December 23-the worst errand

Today Chris and I agreed that I needed to get out and walk around a bit. My pain was getting a little better and I knew some movement and fresh air would do me good. It was the day we were scheduled to pick up Mara’s ashes from the funeral home, so while we waited for that call, I went outside with Aaron. It was a cold windy day so he didn’t want to stay out for long. While he rode his bike around the cul-de-sac, I did really slow laps. I was definitely feeling the pain by the time we went in.

Here he is rejecting my picture taking efforts.

Eventually it was time for Chris and I to go pick up Mara’s ashes. Now you may remember that I said going to the funeral home to make the arrangements wasn’t as horrible as I imagined it would be. This visit…just as horrible as I imagined it would be. Worse. I took a small pink felt bag with us to put the container in. I had no idea how big the container would be or if it would even fit in the bag, but it seemed like the best thing to choose. We got the bag at the hospital. It was holding a little bundle of things made by a mom who had lost her baby. It included a small blanket, onesie, poem, journal, and some other things, along with a story written by the mother about her baby girl’s death. It had a ribbon handle and a butterfly applique on it, and when I read the story by the mother I learned that the butterfly is a symbol often used to memorialize infant loss. I certainly didn’t have any other plans for that pink felt bag, and didn’t want to put Mara’s container in a bag that had other meaning or use for fear that I would never want to use it again, so pink felt bag it was. We entered the funeral home, told the attendant what we were there for, and just stood there waiting. I dreaded seeing the container. How awful. We looked around at the odd wallpaper, bird cage, pink upholstery, and commented to each other in low voices about why funeral homes seem to have a requirement of creepy décor.

The attendant came back holding a small brown plastic box with rounded corners. He reached out to hand it to Chris and said, “Here’s your little angel.” His words jarred me deeply and I couldn’t accept what he was saying. There is no way around this…my baby was in that box. My child’s body was in a plastic container the size of half a shoe box. It is disturbing on the deepest level. Chris handed me the box and I stared at it and slid it into the pink bag, which was exactly the perfect size. I couldn’t look at the man who had verbalized that Mara was in that container. I clenched my teeth together fiercely. I know that if I took a breath too deep or tried to talk I would not be able to keep myself from crying. There was a document to sign that certified Mara Olivia Karayannis was in fact the person who had been cremated. Chris signed it, we walked out, and as soon as my feet crossed the threshold of the lobby the tears rolled slow and silent. We had planned to get some groceries we needed for our Christmas dinners, so we were headed to the store. I sat down and held that container on my lap and positioned my hands around it just so. I had a horrible feeling that it was the closest I would ever be to holding her again and I just couldn’t bear to have that box slide or be bumped. We drove to the store and waited a minute or two in the car while my tears just kept rolling. I was going to put the container down and leave it in the car while we went in the store. It was hard to make myself move. We walked in and made our way around the store really slowly. I remember that Chris and I separated for me to get something or put something back or something, and walking through that crowded store by myself felt so disorienting. It was a thousand times worse than the trip to Costco. I felt like I had a huge open wound on me that I was trying to cover with my jacket. Every step was an effort and I didn’t make eye contact with people. We came back home and I took the container straight upstairs to Chris’ closet, where it would rest until it was time to go to the mountains. I would not face the thought of her ashes in that container again until that day. There was always plenty of grieving to do without visualizing that.

I don’t remember much else about this day, except that my boys put on their new matching shirts from Ash and my Dad. Aaron started really getting into eggnog this year and they have been drinking it together. Just your standard store brand carton. Aaron loves it as much as any other dessert. They were cute.

The time when Chris and I went up to bed became the time we were doing our grieving together after holding it in for most of the day every day. We didn’t want to cry around Aaron all the time, and we were trying so very hard to be Christmassy as much as we could. I remember that on this night when we went upstairs I told Chris that I had no Christmas in my heart whatsoever. I didn’t feel a thing related to it at all. No excitement, no giddy giggles about Aaron’s reactions to his gifts, no pre-staging photos in my mind, no interest whatsoever in opening my own gifts, no desire to sing songs or watch White Christmas or wrap gifts or eat cookies. Nothing. For a Christmas lover like myself, that realization was not only sad, it was scary that not even Christmas could penetrate through my numb sadness. I didn’t feel it at all. I went through the motions, all of them, not only for Aaron, but for myself. I wanted to awaken something in myself. I wanted to feel happy. For the days leading up to Christmas, it didn’t work at all.