I spread Jesse’s ashes this past Saturday.  Well, that was the idea.  What actually happened was a series of metaphors that I cannot and still do not believe happened.

You see, I was ready.  I had been ready for about a year to do this, and really ready for about six months. There are a lot of reasons for this. It is such a complicated grief with him that I vacillated between honoring his wishes (which thankfully we talked about after we got married) and taking him out back, digging a hole, dumping him in, pooping on it, then calling it good. Yeah, I know, not one of my more glorious and compassionate thought processes. I figured being in the mostly anger stage of grief recently, I better get him out and honor his wishes. Another reason, in order to allow new energy to come in, you have to let go of old. That is another post for another day.  Let’s just say about six months ago, I got there.

One of the things that held me back was I needed to write an email that I dreaded to his family and friends. I live the reality of their death everyday.  Not a day goes by where I get a break, nor get through a day without revisiting it. Thank you PTSD. I know that his family and friends don’t ever forget, but it is not in the present everyday at this point. Me sending the email saying, hey, I want to spread his ashes do you want to come brings it right back to center.  I hated having to do that, however, I needed to. In the end, it was a small group of us that said goodbye Saturday, none of which had the knowledge or ability to get past the breakers with his ashes to spread them, so it was up to me.

The plan: after much deliberation, I thought it would be easiest (and yes, you can laugh at that statement as you read on) to rent a wetsuit and surfboard, swim past the breakers, sit on said surfboard and spread his ashes. Easy, right? This is on the Oregon coast, at Indian Beach in Ecola State Park. I hate cold water and do not swim very well at all, but have the fact that I am stubborn as hell going for me.

The week leading up to this was not fantastic. Thursday September 8th was our 9th anniversary (see previous blog), and Saturday was National Suicide Prevention Day.  No, I did not plan that, it just happened (of course). At some point, it will sink in that even though I am “ok” in my head about doing something, my body may have different plans. Meaning, I was in a low grade anxiety attack the entire week.  I ran nine miles Friday to try and dispel some of it.  It made me so tired I did not care, so that was a plus. Saturday came, we left, and being neurotic about being on time to things, I was stressing that I left fifteen minutes late (even though I buffered in 30+). It was a picture perfect day as we arrived in town.  I went to the surf shop, was fitted, gave some basic instructions, and was off to the beach.  Ecola state park is stunning. You drive through this old growth forest on this narrow and precarious winding road that brings you to the beach. As I was waiting for everyone to arrive, I was pacing back and forth looking to the ocean. I was trying to feel something aside from impatience. I knew it was in there, but it was hiding, which is not an abnormal thing for me since this has happened. The thing about ashes, is the amount you have is based on how big the person was (Jess was 6’4″ and 220). His urn was filled to the top and weighed a ton. They line the urn with a plastic bag, then fill it up.  With some help, lots of wiggling and yanking, we got the plastic bag out. I was lent one of those drawstring backpacks that I put him, some lilies, a rock, and the wedding ring he was cremated in. By the time everyone arrived, it was much later than I wanted to start, I raced through what I wanted to read and was ready to go. I just wanted it to be done with. The wetsuit was hot, itchy, uncomfortable, and just plain gross feeling. The waves were picking up a slight bit. Have I mentioned I don’t swim very well?

