The day after Matt died, I was told by his step-dad, Doug, that I needed to find a funeral home to deliver Matt’s body to, from the coroner’s office where he currently rested. He said that there was no hurry; it didn’t have to be decided today, but the process should be started.
As this news slowly filtered through my muck of shock, I heard Matt’s voice in my head, or sort of felt him say, “Get me out of this awful place.” I knew just what he meant, and could sense the urgency in my body like like electricity. I couldn’t imagine that the coroner’s office was cozy. I vaguely remembered the office’s drab brown walls and bland furniture from when I had been there the day before, when it first became official to me that my husband had died. “Coroner’s office” certainly didn’t have the nice warm feeling in its name like funeral home did.
I had just enough wits about my shattered self to know that the thought of google-searching “funeral homes in Santa Barbara” and making any kind of decision just then was impossible for me. I asked our pastor friend James to please use his experience and expertise and just tell me where we should take Matt.
Fast-forward to that afternoon; myself, my dear midwife partner Laurel, my Dad, Doug, Pastor James, and one of Matt’s best friends Brian, gathered to caravan from the coroner’s office to the funeral home. I think my then-15-month-old son was at home with my mom, who had arrived from the east coast that morning.
As the small group of us gathered outside of the coroner’s office, I saw the van carrying Matt’s body begin to pull away from the building. For the first time since 6am the day before, when I had left to go to a birth, I knew exactly where my husband’s body was. I couldn’t take my eyes off the van. That is how I saw it driving away. Without me. Matt was leaving me behind, again. I couldn’t breathe, panic clenched my brain; yet somehow, I was able to wail, “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go!” I heard someone say they would go inside and call the driver; it seemed like forever before it was eventually arranged that he would pull over and wait for us en route.
The drive to catch up with the van felt endless. It was nearly sunset, things had a strange, shiny, surreal light to them. I’m sure that was partly because my eyes were abused by all the tears and the wildness of sleepless shock.
We met up with the van on the corner of Mission Street and De La Vina, right next to where McConnell’s ice cream shop was at the time. When I realized that we were pulling over because the funeral home van was in front of us, and I saw where we were, I actually chuckled. Anyone who knew Matt knew that, second to his family, his love was ice cream. I think he had it almost every single day of our three year relationship. It made me worry about his health, but perhaps it helped keep him sober. He relished in giving himself a treat in that way. Ice cream. Hello, Matt.
That moment behind the van was the closest I had been to Matt’s body. The immediacy of his presence pulled me forward out of the passenger seat. I put my hands on the front dash, reaching toward him and grabbing onto the cool, smooth surface; needing something to steady me. There began some kind of energy work... love and connection flowing through my hands to him… letting go… while yearning to be closer, to fold myself into his big, warm self, like I had done nearly every single day for the last three years; to bridge the gap between the cars, the realms of reality, the veils of existence. A river of tears flooded the short distance between our bodies. Like carrying and birthing a child, the intensity of that whole experience seemed impossible to have fit in me. I think I maintained this state of fervor and energetic connection for the short remainder of the drive.
As we approached the grand building of the funeral home, the driver indicated for us to go to the front parking lot, while he settled Matt in at the back of the building. We knew beforehand that we would not be able to be inside with Matt then, so we came together by our cars, to spend a moment in prayer. Our small circle of six stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure what to do next. We huddled against the California winter chill, against the weight of our sorrow.
Like the moment in the car, when my hands were pulled to the dash to engage in some energy exchange, now my hands were drawn to the ground. I placed my palms on the cold asphalt. Some part of my thinking brain registered that I may be performing Reiki energy healing, but mainly, I was just opening to the energy, not thinking. All I knew was that something was flowing from my hands to where I imagined Matt’s body to be in the building across the parking lot.
I had heard some time ago that when a death comes so sudden and unwelcome, a person’s soul/spirit could be in shock and not able release from this world to the other side. I felt strongly that this was the case for Matt. He had been so overwhelmingly happy to be a father and a husband; I knew he was as heartbroken to have left as I was that he was gone. And yet… now he had to go. My intention in accompanying him on this journey to the funeral home was to support him in letting go and continuing his transition.
I got cold with my hands on the ground. Wondered what to do next. Was my work done? I hadn’t received any signal that it was. But I had to stand up and warm my body, frail with the work of mourning. Laurel held me.
Pastor James said a wonderful prayer of consolation for us, and I completed it with asking God to please be with Matt and guide him on. We all said Amen. I was saying in my head, “I love you, Matt; I love you,” but felt shy and weak to say it out loud. Somehow, I mustered a “fuck it” moment, threw off my inhibition, and found the strength to say, meagerly but sincerely, over Laurel’s shoulder, “I love you, Matt.”
I collapsed my tear-soaked face back onto Laurel and sobbed. A moment later, I realized that I was hearing geese honking overhead. It took a second to register what I was hearing, and to gather the strength to look up. But when I did, I saw a perfect chevron of geese flying directly over us - their bodies black against the deep orange sky. Heading west. In this area, the native people of the Chumash believe the westernmost point of land to be where souls exit earth. The Western Gate.
Brian and Doug told me later that they had looked up just before me, and had seen the v-formation of geese do a lead-change directly above us. This is when the goose at the tip of the v gets tired, and another goose comes up to that front position to do the strong work of breaking the wind for the others. Breaking the wind for the others.
I strongly believe that they did; there was an incredible uplifting of energy at that moment; I felt a loosening in my chest, a moving upward of some of the heaviness of shock and grief. There was even a visual disturbance in the golden air of dusk, like the shimmering that air does above hot asphalt. And Doug said, softly, “I think Matt just said, I love you, too.”
