When I Knew he was Gone

I prepared to go to the viewing as if I were going on a date. There was something soothing about the ritual of washed hair, pinned back with little clips above my ears; shaved legs; putting on a dress. The motions were a buoy in a sea of sadness, giving me something to focus on aside from conserving tears for the deluge that I knew was coming. And, after four days of feeling totally disconnected from my physical anchor of a husband, there truly was a thread of excitement in finally getting to know exactly where he was - or at least, where his body was.

Someone had suggested that I write Matt a letter, to be cremated with his body. I remembered to do that at the last minute; I would leave it with him at the viewing. It was easier than I thought it would be to write the letter. Matt always had a way with words, and I could feel that skill with me as I tried to sum up my thoughts. It was mostly thank you. He had taught me so much about taking nothing for granted, living from the heart, and truly finding joy in all things. I folded the letter several times and tucked it the same place I had stored my wedding vows – in the crease between my breasts, up against my heart.

At the funeral home, there was a wait in the lobby. I sat sunken into a large and overly soft couch, wondering how I would ever get out of it. No one else had wanted the viewing. They were there for me - the funeral home staff, the friends and family that surrounded me. The fact that I could say “I want a viewing,” and people showed up to make it happen, for me, was an intoxicatingly powerful manifestation.

While waiting, I felt the heaviness of the event in the thick carpet, the gaudy gold picture frames, and the fake flowers. It was awful, we all agreed. But how do you make this kind of thing not awful?

And then they were ready for us, well, for me, to see Matt. My friend, Laurel, helped me get up from the couch, wrapping her arm around my waist as I stood. My other friend, Amanda, came and stood on my other side, also wrapping her arm around me. Together, we walked down a long narrow hall with thick red carpet; morning light coming through the bank of windows to my left. It was around 10:00am, about the same time that Matt had crashed, four days before.

I wasn’t even through the doorway of the small room when I caught sight of him. A cry of anguish - of love, recognition… and separation - escaped me and Laurel and Amanda were lost to me. All I knew was the floor and the sensorily saturating sight of my husband. He looked like him at first glance. Ruddy skin, golden-brown hair, course over his visible right arm. The royal blue button-down shirt I had picked out for him.

The sob came hard and fast, pouring my sorrow into the plush carpet as I crouched below the casket.

And then it was gone. The initial impact of seeing him faded, and I felt lighter than I had in days; my head cleared, momentarily relieved from the deluge of tears. I dared a glance up at him, and saw his right elbow, forearm and hand. There were several small scratches and scrapes on his hand, and one on his elbow, but I was surprised it wasn’t worse, considering the impact of the accident. His chin was stubbly. I could feel that familiar scratchiness under my hands, even though they were on the carpet. I felt meager, crouching below the casket and venturing a look at this man I had known more intimately than anyone else in my life.

His face was at peace. But hollow. The eyes were sunken and the lips dry.

Matt was not here.

He is no longer in that body.

Laurel and Amanda left me to be on my own. I knelt on the floor, inches below Matt’s furry arm, just visible over the edge of the casket. I mostly spent my time daring myself to touch him; compelled to connect with my husband, but afraid that physical contact would somehow infect me with a pain, the reality of loss, that I would not recover from. I couldn’t do it. How intimate could I get with death? Not touching intimate. Not then.

Feeling somewhat defeated for not being able to overcome the taboo of death, I hollowly followed the expected protocol and sat on the bench across the room. I was surprised at how content I felt to be so near my husband’s body. He was not stuck anymore. I felt it. I sat stunned, freed of the torment of the last few days, the thought that my husband’s soul had been in shock as much as I was. And now, a shimmer of peace.

I spoke to Matt for a few minutes, feeling bolstered by the gift of gab he had flaunted in this life. The room felt like a conduit space; the density of the walls made me feel protected from the outside world, and yet there was an open feeling above me, allowing me to imagine my words traveling directly to Matt’s consciousness. Matt had been so grateful for everything in his life, and all I could muster was a reflection of his gratitude. I thanked him for our beautiful son, for the fun three years we had had together, and for teaching me so much about open-hearted connection with everyone around me. I didn’t get a response of any kind, but I felt like he heard me.

But it was still a lifeless body in front of me, and at some point, I needed to move from the hard and too-narrow bench to whatever was next. I must have opened the door. Laurel and Amanda jumped to attention. I ended up on another bench, in the hallway outside the room. I didn’t remember noticing it was there on my way in, but I was grateful it was there. I sat heavily, physically exhausted. Grieving is hard work. Pastor James asked permission to go in; the only other person who visited Matt.

I had forgotten about my letter… or perhaps had protected myself from the intimate finality of tucking it into Matt’s shirt pocket. I gave the letter to James, asking him to deliver my message. I was only slightly self-conscious that this was the second time I was pulling something out of my cleavage in front of our pastor; he had performed our wedding ceremony as well. James and the letter disappeared behind the closing door. I trusted him implicitly to do the right thing with it.

The bench was uncomfortable, so we went back to the lobby. I grabbed Matt’s brother, Darren’s, arm and pulled him onto the couch next to me. Needed that Wilson DNA close to me.

Then I thought of the urn kit my landlord had given to me that morning, and wanted to show Darren.

The funeral guy had already stashed the box somewhere, and I asked if it was possible to see it again. Of course; it was brought forth. There was that power of asking and receiving again, that I had noticed when we arrived at the funeral home. After taking my everything from me, it was like the universe was apologizing, at my beck and call in these little requests.

I showed Darren the dark wood box and he remarked kindly how beautiful it was, identifying the lighter inlay as birds-eye maple. Birds. Hello, Matt.

Then I pointed out the stationary that was part of the urn kit - Thank you cards came with the urn, how strange! Fancy ones with golden lettering. Was I really expected to send a thank you card to everyone who showed up with condolences?? The thought was overwhelming.

“Not nearly enough of them,” I said, gauging the thin package of cards and envelopes. Matt knew a lot of people.

“Not really Matt’s style of thank you card,” Darren replied.

“I’m not really sure what Matt’s style of thank you card would be,” I responded, truly pondering it.

“Post-It Note,”  Darren said, without hesitation.

Hilarity ensued. Oh, my god, what a strange sensation to laugh, deeply. Frantically, because it was so funny, so Matt, and so wonderful to dive into the familiarity of his informal persona. And because it was a release of so much that was pressure-cooking in my cracked crucible of a heart. There was relief in knowing that my body even remembered how to laugh; it was physiologic to an extent, like a sneeze that just happens and we are along for the ride. My body had gotten me through shock and four days of grieving and pain. And to know that it could still find pleasure in a laugh, in the darkest moment of my life, felt like hope.

That wave subsided and we sunk back into reality. We discussed a few more details about reception ideas. Pastor James returned from his visit with Matt’s body. I briefly wondered what his time in there had been like, but felt too exhausted to ask.

I reclined on the couch because my stomach was hurting from being hunched over for days.

If Amanda hadn’t asked me if I wanted to get out of there, I might still be sunk into that couch. The next unknown steps loomed, and I relied on those around me to move me forward. My husband was not stuck anymore; there was relief in knowing that, bodily. But what came next was a frightening mystery, a monster in the closet of my heart, with the doors ripped off.