The coroner said he’s sorry, but he died.
There’s a confused period between hearing that the car was parked at the apartment, and 14 hours later, where alternate reality film reels play over one another in your head. Here’s a clip of, you got worried in time. Or the doctor caught it during last week’s visit. Or someone saw something in time. Vs, He’s gone. No he’s not. It’s impossible. It’s inevitable. It’s not real. Can I pray to someone?
Then, go sob on your husband. Then call in the kids, and tell them. Hug each other. Give each other space. Check in if they’re 17 and need to grieve alone in their room, but only once or twice. Tell your adult kid in another state.
Take deep breaths. Tell your Mom.
Then your sister.
Then your Dad.
Get a text of funeral homes from the coroner.
Get texts of love and support from family.
Send some back.
Remember to cancel plans. Mentally note to cancel the week. Those flights. Maybe that trip next month, maybe not.
Decide later.
Comfort the kid again. Send the husband to bed. You’ve always taken your sick time about ⅓ with people, and ⅔ on your own. This is the same. Check on the kid, and he’s asleep with his dog. That’s a good dog. Good kid. He loved these kids so much.
There will be more calls and texts, but not many. It’s late.Some of your best and closest friends and family stand ready, sentinels, to catch you and your grief and your love. The net of emotion stretches across time and space, nearly visible now, in this time.
Talk to your newly deceased brother, under the stars. You can call him names, and tell him your love and grief. He knows it, anyway.
After that, listen to your grief playlist — the one called “Shortly Before the End”, the one you made last year when …when we did all this the first time. Almost like a trainee. Last year.
You said you rarely have trouble sleeping. Surprise…tonight is one of those times. It’s not a surprise, really. A beer and an edible weren’t a great dinner, so you talk yourself into the mildest of protein smoothies. You still get a headache, jaw ache, and upset stomach.
It’s okay. You fed yourself, now take some Pepto.
You get a Buddhism audiobook on grief, or something close to it. You listen to 15 minute, and stop.
You sleep. Some. You used the same tactic you’ve used for over 30 years…going to sleep with something on to listen to. Something familiar. Neil Gaiman reads you a bedtime story for the next four hours, while you up, while you’re down.
The sun comes up. Go back to sleep.
It’s morning. Stay in bed a long time. Brush your teeth, go back to bed. Wish you could stop crying, because your head hurts. Be mostly okay with it anyway…except for the hurt.
Eventually, get up. For Tylenol and tea. Maybe some crackers and nuts. Answer or ignore whatever messages and calls you want. What you want for a while is to only talk to your parents and your sister, as needed. Just so you know? Each one will make you cry. That’s no big deal though.
Write down everything you can think of, every shape of every memory that stars him. That movie, the clip we played over and over one night, giggling hysterically. Those songs. Those trips. Those snapshots. It’s something, anyway. It’s one way to celebrate, just a little, that you got to have him in the first place. Just write it down.
Write down a list. Other people will add to the list, but also? They’re make you write down “Delegate”, and underline it two times. No, three.
Write down “prioritize”.
Listen to that playlist some more.Billy Joel, George Harrison, Suzanne Vega, Eurythmics, Nora Jones, “nothing’s gonna change my world, jai guru deva”…
Across the Universe.
Type out a guide on how to grieve.
Put your list online. Prioritize. Delegate. Add to it. Keep going up the mountain, rest every few steps. The air is thin up here. You’ve walked up mountains before. You can do this.