Shitty, thank you for asking.

This time last year, I was buried under all the tasks that come with organizing your spouse’s funeral. All the checklists, all the paperwork, all the people who needed things.

I tried to stay on top of it. I tried to keep one eye focused on where I was and what I needed, but all the things kept piling on top of me.

And I realize now that I lost myself somewhere under the weight of other people.

This time last year, I was reading and re-reading the speech I wrote for you, agonizing over every word. Before your memorial began, I hid in the backseat of my mom’s car, making last-minute changes, arranging the lines just right.

You loved my writing. Even though you weren’t there to hear it, I wanted to deliver a speech that would have made you proud.

You deserved the very best, but you seldom got that when you were alive.

Some people plan their own funerals. You didn’t. And that’s okay—you didn’t have to. We knew each other deeply. We trusted one another with our lives and our deaths. It’s just that yours came first, and it came way, way too early and fast.

We held your memorial outdoors. The venue was simple and beautiful, but it was also a do-it-yourself set up and take down. There were florals, signs, food and drinks, a dozen tables, and hundreds of chairs to unload and arrange.

I grabbed a few chairs, but someone came up and took them from me. “No, we got this. You go and do what you need to do.”

Everywhere I turned, I saw people who arrived hours early to help.

Your friend, the professional musician, was there. He nodded and smiled at me as he set up his keyboard. Another friend of yours was there, bagpipes in hand. He had flown in from a neighbouring province.

People were hunched over audio equipment, doing sound checks, setting up tables, laying out flowers, catering. Doing everything possible to make sure there were seats and food and drinks for everyone.

The children who live across the street from us came up to me and asked in earnest, “What can we help with?”

I saw a woman we barely knew—a neighbour who lives around the corner from us. She was in the middle of her own cancer treatments, and she was there, making things beautiful.

I brought some things from home to arrange on a table. My friends helped me set out your motorcycle helmet for the bike you barely got to ride, your fighting gear from your coaching days that ended far, far too soon.

Your boxing shorts. Your favourite hat. The books you read.

Evidence of a life.

Your death didn’t feel real. It still doesn’t.

I placed your shoes and your picture beside the podium. I hope I thought of everything.

People were starting to arrive. I saw your two brothers standing off to the side. One flew in from Ontario, the other sailed over from Salt Spring Island. Tall, handsome men of wisdom and quiet confidence. Like you. I wish so much that I would have asked one of them to read your eulogy.

A woman came up to me: “I knew your sister. I remember you and your mom standing in front of everyone at her funeral. You have been through way too much. It isn’t fair.”

It comforted me to know that at least one person in the crowd had witnessed this other part of my life, and she hadn’t forgotten.

People came up to me to tell me how much you meant to them, how you led them, inspired them. Saved them, even.

Some of them asked how I was doing. I didn’t know what to say. I dug around in my purse for a pen, and I scrawled the word “shitty” on a piece of paper. When the next person came up to me and asked, “How are you?” I silently handed over the piece of paper. Confusion spread across their face until they looked down and read it. Then they laughed.

I laughed too.

“I’m gonna need that back for the next person who asks.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s a stupid question…”

“No, it’s not stupid. It’s just that sometimes, it’s hard to tell who really means it.”

I wasn’t trying to be funny. I wanted people to care.

But I know what happens after memorials.

As people continued to filter in, my best friend tapped me on the shoulder, “The security guys are here,” she whispered. A deep sigh gathered in my chest as we walked over to meet them. After everything you went through, after how much you wanted to live, after how hard we both fought, it had really come down to this.

We stood there with the security team, reviewing the plan together.

“We understand there’s an individual who is not welcome at this memorial, and you’re concerned she may show up and cause a disturbance?”

“Yes. She knows she’s not welcome here, but we expect her to show up anyway. It’s what she does.”

“Don’t worry. If that happens, we’ll handle it.”

She did show up, but nothing happened. The security team handled it, as promised.

I was the last one to speak at your memorial. As I walked back to my seat, your nephew stood waiting in the aisle. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and held me. He did the same for my mom after she’d read her speech.

He died last week.

His death doesn’t feel real either.

When someone dies, the people in your life will surprise you in good and bad ways. I was surprised by who chose to disappear, and I was surprised by who stepped into the spaces they left.

The days after a memorial will separate the crowd from the few. The days after will reveal how alone you really are, and the silence will convince you of your own isolation. In my mind, I said “Goodbye,” not only to you, but to the life we had and everyone who used to be in it. I knew the grief and despair would drag me to another place—a place most of them would never visit.

I knew this because it’s what happened after my sister’s death. And my dad’s.

I did my best to make your memorial beautiful, but so much was out of my hands. As it ended, I wanted to stay a little bit longer. I wanted to be held and cared for and witnessed. I knew it was my last chance. I knew that when it ended, everyone would go back to their lives.

But there were other things I didn’t know.

I didn’t know that so much of the love others had for you would seem like it was being held just out of my reach.

I didn’t know being a widow to a man as cherished as you would feel so exclusionary.

And I didn’t know the full extent of the laughing, the sneering cruelty, the open drug use, and the slandering that took place at your memorial. Wherever you are, I hope you didn’t see this behaviour.

When I stood at the podium to read my speech, I paused to look over all the people.

There was one thing I did know: I would never see or hear from most of them again.

*cover photo by Earl Wilcox via Unsplash