At the end of a list of rather mundane errands today, I parked the car in front of the funeral home and walked in. Which was, I have to say, a bit anticlimactic. I thumbed through a little brochure entitled “Loss of a Child” (featuring the syrupy image of a Thomas –“The Painter of Light!”– Kinkade garden scene) while I waited in the lobby. A tall gentleman in a heavily starched shirt ceremoniously presented the long-awaited death certificate, which I read with great interest.
Time of Death: 3:44 (which means they did CPR for almost 40 minutes).
Cause of Death: (simply) Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome
I then tried my best to fend off the kindly, yet ever-so-persistent funeral home chaplain while I waited for the man to retrieve Will’s remains. This was distracting enough, and helped keep me from asking an increasingly pressing question: “what the heck is taking him so long? Did they lose the ashes or something?”
They didn’t, of course. I was expecting a temporary black plastic box, but he handed me a small, plain, hinged pine box with a pressed-tin insert in the lid. Opening the brass clasp, I looked in at a clear plastic bag of gray ashes. It was the size of a large egg. Instinctively, I reached in to press my thumb against the gritty grains and remember the beautiful body of my son.
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Such a moment of… finality. We are still thinking of you, still praying for you, still remembering with you.
oh, Mike. this is too much.
we love you, we continue to pray for you.
jen