Oh, this day.

I feel bad about the anger post. Not bad enough to delete it or take back any of what I said. It's not that I didn't mean what I said. Nor is it that I actually meant what I said. It's just how I was feeling this morning.  That was me...in the moment.  If anyone out there is reading this, I feel like posting those sorts of emotions shows what grief is really like for me. So the post stays. The emotions remain published.

My mother called today wanting to spend time together and wanting me to offer her more support than I can give her right now. She asked if she was just supposed to talk to her friends about her grief instead of me. I didn't come right out and tell her that I can't be there for her right now since I don't know how to take care of me. I did beat around the bush though, and felt guilty as I doing it.  I was just trying to tell her that I need more time and need more space. I know she's having a horrible time with things, but clearly so am I. The problem is though, I haven't talked to her about how I'm doing. She doesn't know this blog exists. So from her perspective, I'm sitting in silence. From most everyone's perspective, that's what I'm doing.

Another part of my reality today was picking up Astrid's ashes. Two nights ago the funeral home director emailed me and said that it was all ready.  James ended up getting tonight off and my step-daughter was at her grandmothers. So this afternoon was the "perfect" time to make our journey to the funeral home. The funeral home we used is in the city my mom lives in. I'm sure knowing that this journey was going to be part of my day is partly why I had my anger-outburst this morning. The 30 minute drive was mostly silent. When we arrived, we sat in the lobby waiting for the receptionist to come get us. I hadn't been in there since my dad died. I sat on the couch and looked across the lobby through the double doors that opened up into a visitation room that was ready for an elderly lady's visitation that evening. I could see her in her casket from where I was sitting. It made me think that I was far too young to have been in that funeral home twice in 10 years--once for my father and once for my daughter. 

After waiting about 5 minutes, a young girl came out and asked with a huge smile if we were there to pick up the ashes. My first thought was, "I didn't know you could work in a funeral home when you're 16." I'm sure she was actually in her 20s, but whatever. My second thought was, "This situation doesn't really warrant the bubbly persona that she's projecting." Of course, I just replied with "Yes." A minute later she was back out there with the urn and two ash-holding pendants that we had ordered. We signed a sheet of paper, and that was it. No condolences. No nothing. Just a bronze sculpture and some jewelry with my daughter inside. 

Oddly, I didn't cry. I thought this would be the one time I could guarantee that I would be in hysterics. Instead, I just felt a calmness wash over me. The urn was absolutely perfect. The jewelry was much more beautiful than I thought it would be. I did, however, decide that I wanted a drink. We stopped and bought a six pack and decided to stop at my mom's house. Seeing her made me feel better for trying to politely tell her to back off earlier in the day. It made her feel better to see me and see the urn we picked out for Astrid. 

God, I love Astrid. Deeply. I'm so relieved and so happy that we decided not to bury her or bury her ashes. Right now I have the urn on my bedside table. I have the pendant on a chain around my neck. I have her pink blanket next to me. And at every waking moment, I have a candle lit for her. The connection I feel to these items at this time is so hard to describe. I just know that I love and adore her. This is as close as I'll ever be to her for the rest of my life. I don't know if I'll ever be okay with that, but at least I have these things to help give me the illusion of closeness.

The bedside table