Next week, Christopher and I get to do one last thing together. Just the two of us. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to go through with it, but it’s important to me that I do.
I’m taking some of Christopher’s ashes with me on a cruise and have arranged to send them overboard as we drift through the Carribean. There’s meaning behind the overall choice but it’s also an opportunity to let a part of him go under my own power instead of being snatched away from me without warning.
We took Christopher on his first cruise in 2015 and he was immediately captivated. The transformation in him was stunning. He tried so many new things for the first time, had a bucketload of new experiences, and generally just loved it. Christopher roomed next door to us with Michael’s son, who’s a few years older than him, and they bonded like blood brothers.
He and I also got the opportunity to spend some time alone together, bringing us closer than ever. Christopher confided things in me that he’d never been comfortable telling anyone else and I was able to lavish my attention on him without the pull of work or any other responsibilities.
That trip was precious to me and it must have meant something to him too. His ship room key was in his wallet the day he died. That’s it in the picture at the top of this post. The key card from another cruise we took the following year was found in his safe. I was in the process of helping him get his passport when he died because he wanted to travel more with us.
The cruises we took together were in the Carribean and, quite by accident, the same itinerary both times. Last December, before my life blew the fuck up, Michael and I booked a cruise for this Christmas that also happened to the be the same itinerary we’d sailed with Christopher. I remember idly wondering back then if Christopher and my stepson would get to come with us again.
Guess not.
I’ve been wondering for months how I’m going to mark Christopher’s birthday and… fuck… deathday, which are both in January. Michael and I tossed around the idea of taking his ashes on a cruise at the one-year mark but the ship we sailed on with him both times is currently in Baltimore. There’s no way on earth I could deal with all the travel it would take to get there during such an emotionally sensitive time, so I nixed that idea pretty quick.
Meanwhile, I have this cruise coming up over Christmas and it just didn’t seem worth going. Then it dawned on me. It might not be the same ship but it’s the same itinerary, so I’ve decided to leave some of his ashes where we’d had such a meaningful time.
Michael, god love the man, made all the arrangements for me. He ordered all the required paperwork, culled a selection of biodegradable urns for me to choose from, and placed that order too. (People sometimes say they don’t know how I get through any of this. Michael is how I get through it. He does everything I can’t.)
Christopher’s notarized death certificate required a signature upon delivery. When the doorbell rang earlier this week, I assumed that’s who was at the door. Nope, it was the urn arriving a day early. I opened it to check the personalization and ended up sitting on the kitchen floor crying my guts out. Mothers are not meant to hold something that will contain the remains of their child.
I had a video meeting to attend so I hauled out the Visine so I didn’t look stoned and redid my makeup. I don’t think I said anything stupid but, honestly, I don’t even remember.
UPS eventually showed up with the death certificate and the tears started all over again. Mothers are not meant to hold papers confirming their child has died.
More Visine, more makeup, more meetings. I think that day was 267 hours long.
Thanks to Michael, the logistics are in order to do this next week. I see my grief counselor before I go, so that should get my head in order too. I mean, as much as that is possible.
I don’t know exactly what day this will happen yet because we make those arrangements with Guest Services when we board. At the appointed time, a crew member comes to get us (they must draw straws for who gets that shitty job), and we’re taken to a private area of the ship. We can stay as long as we need to and, when we’re ready, we send the urn overboard. The Captain gives us a certificate that has the coordinates on it so we’ll always know where we were that day, that minute, that moment.
The message to Christopher on the urn is from me alone and I think I’m going to have to send it overboard alone as well. I had him all to myself for nine wonderful months before he was born. After that, I had to share him.
I want one last moment with my baby, then I have to let a part of him go. He left me on his terms and I’m struggling to accept that. Next week, I open my hand and let a little piece of him go on my terms. It’s the least we can do for each other.