I woke in the bleakest grey pre-dawn. Consumed by nightmarish thought, tossing and turning, the hours inched on, but the dread was oppressive. Finally resigned myself to the fact that sleep would not return, I lay in bed with tears seeping out. How was I going to make it through this day? I can’t even remember what we did all morning. What I do remember was that I was overcome with anxiety and terror of our next visit to the mortuary. What would be the right choice to have his body wear the last time? What should we send with him? Should we see him? If I saw him, would it haunt me forever, or would the reality of it be a comfort?

Collective deep breaths, we gathered our things and headed out on the most difficult errand of our lives. We stopped at John’s apartment. Once in his room, the decision was easy. We simultaneously and individually concluded, Alabama athletic shorts (worn at least 500 times and washed far less), mismatched high white Nike socks and his straw hat. We debated briefly on the tee shirt, there are so many, but quickly settled on the USA shirt he wore as much as any other and looked great in. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

We drove in silence, the drizzle on the windshield somehow comforting. Some of us crumpled up our love letters, John style, and stuffed them in his pockets. Some of us slipped them in neatly. We added a snip of fur from Ally’s tail and a lock of Shelby’s hair. A family photo, the last one of all four of us together, taken a month ago on the front porch of the home John lived in since birth. A copy of a poem from a childhood friend. A letter from the younger brother of another one. “OK. I guess that’s it then.” We felt good about our decisions. We were happy to have him have these things. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

Now we were faced with whether or not we wanted to say good bye face to face with the beautiful body that contained his lively and loving spirit. Someone had to identify him. It could be done with a photo, but Matt wanted to see him, so that responsibility was spoken for. But what should I do? I had seen my mom and my mother-in-law in the moments after their death and the image haunted me for months. I chose not to see my dad and have regretted it ever since. I had sought council from friends as to what they would do. It was one of the many things that left me spinning in the night. The baby faced funeral director described the scene and setting in his soft monotone. It didn’t sound that bad. I decided to go in, get far enough away from him that I couldn’t see him, and slowly inch forward calculating my comfort level. Matt, already in there, was surprised at my arrival. Paul followed. Shelby waited with Ally outside. I made the right decision. The door creaked open. Ally had been whining and pawing at the door so Shelby led her in. While we were inside, the funeral director had mentally prepared Shelby for the experience. Though imaginably difficult, in the end we were all content with our decision. Ally too, after sleeping next to John for the last 4 months, wanted and needed to know herself. There was closure. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

Maybe all the hard things were not as hard because they existed in the context of all the other hard things. But maybe hard things are made harder when they are anticipated. Would it have been better if I had taken each moment as it had come?

Knowing we would need it, we scheduled a hike with John’s good friend Kristian. He knew the perfect place and welcomed us with a massive hug with his massive arms. The trail up the Flatirons was still green in spots with wildflowers still in bloom. a got of summer thunderstorms. The trail traversed meadows and woods and deposited us onto shale pile overlooking Boulder.

Returning to our cozy retreat, we each found a way to restore ourselves. A rest, a shower, a cry, a phone call, messages read. No time to reply to all of them, but a huge comfort to read.

Saturday morning when we were preparing to leave Orinda, we received a text from friends Karen and David Tillitt…

“Karen and I want to come to Boulder to give you whatever love and support we can. We’ll arrive Monday afternoon. Just send a yes or no. No explanation needed. Our hearts are with you.”

I couldn’t process the information, so I couldn’t respond. I asked Paul what to do. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t think. Maybe he couldn’t even speak to answer. I pushed the button on my phone distracted by another task. Three hours later as we were leaving for the airport we got another message,

“We arrive late Monday afternoon. Staying at 937 Spruce Street. We will see you soon.”

Suddenly it was Monday afternoon and they were there with hugs and tears and support and anything and everything we needed. A debrief with wine and snacks on the terrace of our place. A walk to town. Normal dinner conversation interwoven with ideas for the memorial, planning the move out of John’s apartment and scheduling it all in the tight window of the next few days. How could we have hesitated for a moment that we could do this without them? How can we ever let them know what it means to have them here?