Michael’s passing felt like a meteor crashing into my heart, creating a bottomless crater of pain the size of which I had never felt. I had no place for this new reality. A crater colliding with my known world, a force I could not control, and an impact I could not make space for. A reality I could not change.
Almost immediately the healing waters of love and caring and compassion began flooding in from everywhere, soothing the pain. My church created a novena in our small chapel for anyone who wanted to light a candle or spend a quiet moment of prayer or meditation. Close friends began bringing food and cards and flowers began arriving. Emails and phone calls were made to let others know what had happened.
I let myself surrender and feel the love sweeping into my life to begin balancing the pain. For me, the healing began when his body arrived at our home and I was finally able to tend to him, wash his face, wash his hand, kiss his head, and feel the peace that surrounded him. Our back room served as both my library and Michael’s massage room for when he saw clients at home. He also used it for recording and meditating. Little needed to be done to create a beautiful sanctuary for spending private time with him in one of his favorite spaces in our home. His simple cardboard coffin fit beautifully on his massage table. We draped it with one of his beautiful covers and lit candles. I brought his music and kept it playing in the background.
Sammie, Michael’s girlfriend, arrived with her mother as did Ben, one of Michael’s best friends and fellow musicians. The first 36 hours remain a blur except for key memories, mostly of sitting with Michael while he was here with me at home. Holding his hand and talking to him. Several times throughout the night, I returned to the sanctuary we had created for him and just sat quietly next to him—not wanting it to be true, knowing my life had changed, grateful to have him home.
A parade of friends and family streamed through his room taking a moment to write and paint on his “box” and share their favorite Michael stories. We celebrated his life, surrounded him with our laughter and flooded him with our tears. We put his favorite black felt fedora at just the right angle upon his head, and wrapped his Sammie-hand-knit purple Christmas scarf around his neck. We covered him with flowers and poetry, and some of his favorite Arican meditation symbols.
It may seem strange to speak about savoring grief, yet there were so many moments when I became aware of this rare elixir—tears and laughter—and sweet memorable moments occurring simultaneously. I tuned in and seemed to know, at a deep soul level, the importance of me staying in the moment, fully present to the laughter and the tears we shared, as we said our goodbyes to Michael’s physical presence in our lives.
I kept noticing this balance of pain and joy, feeling both fully, hugging and being hugged. Sometimes I was the comforted, and some times the comforter. Love poured in—friends coming by to see Michael, sharing their hearts, their stories, bringing with them food and flowers and cards and help. So many loving hands comforted me, and my heart remained broken open to receive it all.
I heard from deep within an angel voice, “Let it all in—let it all in. If you avoid the pain, you will miss the joy. Stay open. Stay present.”
Bringing You Home
You are my child
Woven from my very womb
I remember your first taste of my breast
Your first wide-eyed look at this world
I remember bringing you home
Two older brothers taking turns holding you
So full of life and love and wonder and joy
Always my child, my delight, my prince
And…
I remember bringing you home one last time
My beautiful handsome prince
Uncertain what I’d see as we unzipped the body bag
And folded back the white cloth
Washing your face and untangling your hair
One last time to be able to kiss you and hold your hand
I remember bringing you home
To let them take you from my physical presence
Flesh and blood now cold and lifeless
To flood you with my tears and my prayers and my questions
To allow others to say their good byes
I remember bringing you home so I could let you go.
by Robyn DeLong, 2013