pick up or stay in this room awaiting the men in black (Sounds restaurant like; take-out or eat-in? A waiter would shortly attend.) No way was I leaving his side or him mine. No one was taking him anywhere I could not go. I need to protect him. I need to see him. I need to touch him, feel him and watch his chest. He lives to me. I know no mortal life courses through his body, that his spirit is close, perhaps witnessing the unfolding scene as an act in a play. I feel an odd sense of peace; he is still my husband. I am told a discernible change in my countenance, a peaceful, soft glow, occurred at the exact time of his passing through mortality’s curtain into eternal realms. I am not letting go, I will not leave him alone. I will stay as long as it takes. And long it took. Two of us wait over 2 hours while the rest of the family returns to homes and children. Silence. An occasional, short burst of words escape tongues between fighting tears and stoic bravery. Feelings of peace with dry eyes. Silence. Cyclical. Abiding.

The black velvet looking outer layer caught my eye as a gurney comes through the curtain. Standing before us men in black, two kindly faces. No weapons of forgetfulness did they possess but the authority granted to physically separate Alan and I. I will myself to move aside so they could do their job. Robotic motions transfer him from bed to gurney. I stare, numb, as he lay void of emotion in the black cocoon about to be sealed and strapped. This is not a crime scene, no autopsy forthcoming, my reality. I, with trepidation, place my hand upon his forehead, gently run my fingertips from hairline in slow motion, to his ear, down his jawline before brushing his lips, the ones I have not been able to kiss for 2 weeks, ending the touch at his chin. What am I to do now? In this moment of time, the choice is born of circumstance. Watch the cocoon envelop him from toe to crown. Stand silently as the wheels slowly begin their momentum through the curtain and out of sight. My daughter holds me tight.

Softly falls fluffy, delicate white flakes melting on the windshield as we drive home on the highway, signaling with the first snow of the year, that even the upcoming winter will bring moments of beauty in nature. All I could say, “It waits to snow until your father is gone. He doesn’t like winter. With him on oxygen, this would have been very difficult for him.”

Days pass after Alan’s death with much to do before his funeral. Three daughters living in Alberta, all in different cities, need flights home. I arrange three flights. Sisters volunteer to meet sisters at the airport. In the Eternity section of Brampton Funeral Home & Cemetery our plot awaits its first use, purchased in 2004 shortly after his father died suddenly. The death of loved ones causes thoughts. There was a service to plan, people to contact, all mind busy necessities. And yet…the sun continues to set and rise. Time does not stop. With the world revolving, all I could do was figure out what to do, what was next and write in my journal.

Monday, December 5, 2016 — I was up at 3 am in tears for quite some time. I went downstairs around 4:30 am and cuddled with our eldest daughter (the first to arrive from Alberta). Eventually, we come upstairs. She lays herself on Alan’s side of the bed and cuddles up against my back with an arm around me. It is very comforting. We talk for awhile before I finally fall asleep for an hour, maybe….

“I am very tired. I miss my husband.”

Thursday, December 8 — funeral service day
Letters written by grandchildren or pictures drawn for him find the secret compartment over his chest, reading and viewing material while he lies cradled in satin, remembrances for love given and received. Time with grandpa lives in memories and pictures. Little ones, lifted up, tenderly bend to touch and kiss. Each grandchild and child express loving touch with hands and lips. For me, it seems unreal and I just want to cuddle. My focus centers on all eight children, their faces, their hesitations, their touches, and I feel their hearts through movements, their beings while mine breaks for them.
Welcoming his mother, sisters, brother, and their families give us time for respite, gathering thoughts and something to eat to prepare for public visitation and the service.
Sentinels, protecting a treasure, line up beside his casket and stretch beyond it (9 people in a single row from chest past feet), me furthest from his head while his mother sits at the opposite end, watching carefully the many who came. Most viewing in disbelief, not knowing what to say, some sharing a brief personal experience with Alan, saying hello and sorry, filling me with gratitude for those whose lives he touched and their willingness to share.

