I picked up Nina's ashes from the mortuary today. The process of having her cremated was exactly like I thought it would be. The mortuary was cold, the ceilings tall, the art shitty, the curtains and decor tacky... The people who worked there were appropriately sympathetic and kind, but business-like. The cold business of death is bizarre.
I have known for several days that her ashes were ready to be picked up, but I put off doing it, because I wasn't sure how I should approach it. Should my husband and I go together? Because, that involves a certain amount of planning, since he's at work while the mortuary is open. Can I go by myself? Should I bring a friend for moral support? Can I just swing by and grab them? Do I need to emotionally prepare myself for this? It's not like picking up dry cleaning, but I also don't hold any misconceptions that her soul is floating around in that tiny box. I don't refer to the ashes as "her". I refer to them as "her ashes". Because that's what they are.
I decided to go by myself, today, because I was going to be about 3 blocks away at a chiropractor appointment anyway, and after that I would have a few hours free to cry, or be depressed, or do whatever one does after one picks up one's daughter's remains. It went pretty much as I expected. When I got there they led me into a private room to wait for Melissa, the lady at the mortuary who's job it is to handle the delicate matter of dead babies. She left the room to get the paperwork and I proceeded to sob violently into my hands for about 30 seconds, after which I took a deep breath and got it together real quick before she got back. She came back into the room and had me sign some papers stating who I was, my relationship to the deceased, and that I had received the death certificate and the remains. I filled these out (relationship to deceased: mother) as tears poured out of my eyes and ran down my face, but I didn't sob. She nodded, knowingly, and looked at me with deep sympathy. It was like I was a character in a Lifetime Special: the Bereaved Mother, who stoically takes her daughter's ashes and silently walks out the door as rivers of tears run down her cheeks. Turns out that shit is real. That shit happens.
I got in the car, and I held that small, lightweight box to my chest and cried harder than I have in days. I cried the not-pretty tears that there is no point in wiping away. I coughed and gagged on my sobs and let snot run out of my nose and filled my glasses with sad little salty lakes. I let myself cry until I was absolutely sure I was done. The last thing we need right now is for me to drive around crying and crash the car we just managed to pay off. These are the things the Bereaved Mother thinks about; safety first. Then I texted with Turner a bit (we've had some pretty intense and deep conversations via text these past few weeks), and then I drove home.
I don't know what we're going to do with the ashes. I feel attached to them. Although I know they aren't "her", they are what I have left of her. They hold meaning to me. We have decided that eventually we will scatter them, but we don't know where, or when. In the meantime, should I find a pretty box to put them in? an urn? Two dear friends of mine from when I lived in Seattle sent me a little statue of Jizo, who they tell me is sort of a Buddhist saint who protects travelers, women and children. Right now Jizo is sitting atop her box of ashes, and I like the idea that Nina-Lou is being protected; held, like I should be holding her. The box is sitting on a small bookshelf in what was going to be her room (it's actually a walk in closet; we live in a one bedroom), but I think that if Turner is ok with it, I'll put them on the bookshelf by my bed. I don't feel like they need to be displayed, per se, I just think that they should be somewhere where I can see them every day. Somewhere near the warmth of human contact; not cold and alone in a dark closet. And here I am, despite myself, attaching some sort of personality to these remains. It's hard to avoid doing so.
Holy crap, I miss her. I still have these moments in which I find myself fantasizing that she lived and we took her home, and she were a month old, and that I could look at her face, kiss her little hands, see her smile for the first time. In the wake of those fantasies, the realization that she is gone, really completely fucking GONE, hits so hard. Those are the times that I cry so hard that I wail and scream, like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. It's so unfair and meaningless, her death. She's just not here, and that absence, that concave void that I can physically feel right in the center of my chest, is the worst thing that I have ever felt. I wish it were sharp, like a dagger, or burning, like a cigar put out on my skin, but it's not. It's just a stupid, silent fucking NOTHING. The dullness and nothingness of it is cruel, and dark, and it takes my breath away.
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