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*WARNING* Parts of this story are quite graphic and may be disturbing to some of you.
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The next days were truly lived on auto-pilot. There were funeral arrangements to be made, obituaries to write and a decision as to whether “A” would be buried or cremated. There was a condo that no one had been in for two days. There was a kitten locked in the bathroom. There was so much more to get through.
When I left the hospital with my parents, we went straight to the condo. My kitten, Scrappy, had been locked in the bathroom for two days. Although she had food and water, I needed to make sure she was alright. We got to the door and it was sealed with yellow crime scene tape. I couldn't go into my own home until the police had finished their investigation. I lost it – again – in the middle of the hallway. I couldn't stand the thought of losing Scrappy - hadn't I lost enough already? We headed back to the hotel where I contacted the police department. They would release the crime scene status of the condo within 4 hours.
We returned to the condo later that night. My parents tried to keep me from going in, but I wouldn't listen. There was something drawing me back there – unfinished business maybe? The last time I was there things were frantic. I needed to find some peace with that space. I walked in the door and the first thing that his me was the smell of dried blood ... and then I saw it. A large pool, right where “A” had been sitting. There hadn't been much blood visible when I found him – it had all pooled beneath him. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I sat in the hallway, against the wall, in a fetal position. It was too much.
My parents took care of Scrappy and we headed back to the hotel where I would write an obituary for my husband. I took care of the formalities of death. I arranged for “A” to be cremated and for a non-traditional funeral. We would have a small, private room at the cremation center where anyone who wanted to speak, could. I asked that, instead of flowers, donations be made to the National Suicide Hotline. I found a poem that I would read:
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there.
I do not die.
~ Mary Elizabeth Frye (1904-2004)
During the days before the funeral, it was decided that I would move back to Washington with my mother. I didn't want that – I just wanted to stay where I was, go back to work, pretend like none of this happened. My parents wouldn't allow it. Along with “A”'s family, my parents packed up what they knew would fit in the back of my Isuzu pick-up. My father was tasked with driving the truck back to Washington. There was much left behind – packed up or thrown away. I still don't know who decided what to keep or what happened to what was left behind.
After the funeral, we decided that we would sprinkle “A”'s ashes at Como Park. It was a favorite place of his as a child and seemed a fitting tribute for his remains. I was amazed at how heavy the small cardboard box of ashes was, and overwhelmed by the fact that what was once my husband was now a plastic bag full of gray ashes stuffed into a cardboard box. “A”'s mother, father, little brother and I ventured into Como Park on a blustery, January day in Minnesota and we spread his ashes on the shore of the lake. We left him there, finally at peace.
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Tomorrow I will post an Epilogue of sorts, hopefully answering most of the questions you might still have about how I got from there to here, as well as explaining the ramifications of my actions prior to the suicide. I'll also give you an opportunity to ask any questions you might still have.
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