I don’t want to give the impression
that I walk around everyday in a daze and feeling sad, but I don’t want to hide
anything, either. When people you love
die, the grief goes on. It is not something
that fits neatly into a timetable. The 3
days off work they give you for a funeral doesn’t begin to scratch the surface
of the number of days, months, and years you will grieve.
So, no, not all day
every day. But yes, parts of most days.
Maybe the sadness is triggered by a memory. A photo.
A scent. A location. Or maybe it is always there but only bubbles
to the surface when triggered…
Today was no
different. Started out fine (albeit
sleepy and rushed). Productive and
stressful work. Rushing about trying to
complete a big project. Working on not
one but two computers trying to tie together all the loose ends before a big “production
number” at 5:00 pm.
In the middle of the mess,
my sister Sherry texts and tells me that the company turning our sister’s ashes
into art is going to do half of the project today.
We sent her ashes to
Seattle a few months ago. The place is
called Artful Ashes and they put some ashes of your loved one into a glass globe
or other shape. Both surviving sisters
were getting pieces made, as were Annette’s two children. But the SISTERS decided we needed to go WATCH
the artwork be made.
So, we filled out the
paperwork, sent the ashes (which was a sad event unto itself), and bought our
plane tickets.
Then Covid hit. And Seattle was a hot spot.
Appointment at glass
factory put on hold. Airline tickets
cancelled. And the wait began.
But who knows how long it
will be until it is safe to travel that far again? And Annette’s children needn’t wait since
they were not going to go watch the process anyway. So we split the order in two – the kids’
pieces would be made today, and Sherry and I will wait it out until some time
in 2021 when we can travel and watch our sister’s “final craft project”.
Sherry messaged me mid-day
that Artful Ashes had sent her photos of making today’s pieces. She said the pictures made her cry. I knew I would have the same reaction, so I didn’t
open the files…
Must focus on work. My work is on video (Zoom) and today a
co-worker/friend and I were hosting a big Happy Hour. The theme was “Virtual Vacation”
and we have been planning it for a couple of weeks. Making videos. Inviting guest speakers. Sending invites (and reminders). Captioning videos and writing visual
descriptions. It’s been pretty much
all-consuming.
The one thing I had NOT
stopped to consider is ME – what would my “virtual vacation” costume be? We had asked everyone to dress up so as I host
I had an obligation here.
I decided on a beach themed
look since I really wish I could walk on a beach these days. A swimsuit was out of the question – after all
even though it was billed as a fun event it was work related… So, I picked a pretty batik dress. But then I remember a dress I had inherited
when Annette died. I had packed it in a
box to bring to Florida the next time we go.
I got it out and knew it was perfect.
I grabbed some swim goggles to accessorize the look and a big floppy
sunhat.
But then I saw the hat
that I had given Annette for her last birthday.
When she died I inherited it.
It was such a strange
birthday to shop for. What do you get
someone when you know, when they know, that this is their last birthday?? I thought so hard about it. Being in that situation is a stark reminder
of how ridiculous “things” are. Who
needs more clothing? Shoes? Candles or lotion?? In reality, we need NOTHING, especially when
we are near death.
So, I settled on a
hat. A blue fabric beach hat with a
colorful trim. Annette was taking her
kids and grandkids to Hawaii, and I though she would need a good sunhat while
she was there. (Again, note the irony of
my thinking… “Need a good sunhat”??? For what?
To protect against skin cancer?
Cuz, ummm, glioblastoma was already in her brain and killing her… But I convinced myself the sunhat, paired
with sunscreen and a bracelet or something, was the way to go.)
Fast forward to
today.
Rushing around. Putting up (and knocking over twice) a solid
background behind me to let me share a virtual background of a beach
sunrise. Putting on Annette’s dress and
realizing that it fits me to a t and looks pretty. Throwing on some make-up (first time for
mascara in weeks). And grabbing the blue
sunhat.
The sunhat.
The long-pondered birthday
gift. Last birthday.
For Hawaii. Last family trip.
I put it on.
The tags were still
attached.
She had never worn
it.
She didn’t need a
blue sunhat. She didn’t need any “things”.
All she needed was
love. And comfort. And back scratches. And not to be alone when she died.
And she got those
things. She was surrounded by love. She died peacefully. She was comfortable and LOVED.
I ripped the tags off the
hat. I threw it on and peeked in the mirror.
I plastered on a smile and I went to
work.
It’s a good hat. And now it’s mine. I don’t need it, either, I have plenty
of hats. But I will keep it as a
reminder of her. And as a reminder of my
hubris in thinking that it was possible to find a “perfect last birthday gift”. It isn’t.
It never will be.
After work, I sat down and
looked at the photos of the glass orbs.
They are beautiful.
The video of the artist
rolling the molten glass into my sister’s ashes was almost too much to
bear.
I don’t want her to be
ashes. I want her to be HERE. Laughing.
Dancing (and pulling a muscle like she always did).
She isn’t here. But I have the hat. And I would trade it for a few days with her
in a heartbeat.
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