I fail to collect Mum’s ashes.

My father died in hospital, with very little warning. At that time, I didn’t live in the area, so had no local knowledge or contacts – but I had to arrange everything as well as look after mum who was obviously very upset. I coped with it all, of course I did, but it meant that I couldn’t grieve properly myself. The only time I almost gave way was when I went into the Funeral Home to collect his ashes.

I wasn’t prepared for how much the ashes would weigh. It’s a sizable amount. Nor was I prepared for just how much I’d feel that dad’s personality was still attached to them. I stood there with the container in my arms and began to repeat in a monotone: I didn’t realise they’d be so heavy! I didn’t realise they’d be so heavy! I knew I was on the verge of losing control. A protective inner voice told me: get out of here now! So I fled into the street and started to walk. I knew I couldn’t get on the bus or even into a taxi. In the end I carried them all the way home. It ain’t heavy, it’s my dad, as the song sort of goes.

On the way home, along the sea front, I chatted to the ashes. I said, look, here’s the sea; look, there’s a dog enjoying himself on the beach. Things I knew dad would’ve enjoyed. I felt better when, later on, a friend told me that, after she’d collected her mother’s ashes, she’d taken them round her mother’s favourite shop.

It’s over a month since mum’s funeral. We’ve been looking for a suitable place to scatter or inter her ashes but haven’t yet settled on a suitable place. However, I didn’t think I could leave her ashes in the Funeral Home for much longer, so I made an appointment to collect them. The night before I felt terribly anxious. I spent the time psyching myself up; preparing myself for the fact that they’d weigh a lot and – because, at the moment, I can’t walk quite so well as I could 10 years ago – I would need to get a taxi home.

But what would I do with the ashes once they were here? I really didn’t know. Mum was happy to keep dad’s ashes with her until the day we scattered them in the sea – I like to think we gave him a back-to-front Viking funeral. But it always made me feel uncomfortable to have them close by.

With all this on my mind, I went into the Funeral Parlour. I was met by a very kindly employee, whom I’d never met before. Had I chosen a ‘scattering tube’? he asked. No, I hadn’t. He brought me a selection and I chose one. A sensitive and perceptive man, he said: you don’t have to take them if you’re not ready. I nearly burst into tears. But then very few people ever see through my competent façade. I’m not ready! I admitted. Will it be all right to wait another couple of weeks? He assured me it would be. I blurted out: collecting dad’s ashes nearly broke me. Now I’m terrified I won’t be able to cope when I collect mum’s.

I left the place not weighed down by the ashes but feeling light with relief. I know it’s only a temporary respite but, hopefully, I will feel stronger in my spirit in a week or two.

Later that evening I spoke to my cousin. Her mum is in a Nursing Home and they are planning to sell the house which is standing empty. She told me my Aunt still has the ashes of her own father; her own sister; my cousin’s father – and the cat. And Cousin has to decide what to do with all of them. So in the scale of things, my problem is relatively minor!

 

 

 

 

 

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2 thoughts on “I fail to collect Mum’s ashes.

  1. Wow, I’m so sorry! Thank you for continuing to share your emotions, thoughts, and experiences; such precious vulnerability. (((BIGHUG))) My heart aches for what you’re going through. I confess I’m also fascinated by how each of us can go through similar situations of dying, death, and all its accoutrements with such tremendous diversity of feeling. We are complex beings, for sure. Blessings upon you, my dear friend. Much love and healing to you.
    P.S. Received your letter — will write soon.

    Liked by 1 person

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