Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Day 12
I picked up her ashes today. They weighed more than I thought they would, but then, they put her in a box first and then burned her. I had to sign something acknowledging that some of the ashes would be cardboard ash or plywood ash or whatever the hell they used. I asked if they would at least be my wife’s ashes and not Random Kern County Residents’ ashes, but of course I asked it more politely than that. They assured me that they are a strictly regulated industry.
We’ll scatter 99% of the ashes off the North Coast, and keep a small amount in an urn. Going to make a trek up to San Jose (as part of a bigger vacation with Jake at the end of the year) to Kogura, a Japanese ceramic store. Karen and I were very fond of that store. We bought at least one of our friend’s a wedding present there. And I still have a vase that I think we bought for ourselves at Kogura — I’m not sure, actually. It just sort of showed up on the shelf. I didn’t even remember that we had it. It’s dark gray with herons on it. I want something nice.
Had this moment of dissonance when the Funeral Home called to let me know the ashes were ready for pickup but they’d store them for me, if I preferred, until I brought the vase. On the one hand, I thought, “What difference does it make? She isn’t her ashes.” But on the other hand, we’ll scatter the ashes. So the ashes must have some significance to me. So I brought her ashes home.
When I was interviewing for med school — this was at a time when Karen was still healthy and my biggest care in the world was whether I’d get into med school or have to settle for grad school — no cares about Karen, really, because we were supremely confident in one another and knew without ever saying it that we’d be together regardless — I met a prof, I think it was at UCSF, a young guy in his early forties, whose wife was bedridden due to some sort of back pain issue. I’m not sure why he volunteered this information to me. People have a bad habit of opening up to me, and I realize this must be my fault somehow, but for the life of me I don’t know what I do. Anyway, I remember he seemed stunned by the way his life had turned out. I even thought I could understand it. Clearly he loved his wife; I’m not sure how that was clear, it just was. He was powerless to do anything about it. Prof at UCSF, an academic success by almost anyone’s standard of academic success. They had undoubtedly had all kinds of hopes and dreams for themselves, and now he was in this inescapable situation and she was in pain.
Assholes bale out. I’ve heard stories like that. Maybe they aren’t even assholes; I don’t know. If the love isn’t there, are you an asshole to bale out? (Or is it bail out? Too lazy to search right now.) Love narrows your options. I almost wrote “trapped by love” but that’s unfair. I imagine he was still able to have some good times with her, even with her limitations. Karen and I managed to live a good life. A hard life for both of us, a hard life for my son, too, although I’m not sure he realizes this. So “trapped” is unfair. We had some joy. We raised a family together. We both did the best we could, and we both fucked up at times, and this whole thing is just so hard.
I’m not sure about these Kubler Ross stages. Right now it feels like they’re all mushed up together, like when you’d do watercolors as a kid and mix everything together and wind up with a nameless color. Purple brown mud.
D.
