My brain fog is lifting, little by little, although this isn’t a linear process.  Sometimes I still am so forgetful.  I also tire quickly and unpredictably, and I find myself from time to time sitting in a chair, staring into space, bewildered and confused by my life.  Fortunately, Hospice warned me to expect all these symptoms, so I know I’m grieving, and not losing my mind.

And slowly, I’m getting done what needs to be done.  I recently sold Mark’s car.  I’d never sold a car before, but friends gave me good advice and I did my research, so I muddled through the process.  It made no sense to keep the car, but it was emotionally difficult to peel away another piece of Mark.  He loved the car, and everything about the car reminded me of him. I sold it to a friend who is thrilled to have it, and it was comforting to me to think that Mark would have approved.

But then I wondered, why do I feel this way?

What do we owe to the dead?  Some years ago, I read an article asserting that we owe the dead nothing.  We do our best for those we love and those to whom we have obligations while they’re alive.  But after they’re gone, they’re no longer a part of our world, which continues to change and evolve.  So, the author argued, the living are free to behave as they will, in accord with their own needs and conscience, without regard to what the dead would have wanted.

I recall that the article focused mostly on deathbed promises, the vows made to a dying loved one.  Picture the young son, grasping his mother’s hands as she whispers out her last words:  Promise you’ll never abandon the family business.  Promise you’ll never marry that horrible girl.  Promise that you’ll take care of Toto.  Yes, he says, yes.  Anything to give her comfort in her final hour.  But how seriously must he take those promises after she passes?

I made no such promises, nor did Mark ask me to make any.  Mark rarely imposed his judgment on any of my decisions while he was living, so wherever he might be, I don’t imagine that he’s passing judgment on them now .  Yet I find myself imagining his reaction to my actions, as if I should take his opinions into consideration, and I find these imagined reactions quite compelling.

Years ago, Mark’s mother and my mother passed away within a few months of one another.  Mark and I each received an inheritance.  We decided to use them to pay off our house mortgage.  I remember that our decision was reinforced by our confidence that our mothers would have found this a good use of this money, even though we didn’t imagine them hovering above watching us.  Making a decision that we thought was in line with our mothers’ values was comforting and reassuring to us.  

The truth, I believe, is not that it’s a matter of obligation, moral or otherwise, to consider what the dead would want or feel about what we do.  As I think it through, I believe it’s a way of keeping those dear to us close and honoring them, even when they’re gone.  Perhaps it’s our way of extending their time with us, through our recognition that although our loved ones are gone, we’ve incorporated some of who they were into the core of ourselves.

This is a true story.  Since Mark died, I’ve held this story close and, until now, only shared it with a few trusted friends.  

As a fiction writer, I know that “it really happened” doesn’t count for anything.  Most likely, if I included this story in a fictional account, readers would scoff and find it implausible.  Simply not credible.

But this isn’t fiction.  This is what happened.  Make of it what you will.

Mark died at 8:40 in the morning.  I was by his bedside.  He hadn’t spoken in over 24 hours, and seemed unaware of anyone’s presence.  His breathing was labored, his eyes half open but unseeing, until finally his breathing stopped.

Hospice and the funeral home were called, and Chris came home from work.  Chris and I sat with Mark while we waited for the funeral home attendants to arrive, which took about two hours.  

Two men in poorly fitted black suits arrived.  They looked like thugs but they seemed kind.  They murmured, “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” a phrase that would be directed at me with great regularity in the weeks to come.  After I signed some paperwork, they brought in a gurney and undertook the task of removing Mark.  It took some time.  The gurney was awkward to negotiate around corners and through doorways.  Finally, they wheeled Mark out.  He was encased in an opaque zippered bag.  

Chris and I sat on the living room couch.  My world had just shattered and I wasn’t sure what to do.  I told Chris, “I’m going to make some coffee” and we both moved into the kitchen.

Suddenly, we heard music.  I looked at Chris, puzzled.  I realized the music was coming from my pocket, from Mark’s phone, which I had been carrying with me.  The phone was password locked.

The song was one I had never heard before, and I’m assuming it was streaming from a Pandora station.  It was “The Barricades of Heaven” written by Jackson Brown, and sung by Mark Knoffler, Mark’s favorite performer.  Even played on the tinny tones of the IPhone, it was beautiful.

