For Thor - 44 - What Matters in a Moment - Part 1

A friend asked me an interesting question yesterday. She's been reading these letters to you and wondered if there were days when I wished for something different. Honestly, Thor, with the single exception of wishing that you were still alive among us, I have been completely supported and cared for through this whole time. I can't say I wish someone had done this or I wish someone hadn't said that. So, instead of writing What I Wish Had Happened as an expression of what a grieving person might need or want, I can share a few of the beautiful stories that illustrate the immense empathy and exquisite care that we've been blessed to receive.

I have to start at the very beginning, the moment Jai Ram called to tell us that you had wrecked your truck, that it was bad and that Dad should come immediately. He didn't say anything else at that point, although he already knew you had died. Jai Ram was the first person on-scene, and as a trained EMT, he immediately and professionally assessed what he saw. But Jai Ram is also a family friend and has known you almost all your life, Thor. His heart broke to find you dead on the ground, knowing he would have to tell us, his parents, the horrible news. He lovingly and carefully covered your body in blankets and offered up heartfelt prayers for your soul that was surely hovering around dazed and confused at being so suddenly severed from its body. I can't think of a single person I would rather have had there to take care of you at that moment, Thor.  What a blessing to us to have someone who knew and loved you to be there at that moment.

When I finally arrived on the scene, I still did not know 'the terrible fact'. Your Uncle Gopal drove me over there and offered stalwart support for me as the trepidation of what I was walking into threatened to choke me. We approached the roadside carnival of police and ambulance vehicles and lights, eerie and jarring in their garishness. I got out of the car and walked toward your dad, flanked by Sergeant Bodek, Bill and Bridget and Nana and Grandpa. The first words out of my mouth were, "Where is Thor?" Your dad shook his head no. What does that mean? "Where is Thor?" I looked to Bodek. He shook his head no. What? I looked at Nana and Grandpa. "What? Where is Thor?" They all just shook their heads no. I fell down to the ground on the side of the road and wailed.  I heard myself outside my body. I sounded like a wounded animal, guttural and disbelieving. I screamed and cried into the night, surrounded by loving family and friends who held that space for me. But I still wanted to know "Where is Thor? And who is with him?" Thor, they wouldn't let me go to you, sweetheart. I started freaking out that you were laying on the cold ground by yourself as the last bits of warmth left your body. If I can't be there,  "Who the FUCK is with my son?" I demanded. Sergeant Bodek took my hand and promised me that he would be with Thor and wouldn't leave his side. This was a seemingly small thing to do, but it kept me from clawing everyone's eyes out in an attempt to reach you. An attempt that would have put others at risk and would have only added to the pain of a horrible moment. I am forever grateful to Bodek - who was your friend, too - for standing vigil with you in the place of your death.

Your dad must have called on some serious reserves to keep his shit together. Because I lost it. I couldn't say the words. I couldn't think the words. I didn't want to repeat the words, "Thor is dead." Uttering these terrible words would only make it real. Saying it out loud would underscore this hideous thing in indelible ink. It would make it real to others, and therefore, would be forced upon me.  But your dad was beyond belief in his ability to do what needed to be done; we needed to tell your brothers, we needed to call Mimi and Pap in Pennsylvania.  This was just the beginning of his road bearing a heavy load. He bravely stepped on that path and shouldered the weight.

Once the wreckage was cleared and your body retrieved, there was an opportunity to see you before you were transported to the funeral home. The family urged me not to see you like that, in that state. They were protecting me, I know. I agreed to let them shelter me, but I had some conditions. Someone had to kiss you for me, and someone had to trace an Om Shanthi symbol on your sweet forehead like Nana and I used to do at bedtime when you were little. Dad, Nana, and Grandpa went back to the scene to carry out these desperate wishes. I am forever grateful to them for doing what I was not permitted to do myself.

Lakshmi was the first of my sisters, your aunts, to walk through the door on that night. There are no words for this moment. I didn't have to say a single word. She KNEW. She SAW. She FELT for and with me. It was as if we activated a connection that we've had our whole lives but never knew its strength and vital force. I fell into her arms and we sobbed over the loss of you, our beautiful boy, our Thor.

