Digging Up Bones, Part 2

*This is Part 2 of a 2 part series…read Part 1 here*

Soon after my temporary leave of sanity in the parking lot, the real urn and it’s mini versions arrived, and the concrete-like version of my husband took up residence in them.

All of him.

You see, a few months after the funeral my former in-laws began to give me trouble about the estate, the funeral, the headstone, the house and its contents, and the fact that he was cremated and they didn’t like it, yadda yadda yadda. They got attorneys involved and dragged me into probate court to contest his will instead of just talking to me and trying to straighten it out. Like the good Christians they claim to be, they saw the estate as their own personal collection plate and began to sing the always popular hymn, “Show Me The Money.”

Once they got their copy of the death certificate, which I paid for and provided to them willingly, I ceased to exist. They needed that certificate in order for my stepson, who I had raised since he was three, to get his SSI benefits. And once they had that they wouldn’t let me see him anymore. The combination of all of these things pissed me off. Greatly. I had bent over backwards to accommodate their every wish at the hospital, the funeral home, in picking out the headstone, all the while paying for everything while they didn’t even offer or ask if I needed any help. I even allowed them to do things at the funeral I knew Gregory wouldn’t have wanted, including the reading of the lamest poem ever and my former sister-in-law’s insistence on singing a song that I’m sure had dogs howling across a tri-county area while simultaneously rendering everyone within earshot sterile.

I had also been feeling guilty because I buried Gregory where he didn’t want to be, next to a man who abused him in ways I can’t imagine, and I knew I had to make it right, not only for him, but for me. I know as a general rule of life you shouldn’t go around digging up corpses, so I called the funeral home and inquired about hiring someone to have his ashes removed from the gravesite. They told me that according to Alabama law, cremated remains weren’t technically a corpse, so anyone could remove him at any time.

I then called the District Attorney’s office who told me that whoever paid for the funeral was technically the owner of the remains, but permission would be required from the cemetery to move them so it wasn’t considered trespassing. Next I called the cemetery caretaker who told me he didn’t care what I did at the grave, as long as I didn’t leave a mess. So I had my answers, I just needed to decide who was eventually going to go dig up my husband. In my mind his ashes belonged to me and I had the bill from the funeral home to prove it. I figured surely there had to be someone I could hire, and I decided I’d check with the funeral home the next time I went up there.

One night not long after my decision I was sitting around with a couple of friends and we were discussing the drama of the estate and the family, and I told them what I had decided to do about Gregory. They knew all about my promise to carry him with me and that I did indeed do that, yet they still managed to love me despite the constant presence of my redi-mix husband in my purse. About three or four long island iced teas into the discussion and with the mini-urn on the table for motivation, we had formulated ourselves a plan. It involved a designated driver, flashlights and a few shovels. You see where this is going, don’t you?

Yes. My friends and I dug up my dead husband out of that tiny grave in nowhereville in the dark of night, dressed like ninjas in black jeans and t-shirts. All 20% of him. And it was totally legal. I think.

I opened that ugly ass wooden box and took out the bag containing his ashes, and poured them into the big urn with the rest of him. I then put the empty bag back into the box and re-buried it.

Then we went and had a drink and celebrated Gregory’s life, just like he would have wanted.

Since then I have honored his wishes and have put some of his ashes at many of the places he loved including here at the lake, in the Gulf of Mexico, along the Chesapeake Bay, and in the blue waters of the Caribbean. There’s also a little bit of him blowing around Jordan Hare stadium at Auburn University, where we had our first date. What’s left sits in a beautiful pewter urn on my mantle, where he said he wanted to be so he could keep watch over me. His little urn has been with me on every trip I’ve taken since he died, and I’ve tried to leave a little of him in each place I visit. Kind of spreading the Gregory love, so to speak. There’s even a little in the tattoo I got after he died. And per his wishes, I’m having some jewelry made from them as well. I just have to take it off if I ever have sex again. He said he didn’t want to watch.

So don’t be surprised if when you see me, I have this …

Don’t hesitate to ask me about him and tell him hi.

I promise not to sprinkle too much any of him in your drink.