But how could Sam be in a parade at the Happiest Place on Earth one week and his own funeral procession the next?
“That’s, uh, that’s quite something,” Officer A says softly. “The procession sounds all right to you then, Adri?”
I nod and keep my mouth shut for the rest of the meeting.
BY THE time Katrina knocks on my door Tuesday morning, I’ve been awake for hours, my mind struggling to regain that elusive Hope. The Pooh headstone and Disneyland parade connections from yesterday now seem childish and silly. Whereas two thousand years of Christianity can’t be wrong, and since Sam is in heaven waiting for me, the sooner I die, the quicker we’ll be together. I don’t give a flying fuck in a rolling donut about eternal time passing quickly. All that matters to me is time here on earth and I’m not waiting sixty-five years to see him again. I promised Sam I’d hang around for seven months so that’ll take me to…
“…time, it’ll get easier,” says Katrina from the foot of my bed.
“Huh?”
“I was just saying that maybe with time, this will get a bit easier.”
“But I don’t want it to get easier! I don’t want to get over him!”
“No, no,” she recants, “that’s not what I meant. I don’t think you’ll ever get over Sam. You two had something incredibly special.”
“We still do.”
“I know. It’s just that time is a strong healer so one day you might find that the sorrow you feel now will be replaced by wonderful memories.”
“I highly doubt memories will ever sustain me,” I say snottily.
“Adri…”
I throw back the covers. “I’m taking Sasha to the dog park.”
I put on a pair of jeans and the sweatshirt Sam bought me in Disneyland and go downstairs, determined to bring a sense of normalcy to my day.
“Are you sure you don’t want one of us to come along?” Ed asks, pouring my coffee into a go-mug.
“Nope.” I tie up my runners. “I need some time on my own.”
As I’m walking out the back door, I overhear Katrina telling my brothers, “Don’t worry, she has to start letting some of that hurt out.”
I’ll be fine—just six months and twenty-five days to go. I pop open the back hatch of the Jeep and Sasha jumps in. We make it a block before the song, “Truly, Madly, Deeply,” by Savage Garden comes on the radio. The lyrics break open something inside me.
“Fuck!” I scream, pounding the steering wheel with my fist. I pull over to the side of the road and slump against the steering column as deep wracking sobs shake my entire body. This is the first time since hearing of Sam’s fall that I’m completely alone—no one can rush over and comfort me nor tell me the spiritual answer I want to hear. With no audience, the expression of my grief is, at last, real, raw and untamed. From the back seat, Sasha creeps up and nuzzles her nose into my face. I hug her tightly.
When I open my eyes, I notice a man raking his leaves and a woman walking her poodle. My world has stopped turning; why hasn’t everybody else’s?
At the park, Sam’s absence is overwhelming. Everything has happened so fast. But maybe that’s for the best. For as much as I was prepared to handle the responsibility of spending the rest of my life caring for a severely brain-injured husband, perhaps it’s better for both me and Sam that he died quickly from his injuries. Or is it wrong for me to think this?
IN THE late afternoon, I have a bubble bath to try and relax before this evening’s prayer service—the “pretty crazy” one Angela alluded to. But I am beyond anxious.
At 6:00 p.m., Tom picks me up and takes me to the funeral home. I’ve been told to arrive early for private family time before the service. I go into the chapel on my own to see Sam. He’s now in his full police uniform—the one that officers wear only for graduation, weddings and funerals. Though not a doll in ruffles, he does resemble an oversized toy soldier crammed into a casket. His white gloved-hands are neatly folded over each other, as they never were in life. I notice his lips are chapped so I pull out some lip balm from my purse and gently rub it on. Then I lean in and kiss his waxy forehead and am greeted by the smell of formaldehyde. It’s Sam but it isn’t.
A few minutes later, his family joins me to pay their respects to Sam. Then the Greek priest comes in and says a brief prayer. What else we’re supposed to be doing during private family time isn’t clear so we all squish into the front pew together and stare at Sam’s dead body for over an hour. My anxiety builds exponentially.
