"You Are My Sunshine"

12/6/18 - the two-year anniversary of Matt’s fatal flying accident. Last year, I gathered a handful of closest friends and family and conducted a small, organically organized ceremony at the crash site, at the same time of the crash.

This year, I had wanted to do the same, but for some reason, my body just didn’t have the energy or wherewithal to send the texts to the appropriate people and ask them to be there. A friend pointed out later that day, that perhaps it was perfect that way, because this second annual was the first time I ever brought Jack to the crash site, at age three and almost three months.

It was also perhaps the first time I ever drove myself there, I realized on the way. My body did this funny dissociation thing, where a few blocks from the turn to go into the apartment complex, I had a hard time telling where I was, or where I was supposed to be turning. My consciousness seemed to be frantically searching for the “eject” button, all the while, my foot remained on the gas pedal. There was never really such wavering in me to actually turn around and not go; though when I had woken up that morning and saw that it was raining, I was relieved. I did think that if it was pouring, I wouldn’t have to stand out there at the crash site for long. Permission not to dwell. It also was refreshingly different from the original day, which had been deceptively cheery in its sunniness. This is not that day, the rain whispered reassuringly.

My friend Kathryn had to tell me where to turn, and as I drove along the row of carports, cars parked on either side, it felt like an isle of Inevitability; we were here, at the place where my husband left his body. There was still a part of me that was reacting in exactly the same way I did when I got the call two years ago; repeating, “no, no, no, no, no, no.”

And yet… I drove on. It was further down the row than I had remembered. Had I not been here since last year?? I had not been here in a year. It felt like it had been last month, the memory was so vivid, but it was foreign at the same time. Time and shock do strange things to reality.

I maneuvered my van into the parking spot right next to the carport roof where the plane had crashed. The roof had been repaired a few weeks after the accident; today, there was no sign of damage. I marveled at how material things could belie such a vivid truth as the wreckage that had been here. I saw the crash site about a week after the accident, and my heart was wrenched worse than the steel beams that had broken under the weight of a small airplane falling 300 feet onto that roof.

Shingles had scattered everywhere, the plane had skidded off the roof, chopped off the top branches of the small maple tree that my van was now parked next to, and then the plane hit the ground and came to rest, gently I understand, up against a Mazzerati. Way to go out in style, Matt, was my first thought when I had been told that detail of the accident.

As I parked the van, and the noise in my brain quieted, I realized that Jack’s music CD that played infinitely looped in the CD player, happened to be playing “You are my Sunshine” as I pulled into the parking space.

This song landed deeply in my soul… not only was Matt a refreshing ray of joyous sunshine in my life, but also, when I was in second or third grade, I remember being on the school bus and hearing this song playing on the speakers. My little girl ears really heard the words. First, the loving verse we all know:

You are my sunshine,

My only sunshine/you make me happy/when skies are gray

You’ll never know dear/how much I love you

Please don’t take my sunshine away.

And then. How many people have really listened to the heartbreaking message of this second verse?

The other night dear/as I lay sleeping/I dreamt I held you in my arms

When I awoke dear/I was mistaken

So I hung my head and I cried.

That second verse trickled down from my little girl ears to my innocent heart. I leaned against the cold glass of the school bus window, and wept; hot, fat tears pouring down my face, completely uncensored and involuntary, as I felt the sorrow of those few lines. Could life foreshadow like that?? Could I have somehow known as a grade-schooler, the exact feeling that would come?

Approximately 30 years later, I knew that sorrow in a way that nochild should ever even get an inkling of. About two weeks after Matt died, I had a dream visitation from him.

He appeared before me, glowing, dressed in his usual t-shirt and slacks, with a ball cap on. He didn’t say anything, but held me as I wept. We were surrounded by white. His presence was calm, peaceful, grounding, and comforting. Without words, he told me he was ok, and that I would be ok.

I felt the dream ending. He was pulling away. I sobbed harder. I asked him to cheat the system and stay. I pleaded, again, wishing I was so powerful as to alter reality. We both knew it wasn’t possible, and he left me, again.

The visitation was so real, that when the darkness around me came crashing in, and I realized that my body was alone in my bed, hopelessness wrung my breath from me. I writhed in bed, wracked with sobs, stuffing my face in a pillow so I wouldn’t wake my sleeping son.

With mercy, that wave passed, and I somehow made it through another day.

But I did not sleep restfully for a very long time.

And yet… now, when I heard the song, parking under the arc the plane traveled as it ejected my husband’s spirit from this earth, I marveled at the comfort of synchronicity. I saw the song playing as a sign that we are in the right place at the right time.

My ray of sunshine, who visited me in my dream, because he could no longer in “real life,” continues to tell me any way he can, that he is there and looking out for us.

And, he gave me the truest form of love I have ever known - our own created ray of sunshine; Jack. Our son got out of the van with wide eyes, as I told him that this was where Dada Matt had left his earth body. He wanted to know about it. I cautiously picked my words, telling him where the plane first hit, and then where it came to rest. I found relief in focusing on the fancy Mazzerati, talking excitedly about how funny it was that that was where the plane finally stopped. Matt’s life had been a little like that; slightly wreckless, and yet close enough to fancy friends to just bump up against that lifestyle.

I wanted Jack to know everything, I just couldn’t unwrench my heart quite enough to let the story flow freely.

