The Penultimate Goodbye

 

I had no idea what I would, or would not, want for the disposition of my father's remains until it came out of my mouth, and that after many vacillations. I decided on cremation. I have no idea if that would have met with his approval, because, as is common among children and their parents, we never really talked about it, or, if we did, it was highly generalized and very quick. When I still thought that my father might be around for a while, I had tentatively broached the idea of our selling his apartment and getting a bigger place together. That was about a week or two before the procedure that did him in. He said, in not entirely joking response, "Let's not worry about that now. Nature will take its course." That couldn't be anything other than a conversation stopper. So, after the funeral on Tuesday the 15th of April coinciding with that other inevitability, taxes, the shell of my father went off to Antelope Valley to be cremated. I was informed he'd be back about a week later. The next question was, do I take custody of the cremains, or have them held by the mortuary until he is interred?  Rather precipitiously, as all my decisions have been these last weeks, and perhaps without adequate guidance, I determined I would take custody over the weekend prior to my interring him, which will be tomorrow.

On Thursday afternoon, therefore, I drove to the mortuary and Peggy and I exchanged warm greetings (she has amazingly become like an old friend during this ordeal) as she explained that before I took my father, it would be a good idea if I saw the urn and got used to things. I don't know that one can ever become used to anything about this process, but I couldn't disagree. There should be some respect accorded and my father before I unceremoniously removed him. She brought me to one of the smaller office like, meeting, arrangement rooms. I had been there before to discuss one or another part of the arrangements in the last couple of weeks. This is an older mortuary. A family business since 1915, but just like in "Six Feet Under", it has been subsumed by a larger corporation, called "Simple Tribute". But because the mortuary is older, it has that slightly deteriorated look, again, not unlike in the fictional series. Everything is in brown, the windows covered by discrete plantation shutters, shutting out, as it were an also deteriorating neighborhood. The light is low. The electronic music coming from a DVD player suggesting a living tribute to a loved one plays Amazing Grace. And there is the urn, but not in the shape of one, rather a nice red wood in the form of a truncated collonade in which it is hard to imagine contains what was once my father. A couple of weeks ago I was kneeling in front of him, trying to get him to help me to look at a foley catheter and aware of the crisis that was about to unfold, hoping that it was only a passing one, when in fact, this would be the last time of any real contact between us. I can remember the fear I felt as I watched his right arm jerk with asterixis and his unawareness of who I was and the existence of the catheter attached to him. I was matter of fact then calling the ambulance and deceiving him as to why I wanted to know where his wallet was (to have his medicare card for the hospital).

The urn was on the little desk. I sat in front of it and let my hand lay onit. I couldn't really cry because this was just so, odd. Lovely, but odd. I went to the flowered couch that was across from the desk to contemplate the urn at a distance. I was there about 20 minutes until I came out and asked for the "what's next" in this surreal process. The urn was replaced in a box, along with an envelope containing the critical permit that will allow me to inter him in the niche in the columbarium. The box was carried to my car, the very front seat where my father sat only a few weeks ago on the way to his last treatment. In a moment either of logic or insanity, I put the seat belt around the box. He is here now, out of the box, surrounded by two candles and a crucifix. I have found having him here comforting, even though he is not here in fact. It is the second to last goodbye, this weekend. Not that I have been sitting in front of the urn unceasingly. In fact, I have taken to heart the recommendations of friends that I take all invitations, so that Friday night I was at a seder, Saturday, I went to see "Annie Get Your Gun" at the Alex Theatre, and today I had breakfast at a friends with other friends and acquaintances before Church and later sorted through some of my father's short stories at his apartment I am slowly emptying. But I have had a few conversations with him before the urn. I have wondered whether he'd be mad at me now, assuming he has the lucidity in heaven that he did not have at the end of his days here on earth. Did I do what I should have Dad? Too little? Too much? I will never know, not in this life. And tomorrow, the final goodbye awash in the confusion of grief and unanswered questions.