The chapel is nearly full of mourners by the time I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I’m in the hallway when an older lady who works for the funeral home asks me if I’m OK.
“I’m hungry,” I say, not hungry whatsoever.
She smiles. “There’s some pizza downstairs.”
I follow her down to the staff lunchroom and sit at the kitchen table while she heats a piece of pizza in the microwave. Then she walks over to the fridge. “And we also have some peach juice here, if you like.”
Peach juice? Where else was I offered that recently?
“And then I think you better get back upstairs,” she says, “because the service will be starting soon.”
I eat a couple bites of pizza then go back to the chapel. The tall chaplain, clearly concerned, takes my arm and leads me to the front of the room where several members of Sam’s recruit class present me with a large blue picture of Sam in uniform. He’s standing on a hill with the downtown skyline behind him and on top of the photograph is a poem about the importance of police officers not becoming mean, tarnished or afraid. Oh boy. I take the picture and return to my post between Sam’s parents. The prayer service begins immediately.
Since most of the words spoken by the priest are in Greek, I figure that although my body has to be in this chapel, my mind does not. I close my eyes and I can see Sam on Santa Monica Beach, waiting for me on the sand. But a sickly-sweet smell brings me back to the task at hand. I open my eyes to see the priest waving a brass container of incense toward Sam’s casket. The overpowering stench nearly gags me. Stop it! Sam hates the smell of that shit.
San Diego! The lady with the prayer room—that’s where we had peach juice…
“I’m sorry for your loss, dear.”
I blink. A stranger is now standing in front of me. She leans over and kisses me on both cheeks. Not knowing what else to do, I stand up.
“Be strong dear,” says the next lady in line, also hugging and kissing me.
Apparently, the formal portion of the program is over and the “pretty crazy” part is underway. When it finally occurs to me that I’m in a receiving line three feet from Sam’s dead body, it’s too late to flee.
“It’s God’s plan,” whispers the next woman, kissing me on both cheeks. I seriously consider exposing her a third cheek to kiss.
As both my life and Sam’s quite literally pass before my eyes, I am kissed and hugged by hundreds of people. But each familiar face brings with it a memory. My childhood friends, Sam’s university buddies, members of my family, a former co-worker of mine, members of Sam’s extended family…
Then there’s a lull in the line and I catch a glimpse of Sam in his casket, white-gloved hands still neatly folded. Then more faces, more memories: my university friends, one of Sam’s old partners, a recruit classmate, an old friend, a teammate. Interspersed with faces from our past and present are complete strangers: police officers from all over the country, members of the Greek community I’ve never met, and God knows who else.
I don’t think the human body is built to sustain the mental and emotional impact of reliving hundreds of memories within such a short timeframe and under such heart-wrenching conditions. But what do I know? I tell myself this receiving line tradition must be healthy because if not, then surely someone would put a stop to it.
But after about four hundred people have expressed their sympathy and reminded me—in case I forget—to be strong, I look back over my shoulder. Katrina is scowling, clear
ly livid that I’m allowing myself to be put through this unnecessary torture. But I stay where I am, determined to finish what I started.
As the end of the line draws near, I must confess that my strength does seem to be waning because I start to lose consciousness. I sit down. When I look up, I catch the eye of an older police officer, one of two honour guards standing beside Sam’s casket. He winks at me. I smile back in surprise and feel a surge of strength. Such a small gesture and yet it gives me more comfort than all the prayers, incense waving, stupid clichés and handshakes put together.
When the line of mourners ends, all that remain in the chapel are our families and some of Sam’s buddies. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my dad walk up to Sam and stand there a moment, head bowed. Then he comes over to me.
“I’m very sorry you lost Sam, Adri.”
“Thanks, Dad, I…”
“I’m sorry you lost Sam,” he repeats, “because he gave you what I never could.”
I let the tears fall as I hug my dad tighter than I have since I was a little girl. He’s right; Sam was more of a father-figure to me than my own father.