Jack had said in the car that he didn’t want to help me lay out the flowers I had brought. But for some reason, he changed his mind at the moment. I was thrilled; I saw it as Jack engaging with his Dada Matt. Maybe the flowers were just cool. Who knows with a three-year-old. We laid them around the little tree that the plane had clipped. Tears teetered at the edges of my eyelids, and then receded. For Jack’s sake perhaps, or for conservation efforts, I kept the depth of my sorrow in the shallows, for now.

Jack got back in the car, out of the misty morning. Kathryn and I stood a few feet away, looking into the open field on the other side of a small fence. It was speckled with hues of green; grasses and bushes vibrant after the rains. That field had been brown two years ago. I remember looking into it as the field of possibility; I wondered if Matt had been aiming for it, trying for an emergency landing. Would he have survived, if he had made it? So many little things made it feel like such a near miss… the yearning was still there in my body, a part of me thinking a harder wish could change reality.

And here I was… inevitably… not getting to know an alternate reality. We never do, really, but when the repercussions of a split-second decision, or mistake, or whatever, are so shattering and life-changing, it is hard not to wonder, and grasp for meaning.

So that is all I have. Songs mean more, geese flying over mean everything, symbols, synchronicities… I put them all into the void in my heart, and it helps. For a moment. A hue of a rainbow on a cloudy day, just like we saw driving away from the crash site. 

Thank you, Matt. I love you.

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.

I Will Always Come Back

I had a long day the other day, starting with a birth call at 3:30am. I crept out the front door that my dad had just crept in, and relished in the exhilarating freshness of the early morning air. The baby was born at 5am - quick! I finished postpartum care around 8am, and had four appointments left in my day. I decided to push through and stay with it; rescheduling everything was more trouble than powering through a long day. I did sneak in a nap in our extra exam room at the birth center; broken as sleep usually is during the daytime, especially ‘downtown’ with street noise and such.

When I finally got home around 4:30pm, I was bleary-eyed, but doing ok. Jack seemed ok too, but toward bedtime, he started deteriorating in mood and manageability. It was a sloppy finish to the day, wrangling him into bed with the most patience I could muster, and also fighting fiercely for a reasonable bedtime. For us both.

Something about his mood and energy sunk in a little deeper the next morning. During our usual morning snuggle when he wakes up, I said that it had been a long day of work for me yesterday, huh? And I had left unexpectedly, so his preschool drop-off was with Grandad instead of me, as he has been expecting.

Then I decided to dig a little deeper. I asked him if he remembered when Dada Matt didn’t come back. He said yes. My heart blipped a little; sorrow, amazement, awe… Jack was 15 months old when Matt died; just starting to get stable on his chubby little legs. Saying a few words.

He had been absolutely in love with his Dada. If I was home with Jack, and Matt came back from wherever he was, Jack would start wiggling like a puppy, kicking his legs and shrieking with excitement until Matt picked him up and gave him his usual warm hello in his kind, deep voice.

Undoubtedly, Jack had noticed his absence. And noticed that I sat, incapacitated with grief, for much of the months to follow. In fact, Jack got his worst sickness ever a week or two after Matt died. There were about 24 hours during which I thought he had whooping cough. My body would tense with his when he coughed and wheezed, terror for his safety paralyzing me, imagining my worst fear of having to bring him to the hospital; or worse. When I wasn’t paralyzed, I would will his lungs not to wheeze, and somehow managed to bring myself back to the present moment, during which were not in the ER, and my baby was alive.

Jack cleared that sickness just fine. But I know that the lungs are said to be where we process sadness. My poor, fatherless baby…

Now he is more than twice the age he was when Matt died; three years and a month old.

During that conversation about Dada Matt not coming back, I also asked Jack if that makes him nervous that I wouldn’t come back. Again, he said yes. Deep breath.

I told him that even though I have to leave unexpectedly sometimes for a birth and I don’t always get to say goodbye, that I will always come back.

I have confidence in saying this, because even if the worst thing possible ever happened and I couldn’t really come back because I was dead, I know my soul would still return to him and assure him that I loved him and that we would be ok. Like Matt did for me.

Then Jack saw a toy on the floor and our conversation was over.

A day or two later, I realized that my end of the conversation with Jack felt incomplete. Again during our post-wakeup snuggle, his body warm and toasty from being under the blankets, I brought Jack to my chest and asked if he remembered our conversation about Dada Matt from the other day. He said yes.

I told Jack that I wanted to say more… that Dada Matt would absolutely have come back if he could have. He had had an accident and his body wasn’t working anymore. I told Jack that he hadn’t done anything to make Dada Matt not come back. That he loved being Jack’s dad. Loved him so much, that his soul hangs out with us and watches us and helps us.

Tears snuck out the corners of my eyes as I lay on my back, my three-year-old laid against the length of me, his head on my chest, his body completely relaxed. I cradled his head, his silky blonde hair smooth through my fingers. I felt him open, soaking up my words; the truth of that love pouring out of my heart and words and eyes. Any line that had separated his body from mine was, for that moment, erased.

“Dada Matt was so happy to be your dada,” I whispered fiercely. "And I am so happy and so proud to be your mommy. I just wanted you to know that.”

“I know that,” he said, softly but surely.

The Story of the Geese

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.

Take him with you, I whispered after the disappearing silhouettes. 

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.”