The ultimate goodbye: My young grandson paddled out to release my husband’s ashes in the Pacific

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So many firsts.

 I’m reminded of those days when I was a new mother and thrilling to the adventures of daily life with a new, tiny little person in the house. The first time she rolled over, the first time she found her pacifier tucked in a corner of her crib and placed it back into her mouth, soothing herself. The first full day her diaper remained dry. 

Excited to share the news, I would often call my husband, Michael, at work to announce we were raising a genius with boundless potential. 

Now it is I who is experiencing firsts. Since Michael died of cancer in February, I have turned a year older, experienced Easter, the Fourth of July, celebrated our daughter’s birthday, our grandson’s birthday, his first day of fifth grade and bought a couch. Two days ago was our anniversary. I got through it. 

On paper, this looks pretty good. As if I am growing tougher. More capable. 

But far from feeling steady on my feet, I feel like a toddler wobbling from one challenge to the next, grabbing onto anything to keep from falling over. Sometimes falling flat on my ass.

Two weeks ago, Michael’s family came from the East Coast to spend a long weekend celebrating Michael. It was the first time since he died that I had seen them. I tried not to focus on only my loss, but to consider theirs as well. His mother lost her youngest son. His two brothers lost their little brother. His nieces and nephew will continue on without their uncle. 

In the days before their arrival my stomach churned. I had trouble sleeping. I really can’t say why. Perhaps because it would be the first time I had been with his family without him. 

With the help of friends, I planned a celebration of life for Michael down at Seacliff Beach, where his new memorial picnic table has been placed. I rented a beach house, another first for me, for the family to bunk in. I imagined sunsets on the deck, but the reality didn’t measure up when it came to the weather. We were shrouded in fog the entire time they were here. 

I lay awake at night wishing the sun would appear even though I fully realized weather didn’t matter to anyone. 

I think it was a success – warm and celebratory, considering. I know everyone was kind and thoughtful and generous with their embraces and generous words. I just have no clear memory when it comes to the details. 

People who loved him, including our daughter, Kira, made speeches. And Kira’s dear, lifelong friend Katy spoke of Michael and how important he was to her and how grateful she had been able to tell him goodbye, something she never had the chance to do when her own father, my dear friend Eddy, died of suicide. 

Tears fell like rain. Perhaps the fog was appropriate after all. Sun would have been so harsh. 

As hopeless as I knew it was, I kept searching for Michael in the crowd. I had never hosted a party without him. 

Surrounded by friends and family and love, I felt more alone than I expected. Michael was always by my side at gatherings like this. How could he not be here? How could it be that I will never have him by my side again?

Once we ate and listened to each other speak, it was time for the paddle out to release Michael’s ashes in his beloved Pacific. Several of Michael’s friends, along with Kira, Katy and their children, began to suit up. Dodger, our grandson, grabbed his paddleboard and even without a wetsuit decided to join the group. He just turned 10 and looked so small as he made his way into the surf. The water, which had been very calm, began to wake up from its slumber. 

Waves which I’m sure were only a foot or two loomed large as I watched them head out. My emotions flew back and forth between pride at how brave he was and fear that it was too much for him – and for me. I watched as Kira stayed close to him and Michael’s friends, his dear, dear friends, kept a close and protective eye on him. 

At one point I began to panic at what I was witnessing from the sandy shore. My whole world was out there in gray, churning the water. My daughter, my grandson and Michael’s ashes. 

Everything. 

I could feel panic settling in my chest daring me to do something. 

Later, friends told me I cried out, “Come back, come back.” I don’t remember it. I was terrified I might lose everything – because Kira and Dodger are now my everything. Without them, well…

I watched as they formed a circle out beyond the break and held hands. Michael’s oldest friend Sid, who carried Michael’s ashes with him, began to scatter them on the sea, in a place Michael could never get enough of. 

And then they began their paddle back. My heart began to slow down just a bit. My gratitude to all who kept my grandson safe began to swell. 

It was another first, watching my grandson who had never been out that far before but now was experiencing his own first. And when he made it to shore he cried out, “I did it for Pops! I did it for Pops!”

I wanted to be able to call Michael and tell him. I am hoping he knows. That he was right there alongside his grandson filled with pride and wonder about what Dodger had accomplished that day all to honor him.

And as for me, I have to remind myself, Kira had to crawl before she could walk. I have no doubt that at some point my legs will feel steady and I will not only walk, I will run anew.