“Do you know what the chief said to me back there?” Harry asks me as we’re walking out of the chapel.
“What?”
“She said, ‘Your little sister is one tough cookie.’”
“Maybe so,” I say, pushing open the door to the parking lot. “Just not a particularly smart one for letting myself be put through that shit show.”
My dad shakes his head. “Only if you don’t learn the lesson.”
TODAY—WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 4th—is Sam’s funeral. It is also four years to the day since Sam started his classes as a police recruit. True to his orderly nature, Sam’s policing career will end on the same date it began. Today is also Sasha’s third birthday.
When I go downstairs to get coffee started, I notice that several inches of snow have accumulated on the front lawn. I smile. I love winter.
“Thanks for the snow,” I say to the living room window.
After breakfast, I put on my black dress, followed by my fancy new hat with the chiffon bow. When I look in the mirror, I see the pasty, puffy image of a widow who’s visited a few too many buffets. My slip is so snug that Anthony has to do up the clasps of my new shoes for me.
By 8:30 a.m., both police chaplains are standing in my kitchen waiting for the rest of my family and the funeral limousines to show up. I make a comment about the snowstorm being a good sign.
“Do you have any idea,” is the Hope chaplain’s response, “how much havoc it’s causing on the roads out there?”
“No.”
“The streets are skating rinks,” he says.
“Cars are in the ditches,” adds the tall chaplain.
“But Sam knew how much I loved the snow. Maybe he’s trying to make this day a bit easier for me.”
The Hope chaplain smiles. “Well, if it is a gift to you, could you ask him to ease up a little? It’s a mess out there.”
When the limousines arrive, all seventeen of us pile into two cars then begin the slow crawl to the funeral home. I stare out the window as the panic, thankfully delayed somewhat today, begins its familiar ascent from my stomach to my chest to my head. My always being late really bothered Sam; now I can’t even show up for his funeral on time.
Or maybe there’s another reason for a heavy snowstorm to hit today? No more running, no more incessant busyness, no more racing around like chickens with our heads cut off: this is a forced time-out for reflection.
Sam is dead. He went to a break and enter call that was likely a false alarm. While searching for a nonexistent bad guy, he stepped through a false ceiling and fell a mere nine feet to his death. What are the chances of this? Am I the only person who thinks this scenario a bit odd?
“It’s more than a hat rack,” Sam used to say to me from the perch, tapping his temple with his index finger. “You think I’m just mindlessly watching TV, don’t you?”
“Uh, yeah. Call me crazy but what else would you be doing?”
“I’m relaxing and thinking.”
“With the TV on?”
“It’s how I chill out.”
Watching the cars inch along in traffic, I promise Sam I won’t just attend his funeral today and rush right back into the rat race. I’ll take the necessary time to reflect and learn from his life, his death and our relationship. Easy to say this, while held captive inside a limo during a snowstorm.
We arrive at the funeral home just as Sam’s pallbearers are lifting his casket into the hearse. I am incredibly thirsty, so someone gives me a bottle of water. Our limousines follow the hearse out of the parking lot and we make our way toward the Greek Orthodox Church. When our vehicle turns the last corner, I am shocked at what I see.
Hundreds of police officers and other emergency services personnel are lining the streets and church steps, patiently awaiting our arrival; blue, black and red uniforms from all over North America are a sea of colour against the snow.
“Respect isn’t granted,” Sam had repeatedly reminded me, “it must be earned.”
My door is opened from the outside and the tall chaplain leans in, offering me his arm. I take it and climb out. I’m wearing my long brown swing coat—the one I vowed to Sam I would wear to lunch with my future publisher in New York City one autumn day.
I take in the scene before me. Snowflakes fall gently to the ground. Are we figurines in a glass ball God has given a good shaking to? Is He up there watching as the snow settles around our lives, curious to see if we’ll learn a lesson or two?