Upon entering the water, I immediately thought to myself that this may not have been the smartest of plans. I put the board in the water and the waves appropriately smashed into it and me as I was attempting to walk out (with the flimsy backpack on my back). At some point, I got on the board, tried to kick my legs behind me (that did not work) so used my arms to try and get further out (with said backpack flopping around becoming waterlogged). I felt like I was not making any progress as wave after wave came crashing into me and the board. I swallowed so much water, kept getting knocked off the board, kept getting back on, kept eyeing the rocks that seemed to be getting closer, kept trying with all my might to keep going forward.  All the while, this backpack kept getting heavier and heavier, and kept getting knocked around in the surf along with me. It became dead weight. Yeah, I know. It’s kinda funny considering what was in the pack. And yes, I told you there were lots of metaphors coming. At some point, one of the bigger waves, or maybe it wasn’t necessarily bigger, I was just exhausted at that point, knocked into me and the backpack fell off. I panicked as it slid off, trying to grab onto it, getting tangled in the cord/lifeline that was attached to my ankle that kept me tethered to the board and I went under the water. This is how people die. Seriously. I came back up, pulled the board closer, and tried to look for him. You could vaguely see the bottom, I was frantic, this was not part of the plan. No, not at all. Where the hell did this bag go??? I mean, how far could it have gone? I kept a hold of the board, getting more exhausted by the minute. There were several moments dear readers that I though of just letting go. I got it, like really got it. This is how people give up and die by suicide. The pain and exhaustion become so overwhelming that you just want to give up. The waves just keep knocking you off your balance, keep bringing you under the water so you can’t breathe anymore. I kept grabbing onto the lifeline, the tether that kept the board close and kept me afloat. Literally. I thought of these metaphors as I was literally fighting to stay afloat. After what seemed like forever looking for this bag, this bag with my ideas, my plans to have this perfect last experience, I had to give up. I had to give up because I was going to die out there otherwise. I was exhausted, the rocks were too close, and I was not going to make it back in if I kept looking. I climbed back on the board and thought that I would just let it bring me back in. No readers, when you get past a certain point, the ocean will happily take you out, not back in. At this point, I almost panicked. I thought, I am too tired, how the fuck am I going to swim back in? I thought of Fi. That is ultimately how I did it. She could not watch her mother die, she just couldn’t. She almost did. But I would not allow it. Instead of going the way I went out, I went a shorter route to a cove where I saw one of my friends standing and watching from the shore. I got onto the beach and sank to my knees too tired to even cry. I did not even have the strength to walk back to the beach where everyone was waiting. And yet, I mustered the strength. I have done that time and time again over these past two plus years, when I did not think I could go on, I did.

I got back to everyone feeling defeated. I failed. None of what happened was part of my plan. My dear friend looked at me, and I get tears in my eyes every time I remember what she said, and it’s often right now, “Stephanie, none of what has happened has been part of the plan” (meaning their death, how it happened, etc).  It does help to remember that. I am reminded that the ocean is merciless, that bag will be ripped to shreds, the tie that was loosely keeping the bag with the ashes will get knocked off and he will be spread through the ocean. He is where he requested to be. (and yes, I am feeling absolutely terrible that I littered in ocean with the bags!!!)

Grief is complicated with a murder/suicide. I have stated over and over when asked what is the prevailing feeling when it comes to Jesse, and complicated is always the answer. You still go through all the stages of grief.  No one is exempt from them. When dealing with a suicide death, you often have feelings of guilt come up. I do my CBT when that happens, and say yes, it’s normal to feel the guilt, but move on, it’s not going to serve you to stay here. I have felt it overwhelmingly the past few days. I feel like I failed him in life, like I failed him in death. I “know” it’s not true. For reals, I do. But you cannot stop the feeling, you can watch, you can say yes, I get how you may feel that, but ultimately, what you did was a final act of love. Some people say more than he even deserved. How could I not. I loved him, I always will.

This affected me much more that I realized it would. Duh. I know, sometimes I am dense. Do I feel like a dead weight has been lifted?  Not yet. My mind and body are going through their independent chain reactions.  I am just tired. No, exhausted. I feel like I have been emotionally and physically put through the rough surf, tumbling around, trying to find my footing again after arriving on land. I know it will take some time to work itself through. I keep reaching out to my lifelines, thankful they are there, knowing they would kick my ass if I gave/give up. At some point, the weight will slowly be lifted, the energy, as energy does, will shift. There is a definite emptiness where the urn used to be. Time will tell what will be put in its place. Meanwhile, I watch and wait as the emotional aftermath plays out, trying to be patient, trying even more to have self-compassion, and keep moving forward.

The rocks that I almost became one with

Defeated

I almost did not let go of her