Memoirs of a biker widow (6)

Julia Day-Stewart - 1 Mar 18

Letting him go

I’ve seen plenty of dead people in my life. Dead babies, dead children and dead old people but nothing really prepares you to see your dead boyfriend.. in the coffin that you’ve chosen from a Catalogue.

Dead children and babies look like they are sleeping. dead old people look ‘at peace’ .. winkles and frowns relaxed.
Now my Dead Rob just didn’t look like Rob, he didn’t have his frown or cheeky grin, or dimples or sparkly eyes.. they’d gone. His face was a funny shape and his nose was a bit smaller. He didn’t look at peace or relaxed. He looked empty.

The funeral home had called me and said they couldn’t have him there yet as there had been a peak in their services, in other words they had too many bodies and families to contend with. Therefore I had to drive out to the main storage place in Essex to see him.
I drove out there, in his car with his older brother. It’s a pretty nerve wrecking thing to do for the first time. All of my other death experiences had been Hospital based and fresh.

I drove to a large Building in the middle of nowhere, it was eerily peaceful. I remember thinking how beautiful the setting was and that he’d have preferred to be here than in the freezer of a busy high street. What a strange thought.

The people who met us at the door were fascinating. One lady had huge long eyelashes and she told me that she had been looking after Rob and that she’d gone in every morning and said hello to him. I instantly liked these people. What a bizarre job to be in and yet so important.
I wonder if any of them thought at the age of 9.. ‘I know what I want to do when I’m older, care for decreased people and wear super black outfit’.

I wasn’t prepared for the next bit.
I was taken into a pretty little room. It was lilac with posh curtains.
The smell hit me. Fabreeze air freshener.
Rob was in the middle of the room in his bloody coffin with the lid propped up against the wall. I remember gasping. That sight is horrific.
It hadn’t even crossed my mind he’d already be in it, they got that made quickly.
I walked over. It was absolutely terrifying. I was scared. He frightened me. It took me so long to touch him and when I did it felt so overwhelmingly sad.

He looked so vulnerable. My Rob.
On his own in a box, dressed in the clothes I had chosen for him. I put his watch on him and sprayed his perfume.
His brother and I sobbed. We cried for ourselves and each other.
We cried for Rob and the situation we now found him in. We cried in anger and in frustration. We cried with pure devastation.

I held his hand. So cold. I loved his hands. His beauty spot on his wrist, his scar on his knuckle. They were stiff and cool.
I studied his face. His immaculate hair line, his stunning long, famous eyelashes. His pixie shaped ears. His beautiful mouth that I longed to kiss again. His lips were too dark, and this made me frown.
Dark bruises dotted around his beautiful face from the crash. Sutures from his post-mortem. My perfect Rob wasn’t perfect anymore, it wasn’t him.
For a few silly seconds I wondered if they’d got the right person. No. His name was on the lid. Stupid thoughts again.

We stayed a while, talking about memories, swearing at him, sobbing, laughing. The crazy wave of emotion was almost unbearable.
We were allowed to come back again whenever we wanted to. I was satisfied that the Lady with the lashes was taking good care of him. So we left.

The next and last time I visited him, I was prepared.
I took things to stay with him. A poem from his Aunt. A letter and pictures from my children. His Arsenal scarf, several letters and a scan picture of our baby. I placed this picture in his hands and took a picture.
Strange thoughts again! I needed for them to be connected in some way. He should be holding her, not a picture in his cold hands.

He looked different this time. His face had changed. He looked even less like my Rob. It was awful.

Lashes came in and asked if I wanted samples. I cut out some huge curls and remember thinking that he’d have absolutely killed me for messing with his hair. I took some eyelashes, his incredible long eyelashes. I took fingerprints, handprints even bloody footprints. What was I going to do with all these?! I had no idea but I needed everything. In that moment if someone had told me I could preserve him and take him home then I probably would have.
Nothing was scary anymore. I touched and kissed him. He smelt funny. More perfume then.

I knew this was the last I’d see of Rob. He wasn’t there anymore. He was just a shell. His looks were fading fast even with the expensive embalming.
There he was. My soul mate in a box I’d chosen, in the clothes I’d chosen, in a place I’d chosen. My poor, vulnerable Rob.

I let his body go that day.

Lashes promised me she’d look after him until the funeral.
He’d have liked her and commented about her lashes too.
Strange thoughts again.

Julia Day-Stewart

Mum of three. Widow at 35years of age. Mother, Nurse, Realist. Broken but surviving. Lost and drowning but floating in the light of the moon. Amazed by the power of love and the strength of human compassion. I am no writer, I barely scraped past my gcses. So excuse the appalling grammar. I lost my soul mate in 2017 whilst pregnant with his first child (now aged 7 Months). One moment, one poor decision and so many lives destroyed. I decided to start a blog. Firstly to empty my head and help with my own PTSD and secondly to try and help others. Grief can be very lonely and physically destructive.

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