Radha and Sumati both had to make long road trips home before they could be here. Radha and Dick left New York almost the moment they heard. Radha had her arms wrapped around me by 8:00 in the morning. Sumati and Dave left Utah and drove like banshees without stopping so Sumati would be here in time for Family Night. My amazing brothers-in-love were super-human rock stars, driving literally through the night across hundreds of miles to deliver my sisters back home in this time of incredible pain and acute need. Poorna swirled in with her sweet girls and Mat in tow and took her post, by my side.  Gopal and Angel, it seemed, never left. I'm still not sure how they did that with little Kai. The family has always been a big part of our lives, but on that first day, it was something else entirely. We morphed into an organism that seemed to live and breathe as one. As your cousins poured in and phone calls came from the family that lives far rang though, the energy of the tribe gathered, coalescing in beautiful synchrony around this horrific loss.

January 1st was quite a day for me - I dare say, for all of us. Food magically appeared carried in on the wings of angels - our friends and neighbors many of whom I hadn't seen in months. Tears of sorrow streamed non-stop that day. Some very thoughtful person had supplied multiple boxes of tissues. I recall being grateful for this sweet gift as I wiped my eyes and blew my nose for the gazillionth time in an hour. The house was full of people, full of conversation, full of pain and sorrow and also tender, loving care. Your dad, brothers and I were very well cared for, Thor. People would sit with me and hold my hand. They talked with your dad and supported him as he adjusted to the heavy weight he carried. Xan and Chaz were scooped up by cousins, uncles and friends to do things just to get them out of the swirling energy that lived in the house.

Our sofa was the center of my world at that time. Everything came there. Everyone came there. I was ensconced in the middle of the couch wrapped in your blanket and clutching Ralph, your stuffed dog. This is where I felt safe and supported. And so this is where I stayed. Starr sat with me, her sweet heart shattered along with mine. Both of our dreams of loving you for a whole lifetime blasted out of the realm of possibility. Dozens of your friends came. Somehow people had tea, or cookies or lasagne. I don't even know where they came from. The world had narrowed down to your death, my heart, this couch and whoever was sitting beside me.

At one point, I had gotten up, and I saw a woman I didn't know coming up the walk toward the house. Radha, seeing the question on my face, looked too. It was Karen Dunkum, from the funeral home. Anxiety like I've never known began to rise inside of me. NO! NO! I couldn't deal with it. There was no fucking way I could talk about a funeral for you. Radha held one of my hands and Lakshmi held the other. Radha said, "I'll deal with it, Cass. You don't have to do anything right now." Karen came to the house and was warmly greeted by the clan. She politely addressed everyone she met, but she edged her way toward me. When she finally got through the throng, she took my hands and looked me in the eye. "Cassandra, I have your boy. I have him, and I am taking really good care of him. He's just so beautiful. I know you were worried about him. I have your boy and I am taking really good care of him." I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. She had received your body in the middle of the night, on New Year's Eve. And she had taken the time to really SEE you. To appreciate you.  She was taking good care of you. And I could see in her eyes that she held us all in her heart.  What a blessing to have Karen here at that moment. When I think of all that she offered to us, that she offers to each of the families who have need of Dunkum's services during the darkest days of their lives, I am so grateful that she's in our community. And she is now forever in my heart.

I don't think I can recall a time of my life when there were so many people around me who were totally dedicated and dialed in on me and my well-being. The value of this total support? Priceless. No matter how fast the emotions shifted and danced, no matter the need for tears or silence, no matter what each moment called forth, I was supported.  People noticed that my drink glass was low - and they filled it. They noticed that I stretched to ease my back and neck - they suggested a walk or a neck massage. They rubbed my feet and asked if I needed to lay down for a nap. They brought me food - anything that I was willing to eat magically appeared before me. They put movies in the DVD player to lighten the heaviness of the room. Friends brought wine - a lot of wine! Pizzas were delivered. Home cooked meals appeared in crockpots, their preparers sometimes sticking around for a visit.  People signed up to send us meals for three full weeks, Thor. It was overwhelmingly beautiful to be open and receive such love from so many people.

Nana and Mimi buzzed around like little bees. They cleaned and organized. They cried together, your two grandmas did. Places were found for all the supplies and mountains of food, for flowers and plants and stacks of condolences that came daily in the mail. They were field marshals who kept the house tidy and presentable for company. They fussed over your dad and brothers. They folded laundry like no tomorrow. Where did all the laundry come from? I wore nothing but yoga pants and a tee shirt for days. Still our moms took care of us in our time of need and great pain. They showed up, stowed their grief and did what needed to be done to help keep our little family from falling apart in the abyss.

