Shared 2/6/24

Cremation Story

I walked to the back of the office with one parent by my side to let go of the other. We moved through doors usually labeled “do not cross.” This was a threshold moment for all involved.

My mom’s cold body lay wrapped in grandma’s quilt. Or great grandmother’s quilt, depending on who you asked. Her mouth was shut, her body prepped, and my stepmom and I stood nearby. Not close enough to touch Mom’s body, but close enough to know she no longer had life coursing through her veins. The body was separate from the Spirit that lived within it. It was her no longer.

Scared to speak knowing one wrong sound, even before forming a whole word could knock me off center and out of control sobbing. I held my breath.

My stepmom and I, Mom’s life partner of twenty plus years, came to the crematorium with smiles on our faces and a feeling of joy at this next step.

It was the weirdest thing. Immediately after Mom died there was a time of elation. Of freedom. Of unexpected energy and space. We’d been her caregivers for weeks, months, years at this point. This process took every ounce of my being to just keep waking up every day to get through everything. There was no thriving, just depletion and anxiety. We reached a level of honesty you only reach when everything else has been ripped away.

We held a deep desire for peace and relief, but unfortunately we were not in a process that gave us that. Even as a family unit formed around helping Mom create “a good death” we were about to face the unthinkable…

Living beyond Mom.

Officially becoming the left-behinds.

Nothing made sense, and it made even less than zero sense how my body was responding to her final passing. Smiles, and new energy? No one had prepared me for this part. Of course I understand now, looking back, we were finally out from under the harsh pressure of death. Crushing every moment like rubbing a piece of lavender between your fingers to get every last ounce of its essence out.

Mom was free. And so were we. In some form at least. It would take a few days to “come back down” and for the reality to set in. But in that moment of inexplicable sadness we had peace. We had kindness, and new aliveness to face the future.

Then we did what most people don’t, and when I say most people, I mean I’m not totally sure this was legal. But the crematorium lady asked, “Do you want to be a part of sending your mother off into the fire?”

“Of course!” I said confidently, “Also, what does that mean?”

She explained that we would be allowed back into the room where the body lay, to say our final goodbyes. We could be a part of this process to the very end, and let Mom go one final time.

So the following day my stepmom and I showed up ready to do ceremony.

Holding drums and rattles, we chose a song to sing over Mom’s body as she went into the fire. Sitting on a conveyor belt of sorts, head towards the flames, I could barely look at her. I closed my eyes and sang with my chest, through the tears. I felt the heartbeat of the drum as we played.

Standing there I stifled my own laughter as my stepmom tied a blanket around her shoulders like a cape. This was a specific blanket we used a lot through Mom’s illness journey. It had a jaguar print with piercing eyes. Singing loud and passionately, the staff stood by. I remember some wiping tears, others definitely wondering what they signed up for that day. One man held his hands behind his back, looking like a soldier with a noble stance, honoring the dead.

After a couple of songs and prayers, Mom’s lifeless body waited on the belt “ready to go.” The crematorium owner asked if we wanted to “hit the button.”

“Yes,” I said immediately.

“You go ahead,” my stepmom replied. She stood back and sobbed as we said our final goodbyes to Mom’s physical form. We removed great grandma’s quilt and I hit the large orange button.

A metal door opened and the body moved down the conveyor belt. I could hear the bellow of the flames brewing. And she was gone. Behind closed doors, they told us they’d take care of the rest.

“Thank you for sharing your ceremony with us. I’ve definitely never seen that before.” Said one attendant, wide eyed but with respect.

“Thanks for letting us send her off that way.” I can’t imagine how strange that was for them. But I felt that freedom again. That ease in my chest, like the weight of caring for someone had almost fully left my body. There was still a whisper of responsibility left.

What is there to do now? We drove home to tend to some more of the logistics of death.

We cremated Mom that day, with our songs, our words, sadness, hopes and fears… It felt like all the human emotions wrapped in the threads of grandma’s quilt. So thankful something beyond us had the capacity to hold all that. Because I sure didn’t.

I needed something “bigger than me” in that moment to attend to the impossible… moving forward. What does that even mean? How can it even be?

And maybe that’s it… it wasn’t actually about moving forward or moving through anything else at that moment. It was about being. Fully being with the release after so much time.

We stood emotionally full. Strong. Exposed. Gifted. And loved. We got to walk out of that building with more than Mom’s ashes. We had been given our lives back, to do with whatever we wanted. I knew at that moment, I’d just survived the hardest experience of my life.

There are some moments our brains can’t truly process or comprehend, so I went looking for some other form of support. I went outside and lay on the Earth, asking her to hold me until I knew what steps to take next.