And other death related things we don’t talk about…
Death has so many tasks that come with it. I had no idea. I was 35 when Bob died. I had some experience with people I loved dearly dying, but none where I was very involved in the logistics. When you are at your soul crushing lowest, there is a list of tedious tasks to check off. Bob’s sister flew in from Wisconsin, and I remember thinking, “why is she doing that? He’s gone. Why is she coming now?” But thank the goddess that she did because she could hold it together, and knew about the death tasks that had to be done in order to square things away. I was a zombie…the kind of zombie that was capable of holding it together all through the mortuary decisions, death certificate discussions, but then wailing in the diner over a pickle. I was used to completing plenty of tasks for Bob and filling out paperwork for him. I was used to handling things. I was not used to him being gone. Why was I at lunch with his sister without him?
Why don’t people talk about how horrible it is to pick up ashes at a mortuary? It’s a really awful experience. People are dying all the time, and we don’t talk about the logistics of death. How does anyone know what to do? I feel like we should be having these conversations.
I think I surprised the mortuary by coming early for the ashes pick up. Jesus was the name of the guy who was assigned to us, and he didn’t seem to be expecting me. He hastily got up from his desk, and went to his closet to get Bob’s box. The. Closet. I was horrified. My Bob. This guy had Bob in his closet with the office supplies and jacket or whatever else was in there. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting. Maybe have the box inside of a gorgeous glass case with a few spotlights on it, and some music gently playing? Bob was an entertainer after all. Nope. The closet. At least they were in a red velvet bag.
Jesus sets Bob’s ashes on the table in his office and asks me to sign this paper. More paperwork. I’m thinking it’s no big deal. I lean over the table to sign, and I see it’s a document to verify that I received Bob’s remains. The line that listed the decedent’s name was blank. I didn’t want to sign something without a name on the form. What if they used that form to say I signed for many ashes or some stranger’s ashes?! Is that even a thing? My brain was fried, and as I was writing his name, and reading the form, it hit me how real this was. I didn’t want to sign this document that plainly stated that my friend was now smoke remains. I started to cry and lose it because I never wanted to pick up his ashes. This man that I love is in a box inside a fancy bag and I have to write out and legally swear that this horrible thing is happening. Why hasn’t anyone prepared me for this?! I felt like a child looking for guidance. Jesus offers me a tissue and here I am in an office of a mortuary with a man who is basically a stranger walking me through this painful, complex experience. Before I can be swallowed by the grief and awkwardness of the situation, I try to make a joke, “Do you guys have stock or shares in Kleenex? Do you get a discount for buying in bulk?” Jesus very flatly and honestly says, “No.”
Okay.
Great.
I then go for somewhat genuine, but still light because I’m desperately trying to find a way to wrap up this odd section of time together. What do you say at the end of an interaction like this? What is the Emily Post etiquette for closure with the mortuary attendant? I offered, “Thank you for your help. It was nice to have someone to help me navigate all of this. I hope I don’t see you again anytime soon.” I felt like I nailed the balance between gratitude and levity. And Jesus comes through for a second time and deadpans, “Well, I live in the area, so you may see me.” Jesus! Come. on. Throw me a bone here, brother. I am about to drown in the terrible that is my current reality and you can’t even chuckle at the idea that I don’t want to see the mortuary guy again soon?!? It almost made the whole thing laughable, but at the time, it was way too hard to see that. I wish someone had told me to bring a friend for the ashes pick up. It’s a simple piece of advice, but it would’ve made a big difference. I just thought it was another task that needed to be completed, and I was on autopilot.
When I walked out of the mortuary and was holding Bob in my arms, it started to sink in what this meant, and I called my friend that lived in the area crying, and asked if I could stop by because I was about to lose it. Then, I was in the car wrestling with a different critical question….How do you transport ashes?! Do I put him in the seat or set him on the floor or what? I buckled him into the passenger seat (because you know…safety is always important). When I got to my friend’s house and parked, I had another large life decision to overcome. Do I leave him in the car or take him with me? It was so hot in the valley, and it seemed wrong to leave him in the car…and what if someone saw him in the car and knew of my gross misconduct?! Again, where is the protocol for this?! So, I finally landed on carrying him in my arms.
I had to walk over a block that way because parking in Los Angeles is just that way. I thought how crazy I must look with puffy, watery eyes staring off into the distance, walking slowly in the heat with my arms wrapped around a red velvet bag/box thing. I have never felt so alone and so out of my body and empty.
Also…remains are heavy! Why aren’t we talking about that? I watch tons of crime shows and murder mysteries and I don’t ever remember someone mentioning how heavy remains are. That’s an important detail to know. It’s just ash, but it’s heavier than you think. Bob was a little guy and I only had half of his remains because the other half were mailed to his sister. I couldn’t believe how heavy only half of his ashes were.
And in an ironic twist of events, Bob currently resides in my closet.
