Signs of Humanity No. 4 - Thank You Officemate

Thanks for getting me out of my car and myself

“Sarah is being cremated now. Here are 3 writing prompts my friend sent me we can use to send her our love. Mom and I are in the chapel at the funeral home writing to her now.”

The text from my oldest sister pops up at 11:19 am. Right now? I’m at work. It’s my second day back since my sister, Sarah, died unexpectedly a little over 2 weeks ago.

Right now? I knew Sarah would be cremated, that was the plan. But I didn’t know exactly when, or that I’d be notified. Especially not at the very moment. It never occurred to me that we should do a corresponding activity. It makes sense, I want to join in. But I didn’t see this coming.

It’s almost lunch time at work, and a standing meeting I usually have on Mondays has been canceled. I’m grateful for the coincidence. I feel I need some privacy, but that’s hard to come by at work. The office I share with my colleague, Frank, is like Grand Central Station. People are always popping by with questions, new tasks, a request, or for a social distraction. Frank and I have shared this office for a couple years now, and worked together almost seven. We’ve become better friends and typically know where each other are and what we’re working on. If I’m there and Frank’s not, I field the question, “Where’s Frank?” Vice versa for him. We are expected to be reachable, even over lunch.

It would be weird if I just leave the office all of a sudden with no explanation, but I’m feeling urgent. I need to get to writing my letter. Our office is in the windowless basement of an old building, the off-white concrete walls impenetrable. The ceiling feels lower than usual and the eerie buzz of the yellow tinged fluorescent lights is swelling in my ears. 11:20. I’m missing it.

I decide that going out to my car is the only real choice. The restrooms offer a semblance of privacy, but they are pretty busy too. Plus, the burning of my sister’s remains deserves more reverence.

Frank knows about Sarah’s death, at least the gist of what I know: she’s dead and it’s presumed to be suicide, but there’s still an open investigation. He would understand, but I don’t have time to explain and I don’t want to trouble him either.

Since coming back to work, I can see the immense concern on my co-workers faces. My pain feels contagious and I hope to spare them from witnessing it, but there they are. With their cautious, tense-lipped smiles, the inquisitive head tilts, the bravely unblinking eyes. A slight strain in the muscles of their necks betrays their discomfort. A tinge of horror, lovingly suppressed. I appreciate their efforts, I do, but I don’t even know how to be receptive yet. I’m just a meat sack, animated by some unknown force moving me through space, picking up my bones to get me from place to place and task to task while I do my best impression of being gracious, professional, appropriate.

There’s a notebook with a pretty pink and orange cover that I bought specifically for journaling about Sarah in my bag. I’ve been carrying it around with me for a few days, though the pages remain blank. I pull it out and hook a pen on the spiral binding. I hope Frank doesn’t notice the notebook. I tell him I’ve got to go grab something out of my car as I push back from my desk. 11:21. “Okay,” he says, briefly looking up from his computer. At least he’ll know where to find me if something comes up.

Walking out to my car, anxiety mounts. I feel nauseous down to my feet. I’m strangely aware of my teeth pressing into each other. I feel like Sarah is dying all over again, but this time I know it’s happening.

The thought is harrowing. I know better. I know she’s already dead. I know she was not strictly her physical body. But it’s all that’s left. I know this doesn’t change anything, that nothing will. Delaying her cremation won’t bring her back. Nor will going ahead with it. Nor writing a letter, burning a candle, saying a prayer. But it feels significant. It is significant.

I walk unsteadily, as briskly as I can, spiraling in my thoughts. I’m unsettled by a distinctive sense that there’s something else I should do, too. Or instead. Something more. More formal, more ceremonious, more worthy. We’re writing letters. Now, all of a sudden. Right now. Letters that cannot be sent, cannot be received. I’m going to do it, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

I wish I had planned ahead for this, anticipated this occurrence and mapped out something more refined than hustling out to my car at work at the last second. I’m agitated that I didn’t realize this would be a thing, I’m agitated that my sister didn’t give any advance notice about the cremation time, the letters, I’m agitated with myself for being agitated. Most of all, I’m agitated that Sarah is fucking dead. And that she possibly did this to herself. And that we don’t know for sure. Damnit, Sarah.

As I approach my car, focus forces frustration from the foreground. I don’t like it, but this is happening now. Right now. This is the time, there’s not a second chance. This is the best I can do at this moment. As I reach for the door handle I imagine Sarah’s body engulfed in flames. A letter will be sufficient. It has to be.

