reunited

I picked up my husband's remains today.  We (myself, his siblings, and his mom) all decided that cremation would have been what he wanted.  He wouldn't have wanted to be in a casket on display for people to gawk at.  His mom and I weren't comfortable with the idea of tucking him inside a casket and burying him.  His brother and sisters helped me to pick out a nice urn for his remains.  And today - 12 days after he passed - I got to bring him home.

I wasn't sure what emotions would come out when I got to the funeral home to pick him up.  The funeral director had to go over checklists with me about things to do after a loved one passed.  I also had to check over the death certificate. And, I asked to see his thumbprints that they took when they received his body.

By far one of the hardest parts was seeing the words "certificate of death" followed by his name and information on a piece of paper.  He was 36 years old.  Way too young to have his name affixed to such a document. "Cause of death - pending investigation".  That made me feel nauseous.  I was told by the medical examiners office that the autopsy results could take 2-4  months to come back.  But even then there's a chance that they still won't know. So I feel as if we're in a state of "pause" until we know something.

And then I saw his thumbprints.  I'm not sure what about those got to me - but I just wanted to hold them, feel them.  Those thumbprints were attached to the very hands that I loved to hold - the hands that held mine when he got on one knee and asked me to marry him - the hands that held me while we shared our first dance on our wedding day - the hands that would rub my back when I had a bad day - the hands that wiped my many tears away - the hands that cut the umbilical cord of our baby - the hands that held that same baby so close when he rocked him to sleep - the hands that held mine when my brain would want to take off on its own - the hands that would wrap our kids in the biggest hugs and give them the biggest tickles - the hands that would find mine somewhere in the middle of the night.  There were so many ways that his hands touched me, touched our memories, touched our lives - and I was once again, in some way, so close to those hands again by just holding his thumbprints in my hand.  I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt for taking those hands for granted so many times.  I should have held them longer - I should have held them more; because I would give anything to hold his hands again - to feel his hands again.  Anything.

There was a surprisingly bright spot in my visit to the funeral home - and that came when they brought his urn to me. I had no clue how it would make me feel, seeing the urn, knowing that that is where his remains were.  But, it brought some kind of odd comfort to be able to know that he was with me again - that I was able to take him back home with me.  It was the most bizarre feeling...and carrying his urn out and seeing it in the seat next to me in the van actually almost made me...happy.  I almost feel creepy saying it - but maybe someone who has been through something similar will understand.