I’m back on shore after Christopher’s burial at sea and, let me tell you, that was a lot harder and also a lot more therapeutic than I expected. I even managed to give some elevator passengers a pretty unfortunate ride they won’t forget for a while.
Burials at sea must take place in international waters under very particular conditions. The ship’s Captain identifies different windows of opportunity and Guest Services does all the coordinating. We got a call Christmas Eve morning asking if 10:00 a.m. would work for us. There would be a few other options during the trip but I was good with taking the first one.
That day was a sea day, meaning there were no ports of call and no one was getting off the ship. While other passengers were donning bathing suits or scarfing down bagels at the buffet, I was prepping myself to let a piece of Christopher leave me forever.
I started crying before I even left the stateroom but still had to get myself to Guest Services to meet with the crew member who would take us below decks. Standing at the elevator banks, I saw the glass elevator descend to our floor and heard the jovial passengers before the door even opened. Boy, did I kill that mood.
The pair of us stood there in black, me clutching this ridiculous nylon lunch bag and a wad of wet Kleenex. Everyone stopped talking and we stepped inside. It was the longest elevator ride for me and, I suspect for them as well. You could have heard a pin drop. As we arrived at our floor, I muttered an apology to everyone for making it the most awkward elevator trip ever, which I think mortified Michael.
It took a few minutes to work out the last-minute details so I sobbed against an ATM while hoping no one needed to make any cash withdrawals. For context, the Guest Services desk on cruise ships are smack in the middle of the busiest area of the ship so passengers can find it easily. I’ve had some strange experiences in my life, but cry-hiccuping into a tissue with around 300 merry holiday revelers walking by is a first for me.
We were escorted to the designated with the coordinator dude and not one, but two, security officers. Cruise lines don’t play when overly emotional passengers are involved. They flanked me the whole way there and back. I understood, though, and they were very kind.
As we entered the crew decks, our guide radioed ahead to clear the way so we didn’t stumble on clutches of workers horsing around, thinking they were out of the sight of passengers. I guess a couple of workers didn’t hear the message because they seemed surprised to see us come around the corner as they squeegeed the floor of a maintenance area. They were basically like
We were taken to a small platform about 100 feet above the waterline that’s typically used for lookouts and such. They told us to take all the time we needed and stepped back inside. Suddenly it was just me, the water, and a really shitty thing I needed — but didn’t want — to do.
Michael handed me the biodegradable urn, which I’d held before. Only this time it was heavier. I remember asking him why it was so heavy. So much heavier! Mercifully, he didn’t answer.
After all the planning that had gone into this, I realized I couldn’t go through with it. I was supposed to give a part of my son to the ocean, but all I selfishly wanted was to keep every last particle of him to myself. I’d already lost his life in mine, how could I voluntarily give up anything else?
I kept saying over and over, “I can’t, I can’t…” I can’t do this. I can’t let him go.
For days after Christopher died, I also walked around in a daze saying, “I can’t, I can’t…” I can’t do this. I can’t live without him.
Nearly a year later, the words haven’t changed but the meaning behind them had expanded. I have to live without him and I have to let this small part of him go.
It took me a long time to come to peace with what I’d come there to do. I had to remind myself that Christopher made his choice and there was no alternative but to respect it. To honor it. To honor him.
Christopher loved our cruises together. Christopher loved me, and I love him. Our DNA is forever intertwined, even in the ashes I held to my chest like a life preserver. We would take this part of the journey together.
I took a last look at the inscription on the urn — the last private message we will ever have between us — opened my hands, and watched it fall into the ocean.
I yelled. I stamped my foot. I clutched at air, finally finding Michael’s hand. I watched the urn drift away from us, floating atop the water and finally dipping under forever.
One more long walk back through the crew quarters, one more awkward elevator ride, and I was back in the room. I don’t remember much about the next few hours. I know I ate something but I can’t remember what it was. I remember that everything seemed flat and grey, yet somehow overstimulating at the same time. Everything hurt.
The coordinator came to our stateroom a couple of days later with a lovely folio. It contained a picture of the ship and a certificate signed by the captain that includes the coordinates of where we were when I dropped the urn overboard. That meant a lot.
In the end, l’m glad I didn’t back out. I even think the timing, Christmas Eve, was a bit serendipitous. This holiday season will suck forevermore because Christopher will never celebrate it with us again. But he and I got to spend a little time together after all, even if it was a year late.
Borrowing something someone said to me later that day:
Fair winds and following seas, Christopher. I love you forever.