I get in the passenger seat of the car. 11:27. I wonder what I should write. What I should say. The prompts my sister sent are in my phone, just a swipe away, but it feels like too much effort to open my phone. To focus my eyes to read them. To ask my brain to understand what they mean. To consider Sarah’s suicide. I open my pristine notebook to the first blank page. My hands feel weak, breaths feel shallow, stuck in my stale, dry mouth. My vision is blurry. 11:28. I’m procrastinating.

The car window magnifies the heat from the sun. The heat. The flames. Fuck it. I just start writing. Dear Sarah…

My pen craps out on me in the third sentence. I wonder if it’s a sign that I should abandon the letter writing. I dig around in the center console and find a mechanical pencil and keep going. I write a full page front and back without looking up. I sign my name at the bottom. I’d like to feel that it was somehow cathartic, poetic, visceral, comforting, or spiritually revelatory. But no. It’s just sending her love, wishing her well, missing her, shock, confusion, unanswerable questions, apologies, asking her to forgive me and forgive herself, and more love. But I did it, at least I did something. To honor her, to help send off her flesh.

At 11:52 I close the notebook and stuff it in the crack between the console and the seat. I recline the passenger seat as far as it can go, lie back and bawl like an indignant toddler. Anger is the sound in my ears now, the propellant of the blood through my veins, but it can’t be expressed or resolved. So it’s repressed into hopelessness.

I thought I felt hopeless when I got the call. When I first saw her dead body. When I saw mom’s face looking at her dead body. When Amazing Grace played at her funeral. When I screamed at the ocean and it didn’t help either. But this, knowing that my sister’s body is being reduced to ashes, while lending a certain comfort that she’s not rotting away instead, feels like a taint kick from hell. A new kind of hopeless. There’s nothing I can do. Nothing to be done. A grand humbling.

I tell myself I need to pull myself together, go in and wash my face, get back to work. But I’m not ready yet. My eyes are puffy and red, my face splotched. I’ve entered a state of weepy torpor. I’m pretty sure I’ll get up eventually, but I’m not entirely sure. I brought lunch, but I’m not hungry. I might just stay in my car forever. Maybe the sun will burn me away too. I’ve lost track of time and don’t care anymore. I think I’ll just stay here for a bit longer, see what happens.

I see Frank walking out to the lot and hope he’s not looking for me. Hope he doesn’t see me.

Spotted. Damnit. He’s heading my way. He veers to the passenger side as he realizes I’m not in the driver seat.

I sit up and crack the door, trying to act normal.

“Hey,” he says on approach, “what are you doing?”

I don’t know how to explain. I part my lips to say something but words don’t come. I press my fingertips against my lower eyelids, hoping to keep my tears contained.

His squints and a glimpse of recognition crosses his face. He doesn’t need details. He pulls the door open wider. The fresh fall air rushes into the stuffy car, flushes out heat. I’m dewy with sweat, suddenly clammy with the breeze.

“I’ve gotta go let our dogs out. Why don’t you come with me, see the dogs?” His question is an encouragement.

I think for a moment that I’d rather close the door and melt in my car. But his expectant expression, his physical presence compels me away from the furnace. I nod my head and get out of the car, leaving the notebook tucked away. As we walk to his car he assures me it won’t take long. I sniffle in response, working on recomposing myself. I marvel at the apparent lightness of his gait.

We don’t talk on the drive. It’s about 10 minutes to his house. He cracks the windows and the air is refreshing. His car radio quietly plays NPR.

At his house, he invites me in. I’ve been here before, not often, but it’s familiar. The old, friendly black lab is waiting at the door. He sniffs me eagerly and accepts a pat on the head, then starts following Frank around the kitchen, close enough to almost trip him at every turn as he makes quick work about getting their food. The small white and grey patched mini poodle circles my ankles, unsure. I squat down to scratch her neck and she presses her head against my shin.

Frank opens the door to the back yard and calls for the dogs to go out. The third dog, a sturdy beagle, rushes through the kitchen from the living room and is the first out the door. With some light herding, the other two obey as well.

In a matter of minutes, all three dogs are back inside and happily eating and Frank and I head back to work.

He makes some small talk about his kids and his wife and his dogs on the drive back. I’m ready to participate, at least minimally. I know nothing is fundamentally changed about Sarah, but I’ve escaped total consumption by grief one more time. At least for now. And there is work to be done.

***

So many unassuming acts like this have nudged me forward when I needed it. Thank you, Frank, for your emotional intelligence, for your generosity of spirit, for gently helping me step into a different environment, for showing me a reminder of life, of action, and helping me get out of my car and outside of myself.

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Thanks, Matthew, for the great feedback & conversation, as always!

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