There was a safety net of protection woven around me by the family and friends. They shielded me from all but the most critical questions. There was zero pressure on me to do or say anything. I could flounder and be catatonic. I could cry or get ripping drunk. I could sleep and wake to the offer of a warm meal. I didn't have to shop or cook or clean, which is good because I couldn't have done any of those things. The only reason I knew my name is because people were saying it to me. I could fall apart, and everyone had what they needed.  Your dad marched on, dealing with the details of the funeral, and insurance, human resources at your job and the police. He had something to do, which was good for him. I had shoulders to cry on, so I didn't add to his burden any more than needed.

Your aunts and uncle held my hand, Thor. Someone held my hand almost continuously for days. I was not left alone for a second, unless I specifically asked for it - and I didn't. During those first days, someone even made sure I was safe in the shower. They helped me find clothes when selecting something from the dresser proved to be too difficult of a decision. Yes, I was that wobbly.

Grandpa and I went on walks. Walking at first was hard; moving dislodged the grief and sent it coursing like a live wire through my body. I felt nauseous, clammy and out of breath. There were tight bands around my ribs that wouldn't let me get enough air. I had to walk slowly. I couldn't talk. I resented chatter at that point. It was like torture to listen to inane, pointless prattle. Grandpa knows how to walk in silence. We don't have to fill it up with words or ideas.

I am blessed to have so many people who can sit with me in this grief without trying to cheer me up or nudge me out of it. They just get it. I don't need to change the way I feel. I need to FEEL the way I feel and allow it to express naturally.  These blessed beings aren't scared to be with me in that space, diving into the depths and just being there with me for a while. This is a tremendous blessing. I need to remember the value of being with someone, in silence and tears in the bottom of the well…it matters a lot.

My work colleagues rallied around me, too. They sent food and champagne (at my request for what beverage I would prefer). They drove down to be with me at the service. But beyond this, we have a company policy that allows for unlimited leave. The practical side of my brain balked at this notion. It sounds good on paper, but to test it, for real? I was unsure. I would have to get back to work, back to earning a living and pull my weight on the team. Ben told me when he came and delivered a delicious meal prepared by his wife, that I should take all the time I needed, even if I took the whole year. He stressed that I shouldn’t come back to work one second before I was ready. I have what anyone would need in this situation, time to process and heal. In subsequent weeks, I would test ideas for coming back to work, Ben gently shot them down, sensing himself what I already knew but hated to admit. I was not ready to go back. Ten weeks, eleven weeks, even fourteen weeks, like today, is still not enough time to get my feet back under me. And even when I do get my feet back under me, I'll am forever altered. Ben is brilliant and gracious at understanding this, too. He told me that we need to wait and see where my energy naturally wants to go, not to force it. He knows I'll be back, but he also knows I'm coming back different, changed. Better, at least I hope so. What a gift this is, to have the time and space to heal without worrying about my job. There is a lot to be said for progressive, forward thinking companies that put their people first.

The energy that fills the air around me is palpable. It's full of the prayers, love and good wishes that are continuously beaming toward our little cabin in the woods. We are held up and sustained by the daily doses of prayers that come our way. The prayers and thoughts are less tangible than the cards that filled up the mailbox but no less impactful and beautiful. I sensed and called upon this prayer energy more than once to get me through a tough moment or day. Dad and I worked our way through the cards a few at a time. There were over three hundred offerings of condolence and sympathy. It took us a while to read them all, but eventually we did.

On the day after the service, I woke to a houseful of flowers and plants. It was like I lived in a floral shop. They were so beautiful and their sweet fragrance uplifted my heart, just a bit. I spent the better part of two hours playing with flowers, sorting and combining them. Watering and making sure they were preserved for as long as possible. I began selecting individual blossoms that I could dry. Flowers matter. I never realized how much they matter until I walked into the funeral home and saw them all there. They represented the sincere desire of all our loved ones to make this last moment with you in your corporeal form the most beautiful it could be. I was dazzled by the gorgeous bouquets. It was a sight to behold! It took my breath, brought tears to my eyes and comfort to my heart.  Your dear friends, Jonathan, and Tracey at Special Touch made sure everything was perfect and beautiful. Sunflowers have always been a favorite of mine, but now they hold a special place in my heart as the featured blossoms woven into the casket blanket under which you rested.  Such mindful, heartfelt care was taken to pay tribute to you, Thor, my heart overflowed with gratitude. 

These are just a few of the stories and impressions I recall from that first hectic and emotionally turbulent week after you died. There are many more that I will share with you. Each one is a tribute to you as well being an offering of love and support for us. Receiving so much is overwhelming and deeply moving. We can, perhaps, repay the kindness shown to us by living a kind and humble life, seeking to serve and love those in need.

I love you,

Mom