The phrase "shifting and heading south" used to be a private joke in my family. It referred to a corsetiere's solemn pronouncement when she evaluated my sister's breasts for a brassiere fitting. That was before this past year, when I lost my husband, Arthur. (He would have joked, "How careless of you.") Now the same phrase that used to provoke paroxysms of giggles describes nothing so much as my state of mind. So much I once thought permanent seems to have shifted or slipped away: four pregnancies, my first marriage, two dogs, three cats, my mother, my father and, most recently, my Arthur.
Since he died, my closet has become overcrowded and noisy. Understand, we don't inter in my group, we cremate and collect. So, at the moment, I have residing in my walk-in closet my father (black plastic box wrapped with clear packing tape), Larry the cat (tiny, flowered tin) and now Arthur (brushed-brass urn). It should be noted that the previous list is in chronological order, not order of importance.
My mother has long since been scattered--along with Evelyn the dog--under a tree planted in her memory in Connecticut. As for Daddy, he was an avowed atheist and made it perfectly clear that he wanted to be cremated and then scattered with my mother under her tree. "Listen," he'd say at 90, "I'm almost ready. I've got one foot in the grave and another on a loose rock." At 91, he transitioned from Ft. Lauderdale into the crematory box in my closet, where his ashes sit until I can scatter them next to my mother's.
Some would find it discomfiting to keep bits of their dear departed in the closet. For me, it's comforting. I have my loved ones where I can see them. I greet them and bid them good night, and I consult them whenever I feel sanity slipping through my fingers.
Right after Arthur died of an overwhelming virus that killed him in less than 36 hours, I walked into our bathroom and saw his shaving brush on the shelf. Finding the sight too painful, I hid it away in the cabinet, but the next time I went in I took it out again. It was just as painful not to see it. The truth is that nothing feels good. Grief is like an elephant in the middle of the room--no matter how you try to ignore it, it's still the biggest thing in your life.
Several close friends have asked for something of Arthur's to keep as a remembrance, so I have let them go into his closet to pick out a necktie. One, a longtime friend from Los Angeles, said that he hardly ever wears a tie in L.A., but he took one anyway, saying, "If I ever do wear a tie again, it will be this one." As he was getting ready to leave, it started to rain. He was wearing new shoes, and I spotted the appropriately sized rain boots in the closet. When we turned to leave, I saw three unopened boxes of Viagra on the shelf. So our friend returned to L.A. with a tie, a pair of Totes and a supply of Viagra--three aspects of Arthur still connected to life.
Months after Arthur's death, the Centers for Disease Control told me it had been unable to identify the virus that killed him. The infectious-pathogen specialist reassured me that specimens are kept for a very long time, and when another "mystery" virus comes in they'll compare the samples to see if they can form a new identity. So Arthur "lives" on at the CDC, too. Little bits of him are scattered all over: Los Angeles, Atlanta, my closet.
The day he died, I hopped on a plane to rush home from a business trip after getting news of his sudden hospital admission. The last message from him on my cell phone was "Hi, Pooh. We're having a little medical adventure, but don't worry. I'll be fine." He died while I was in the air.
I went straight to the hospital morgue. It was still Arthur in there. Very cold to the touch of my lips, but still my Arthur. He looked peaceful, even with the tubes.
As our sad little entourage (my sister, my niece and I) drove out of the hospital parking lot, we were too shocked and exhausted to speak. Suddenly, in the midst of the quiet winter night, we heard a man's voice. "It's a girl!" he yelled into his cell phone. At first it felt like a kick to the head, but the caller was so completely joyous that we spontaneously offered our congratulations as we drove by. He beamed. Strangely enough, it felt good and just. One out, one in. All in the same day. Arthur, who never seemed to fear death ("It's all part of the process," he used to say), would have appreciated it.
Nearly a year later, I think I may have moved from numbness and denial into acceptance. Actually, I preferred denial. Hope lives there. With acceptance, as the saying goes, what you see is what you get. So, lately, while I'm still shifting, I'm not heading south every moment of every day. Now it's more like the proposed title of a friend's memoir: "Onwards and Sideways."
SNYDER, AN ACTRESS, LIVES IN NEW YORK CITY.