The children and I following his oak casket with rosewood accents lead a slow moving procession of other family members into a chapel full of people, much to my surprise, and all standing, watching our family. Catching bated breath, I hesitate, restraining overwhelming feelings surfacing as I meet silent, speaking eyes, recognizing among the crowd some of my co-workers, Alan’s co-workers (before he retired), people not seen in years and others who did not come to the public viewing. Forcing concentration on moving one foot in front of the other, buoyed up by children holding me, continues until Alan is at the head and we are seated for the service to begin.
“My eternal companion has left his body here and moved onto the spirit world where I am sure his father and granddaughter are happy to be with him,” I begin, restraining tears, when my turn comes. “Since last Friday, my mind has struggled to accept that I will not see him sitting in his chair, hear his joys and sorrows, or attend the temple with him.” Among the things shared by me was a poem Alan began writing while in the hospital. He and I never had the opportunity to talk about his thoughts and where it was headed because I found it among his belongings afterwards. Written on the back of a paper plate was the following:
Lying in the gutter
Tossed upon the heap
The broom of life it beckons
The answer, sweep, sweep, sweep.
I wish I knew what prompted these words. The service drew to its conclusion with a hymn. We stood as all 8 children, his pallbearers, gathered around their father escorting him to the black limousine which would lead several vehicles to the cemetery.

At the gravesite, learning the vault I chose had special characteristics: made and lined of stainless steel, it would retain fingerprints inside, the children and grandchildren respond to my beckoning. Suggesting we produce a ‘mural’ of hand-prints on the walls of the vault, the children and 6 excited grandchildren (out of 9 – the 2 youngest one stayed behind out of the cold with their other grandmother and one predeceased exactly 2 months before her 4th birthday and, 18 months minus 2 days to Alan’s death) eagerly remove mitts and gloves, get down to reach inside the vault with me, then forcefully we press our hands against the cold metal, smiles on our faces as we look at each other and admire our work of art.

The machine moves closer as we all step back. Swaying slightly in the air above our heads, Alan’s satin-lined, oak bed is positioned before careful lowering inside his protective vault to rest surrounded by our hand-prints. The lid secured in place, I kneel for one last touch. Eventually, finding strength to stand when assisted and surrounded by children, grandchildren, extended family and a few close friends, the crank turns slowly. The further down into the depths of earth he descends I feel as if playing a game of tug-of-war, being yanked by an invisible rope from my heart, mind and soul and, I was losing. He was taking me.

Kneeling beside the vault housing his casket.
Reflections ..
When you fall on your knees at the end of your path to hold onto what remains, where do you find the strength to rise and take a step into the unknown?

Sometimes my heart fills too small a vessel for all it tries to contain.
Sitting near the remnants of mortality; the body you left behind.
The feelings of my broken heart escape tear ducts, pure thoughts fill my mind.
Alone, except for the gentle breeze gently sending wisps of hair in my face.
Only one can ease my pain and make me brave again
To face each day with faith, “Thy will be done.”
Now on I must go until my time is spent
So may I live well, love, and be grateful.
You touched me, changed me, taught me, loved me, moved on;
Til we meet in eternity, may my heart find solace.

Six months and fifteen days after his passing into eternity’s realm, I sit, contemplating, on the grass above him. Reaching for oneness with the natural world in silent, heartfelt petitions to a higher power, seeking desperately to overcome continual, pounding waves of anguish, to calm the seas in both heart and mind, I feel a grasp in the breeze catching me and a whisper on air currents that brings lightness, lifting me above the turbulent waters to the shore of my island paradise, not on my known path (clearly visible from where I sit), with all the familiar scenery. Penning the words of wind-carried whispering heard in my heart, despair recedes like the outgoing tide leaving serenity as beautiful as sparkling white, resistant quartz crystals concentrated in the sand, visible only after waters’ powerful influences.

Much transpired between December 8, 2016 and June 17, 2017 when it seemed the wind dictated my writing.

Life happens… and so does “What am I to do now? Perhaps, like me, the biggest part of that question seeks an answer all day for many days on end. Sometimes when there is much to accomplish the task of choosing just happens. Sitting, especially in the evening, the question returns, but it really means “What am I to do without you now? Sadness comes and goes. Wakings’ purpose seemed a haunting of varying degrees, the heartbroken reminder I am alone. Fewer and fewer days begin heartbroken (seldom now) but that was not the case when I sat contemplating at the cemetery. Sunrise still touches my heart with the irrefutable truth, as does sunset. I love them both, they are beautiful wonders I am blessed to experience. Sunlight warms me. Sunrise welcomes newness. Life happens (I do not question why or feel angry) …so do choices and, …what am I to do now?

Over three years later, unanswered pertaining to much of my life’s trail, I continually seek the tiniest glimpse, a distant star to reach on my voyage.

What do you do with the unexpected circumstances in your life?

Where do you draw courageous strength to answer “What am I to do now?” Is it ever a basic step, like getting out of bed, making it, brushing your teeth and avoiding the mirror? Or if looking in the mirror, try to force a smile? Each in his/her own time and pace.