I glance to the left and see a photographer on the roof of the house next to the church. I turn away in time to see the pallbearers removing Sam’s casket, now draped in a Canadian flag, from the hearse. I tighten my grip on the chaplain’s arm. Then they start to carry the casket toward the steps. Bagpipes play and a drum pounds. Boom, boom, boom; up the steps of the church the pallbearers’ boots move in time to the beat of the drum. But that isn’t just any police officer in that casket; that’s my Sammy. When all this pomp and circumstance ends, how much solace will pride, honour and respect give me? I can’t cuddle up in bed with virtues.
I follow Sam up the steps in my new black shoes. Past the officers, through the church doors and down the aisle we walk, my eyes fixated on Sam’s casket. As we pass row after row of people who, unlike me, get to go home to their loved ones at the end of today, my anger builds. Does anybody get it? Who here will take more than a fucking date square from this funeral?
And what, exactly, do I expect everybody else to be “getting” from Sam’s death? That life is short? That our final day often comes without warning? No. People already know all that, although this could be a reminder. What I want is an assurance that the end of Sam’s life, and the shattering of my own, will not be in vain. I fear acceptance of Sam’s death because I know that will lead to apathy. Somehow, positive change has to come out of this.
But just as I know Sam wouldn’t appreciate a choir singing at his funeral, nor would he approve of me having a spectacular meltdown in front of our family, friends and colleagues. Thus it is in silence that I make my way down the aisle of the church that had refused to accept Sam’s decision to marry me within the Anglican faith. Well, they got him now, didn’t they? Media coverage and all.
THE ONLY good thing about being the widow is the front row seating. There’s nothing between Sam and myself except death itself—and an expensive maple casket, which is, thankfully, closed for the time being. I take my seat between Sam’s parents and we hold hands. To our right, several old men in robes begin chanting in ancient Greek.
I then watch as three police officers—Charlie, Mark and one of Sam’s teammates—slowly march up to Sam’s casket. Mark places Sam’s police hat on the casket, above Sam’s head. The teammate places Sam’s badge above Sam’s chest. Charlie places a folded flag and framed photograph of Sam at the other end of the casket. Then all three march slowly back to their s
eats as a fourth officer rests a sword on top of the items.
The priest welcomes the congregation then begins the religious portion of the service, much of it in Greek. My eyes drift from one gold panel to the next: Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary, the twelve disciples and several Saints. Is Sam with all the gang now?
“Sam is not leaving this world to disappear,” the priest says, in English. “He is leaving to live the eternal life with God.”
Then he looks at Sam’s mom. “Jesus said, ‘Mother do not weep.’”
She stifles a sob. I squeeze her hand.
“For in the history of humanity,” he continues, “there have been mothers who gave birth to tyrants, dictators and killers; mothers who gave birth to angels and saints; and then there are mothers who gave birth to heroes. And this last one is you.”
Kaboom. Sam’s mom howls.
A second priest then gives a speech entirely in Greek; his message lost to most of the congregation.
Then Stan steps up to give the eulogy.
“Adri,” he says to me, as if we’re the only two in the church, “from the moment he met you, Sam knew you were his soul mate. He told me so on the car ride home.”
I’d been out with Jodie that night—all four us, drunk as skunks. Sam and I had even had an argument, which was a fitting start to our relationship. The connection between us had been there from the get-go; it was the details that needed working out.
“Three months ago,” Stan continues, “during their last visit to Vancouver, Sam, Adri and I went for a walk through Stanley Park. And Sam said to me: ‘I am a simple man. I have a wife I love dearly, a wonderful family, a great group of friends, my dog, and a career where I can make a difference.’”
Stan stops speaking to gain his composure. “Then he said, ‘My life is perfect. My life is complete.’”
I, too, had heard Sam say those exact words. Maybe he had accomplished all he needed to. I have no doubt Sam passed away a fulfilled person, but I also know he would not be impressed with the circumstances in which he died. He’d achieved his goal of becoming a police officer but that doesn’t mean he’d be A-OK with dying on the job after only four years.
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