The Business of Death

Check one:

Single

Married

I stared at this a minute. I didn't want to check either one. Neither communicated my status as I saw it. It was not this simple. How dare they try to make it so. At least Facebook gave the option of widowed. That was a less painful choice. My eyes teared up as Lynn sat across from me. Thankfully she volunteered to bring and explain to me the various forms I needed to fill out for our company and to get the health insurance back in my name. You've probably gathered by now that Tom and I worked together if you didn't already know. The form taunted me. I took a deep breath, checked the first and moved on.

I've been referring to matters like this as "the business of death." Handing out credit card information over the phone to pay for cremation like it was no different than buying frames for my paintings. Name on card. Expiration date. Same questions only followed by "we're sorry for your loss." Over and over. And all I can think of is how Tom and I used to make fun of this phrase while watching the various crime drama shows. Used so much that it's lost its meaning. As I told someone who recently apologized for an awkward moment at the funeral, "I rather have an awkward moment that conveys real emotion than hear the same platitudes yet again."

The business of death. Talking to the funeral home in Leakey and reading a full page of 6 point text detailing the cremation process. "Following a cooling period, the cremated remains, which will normally weigh several pounds in the case of an average size adult, are then swept or raked from the cremation chamber. To the extent practical, the crematory establishment will remove all recoverable cremation residue from the cremation chamber." I look at the logo for the funeral home at the top of the page. It's terrible. Tom would have made fun of it or offered to design them a new one.

Calling the hotel to get them to send the rest of Tom's belongings back. They wouldn't release them to David who was there. Policy. Instead they needed to hear some voice over the phone claiming to be his wife, I could have been anybody calling, to say send them back and then hand over credit card information for the shipping. They arrived yesterday. The dogs sniffed at the dirty clothing. There is his breathing machine. I wonder if it is actually his or if it is essentially leased and needs to be returned somewhere. I don't remember. There is a pocket flashlight. I put it in my purse.

Talking to the auto yard where the bike was towed. They graciously mailed Tom's pocket camera left with the bike back to me when I asked and wouldn't let me pay for the shipping. The photos were of the motorcycle museum near Leakey. Pics of bikes and pics of old advertising posters. Talking to highway patrol to get a crash report. Talking to the insurance company, twice. The second caller asked how Tom was doing. The first had not made a notation of death. "We're sorry for your loss."

Unable to decode Tom's cryptic list of passwords, I went to the bank in person to get them to reset the online banking account. I haven't received death certificates yet, so I brought every other piece of identifying information I had from pay stubs to check books and an expired driver's license. Highway Patrol kept his current license. I regained access to the joint accounts, but they wouldn't even give me a balance for his personal accounts (we each had some) without the death certificate and probate papers. Policy. I left with the phrase, "we're sorry for your loss" trailing behind me.

It's far from over, the business of death. I learn to speak dispassionately to these people. To ask questions. To repeat everything they have told me back to them. Frequently this elicits additional information that they forgot the first time. This saves frustration. I don't want to have to talk to these people again. Ever again.

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The painting is of a Lily of the Nile flower I did quite some time ago in gouache rather than acrylic. Tom told me frequently that he liked this piece.