As I held the phone in my hand and Chris and I listened to the song, the air around us suffused with Mark’s presence.  I cannot explain it, but I was drenched in utter joy.  I remember smiling.  For a few very brief moments, Mark surrounded us in love, and then, just as suddenly, he was gone.

Recently I asked Chris, my very rational and logical son, what he thought happened in those few moments.  He paused and answered, “I have no idea.”

The song lyrics are about yearning, and childhood, and the passage of time.  In part:

“…
Childhood comes for me at night
Voices of my friends
Your face bathing me in light
Hope that never ends
…

Make of it what you will.

Comfort and sorrow, intertwined

Mark died a month ago.  Already my world is changing.  I no longer forget that Mark is gone, only to remember an instant later in a stab of pain, as I did during the first two weeks.  I no longer look forward to telling Mark about something I’ve seen or heard, only to be slapped with the sudden realization that I’ll never be able to do that again.  My heart still aches because he isn’t here to enjoy this wonderful summer in Seattle, the long hot days of sunshine, the hummingbirds, the yards in bloom.  If he were here, he’d be spending early mornings at the golf course, practicing his swing, and later we’d wander off together to a sidewalk table at one of our local restaurants for happy hour and conversation.  He deserved this summer, and I’m heartbroken that he didn’t live long enough to savor it.  

I’d been dreading the trip to the funeral home to pick up Mark’s ashes.  My friend Joyce offered to come with me, but I kept putting it off because I fully expected that the trip would catapult me into despair.  But then, while I was out on another errand, I realized that I was only three blocks from the funeral home.  Why not, I thought, just do it now?

The quiet, modest front room, with its displays of caskets and urns, was empty except for one solemn attendant.  I signed to acknowledge receipt of the ashes.  The attendant opened a wall cabinet in the showroom, shuffling through packages, then finding and presenting me with a sealed box with Mark’s information taped on the front.  He put the box of Mark’s ashes in a handled tote bag, the funeral home’s name embossed in gold on the front, and handed the bag to me.  

But instead of the despair I expected, I wanted to laugh. Mark’s physical remains were presented to me like a heavy box of chocolates, in a nice swanky shiny bag.  I know Mark would have laughed too.  The gift bag of ashes rested in the back seat while I drove home, and then I pushed it deep into one of the den cupboards.  At some future time, Mark’s sister and I will scatter Mark’s ashes.  I know that Mark’s essence still exists, somewhere, but I’m darned sure that nothing of Mark is left in the tidy little box in my den.  

The condolence cards were another hurdle.  They dropped into my mailbox in twos and threes, in heavy white and ivory envelopes.  I appreciated the sentiment and the caring that they represented, but I couldn’t face them right away.  I knew that they’d contain messages about how wonderful Mark was (and he was) and how special our relationship had been (and that was true).  I piled them into a bowl on the dining table, waiting for a time when reading those messages wouldn’t feel like ripping a bandage off a still-raw wound.

When my dear friend Lisa visited from Alaska, we sat down at the table with glasses of a fine chardonnay.  With Lisa by my side, I pulled the cards out, one by one, and read them.  They were heartfelt, and evocative, and sad.  Although some did make me cry, the cards reminded me of Mark’s importance to so many people, and also of the gracious gift of love and support that I’ve received from so many.  A little painful, yes, but the comfort they afforded outweighed the sorrow.

This mix of sorrow and comfort is all around me.  Standing at Mark’s end of the closet, where his clothes still hang, is almost more than I can bear, yet I can’t stay away.  His clothes still hold his essence, a faint scent.  Chris tells me that Mark asked him to help me dispose of his clothes, at some point.  He told Chris that he didn’t want me creating a mausoleum from his things.  Fair enough, but not yet.  Right now, I can bury my nose in the vest he wore whenever the weather turned nippy, and for the briefest of moments, he’s back with me.

The hardest moments are the ones that take me by surprise.  Chris and I decided that Chris should use Mark’s phone, since Mark had a recent model and Chris’ is a dinosaur.  Before engaging the function that would wipe it clean, I flipped through the pictures on the phone, most of which I’d sent to Mark.  But then, I found a video that Mark had made, who knows why, of our cat.  In the background was Mark’s voice talking to the cat, coaxing him to look at the camera.  Mark’s voice.  It was terrible to hear, and it was wonderful to hear.  Sorrow and comfort.