Another aspect I had not planned on, along with losing the house and most everything in it, was that when a person dies, their body does not magically disintegrate a la Obi Wan Kenobi in Star Wars. Let this be a lesson to young adults everywhere: do not make important life decisions based on your favorite movie.
My parents left no instructions, other than that they wanted to be cremated. I never asked how they wanted their cremains disposed of, despite the inevitable approaching, and the few times Poppa mentioned it he rather sardonically suggested dumping him at the county trash heap (which is illegal, in case you ever considered it). So I signed for the bodies to be picked up by our local mortuary, arranged for the cheapest cremation possible (you have to buy a box, whether you like it or not, and despite the fact that you are buying something just to burn it. They want the body in a box. Go figure.), and arranged to pick them up later.
When you pick up cremains that are not in an outrageously expensive fancy urn, they are in a cardboard box. The ashes are, actually, in a sealed heavy-weight plastic bag inside the box, which in both of my parents’ cases measures all of 6″ x 9″ x 4″. Very small boxes for a whole person, but trust me, they are damn heavy.
Mother’s ashes rode around with me in the car for three days, as I did not have the heart to bring them back to Poppa right away. That was probably illegal too – I called this section “waste disposal” because the laws surrounding dead human bodies are stricter than most government rules for toxic runoff. In fact, that sentimental scattering of ashes at your father’s favorite fishing spot or your mother’s beloved national park is totally illegal. I think most people do not know that because of two reasons: 1) depictions in movies/television of such events are romanticized and simplified; and 2) most law enforcement officials have a benign, somewhat compassionate and unofficial “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy in place. As long as you are not spreading ashes in a major traffic intersection or at your father’s favorite Starbucks, you can get away with it.
In my case it was less a matter of concern about legalities than simply a lack of any ideas. My mother loved the beach, but I did not want to spread her ashes where people would walk around in them (for their sake as much as hers). Poppa and I discussed renting a boat to tip her into the ocean, where presumably she would wash up on the beach in some form or another, but that never sat well with either of us as mother hated being on a boat. Such is the logic of mourning.
Rinse and repeat for Poppa’s ashes: after I picked up his box, I was rather flummoxed. With no family plot and no concrete suggestions via the deceased, I had no idea what to do.
This dilemma was not about whether the body is sacred or not sacred (a philosophical and religious debate I am not prepared to enter), but rather the more practical considerations of what to do with the thing. It is not something taught to you in high school, much less in college, although I would love to see that on a curriculum (“The Disposal of Your Loved One 101”). It is something that people assume the family will deal with, with some vague perception that the “adults” will guide the process along. In my experience, the adults in my family (parents or other relatives) did not want to deal with it at all. I got no advice from my mother’s family on what to do with her ashes; no one even mentioned it, I suspect out of deference to my father but seriously, at that point he was a stroke victim. Someone should have approached me about it, if only to force me to address it as an important problem and possibly think ahead.
Likewise no one but no one asked what my plans were for father’s cremains, either. I suppose if a family has a family plot, or bought grave sites prior, or whatever else they might do, such decisions would be gratefully taken out of the hands of the young adult trying to figure out what to do.
But I am not sure that would make anything particularly easier. Words cannot express how surreal the whole issue is, how disconnected it feels to have to act on, much less decide, where your parents’ bodies are going to be “at rest” when your entire life is anything but restful, or even logical.
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