The wretched, blessed mix of this journey.

This journey is such an uncomfortable mix of the mundane and the horribly difficult. It keeps me continually on guard, a little off-balance, because it never settles down to be just one or the other. Okay, at first it was just pure raw agony. Then, as the first jagged edges started to soften a bit, and details of everyday life crept in, this awkward side-by-side became my everyday.

This has led to surreal moments, like...one of those early days, when I was just trying to eat something, anything that sounded palatable, because otherwise I couldn't eat at all, and gummy bears were the only thing that I thought I could stand when lunchtime came around. So, yeah, eating gummy bears while shopping for cremation urns on Amazon. That has to be one of the most bizarre experiences of my entire life. That wild juxtaposition of horror and incredibly benign did tickle the dark side of my sense of humor. It's a grim sort of humor, that, but it does ease the heavy load a bit.

Other days are more like a week ago Friday, when I had a long, wonderful lunch with my friend Sara, then stopped by the post office to get stamps, and on the way home, swung by the funeral home to pick up our son's death certificates.

Yeah.

That is my current "normal."

It is anything but normal.

This past couple of days were another jumble of very painful and solidly good. My husband Lee and I drove over to the other side of Oregon (the green side; we live on the brown side of Oregon). The first night there, we went to the RV dealer, to put down a deposit on the pull-behind trailer that will be our future home. Huge deal. Big, scary, exciting, terrifying step toward that new horizon.

The next morning, we went to the internet store to close Michael's account. Because according to their policy, they simply will not do this over the phone. So, okay. Let's do this. We went in, and were greeted by an employee- very friendly young lady- who asked how they could help us.

"We need to close our son's account."

"Okay, we can do that. Do you have Power of Attorney, or...?"

"We have a death certificate."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. My condolences."

"Thank you."

When our turn came, another employee called my name, very cheery and upbeat and eager to help.

And then we have the same conversation, sort of.

"How can I help you today?"

And the employee's name is Michael. Of course it is.

I was still sort of holding it together.

"We need to close our son's account."

And I was done saying those words, so I just slid the certificate across the counter to him.

And he was lovely and kind, and just took care of it, but by this time, the cracks were starting to show and I was fighting tears.

These poor young people, having to help us do this terrible, painful thing.

We were done sooner than we thought, and I was breaking, so Lee suggested we go to a park in the area, and just walk for a while. That was perfect. The park has paths that wind through oak trees; a quiet oasis in the city, and in the midst of a hard day.

After our walk, I could breathe a little easier.

We then got to go see our eldest, Heather, and tour their new apartment (her hubby Nick was at work). What a joy she is, and what a blessed joy to have that happy, fun interlude in our day. We drove to get lunch together (Qdoba- I'm slightly obsessed with their brisket burrito bowls!) which was fun and tasty, then went back to their apartment. Lee and I took a short nap (heavy emotion is very tiring) while Heather curled up and read on their couch.

The next part of our day was the actual, very difficult reason for our trip across the mountains. We went to the house of one of Michael's very best friends- the first time we've met him and his wife and their kids. These were some of the amazing, amazing friends of his who undertook the horrible, gut-wrenching task of packing up his apartment for us, in those first awful, agonizing days.

This was a grace beyond the reach of gratitude- that some of the people who loved him best in all the world spent hours in his apartment, where he had ended his life just days before, packing up everything he owned. They took that incredibly hard road, so we did not have to drive across the state and do it ourselves. There are no human words for what that meant to us, and for what it spared us.

**TMI warning- but this is important to know.

If you end up walking a tragic road like ours, this is very important to know.

Let me put this as delicately as I can.

It is not the job of police to clean up the site of a death. They take evidence- anything related to the cause of death, and the coroner collects the body, but the rest stays just as it was.

Exactly as it was at the moment of his death.

And these amazing people, some of the best friends of his life, went back into that place of the greatest sadness, and dealt with his belongings.

And they got rid of anything that bore any signs of his death...so we would not have to see it. Which was another, unbelievable act of mercy.

They are incredible people, with huge, loving hearts.

They threw out perishables from the kitchen, packed up everything else, and put it in storage for us.

...which was the reason for our trip- to go collect our son's belongings and bring them home.

We went to the friend's house and picked up the things they had at the house, as well as the key for the storage unit. He led us to the storage place, and made sure we were able to get in the gate. He offered to stay and help, but we kind of wanted to do this alone.

Heather had the option to help or not help (we are committed to every member of our family having the freedom to do this in the way that works for them!), and she chose to come along and help.

Oh, this was not easy. These are the clothes of our son and her brother. Gifts we've given him. The sleeping bag his grandpa (my dad) gave to him. The one piece of art from his wall- a Blues Brothers poster. The quilt his grandma (Lee's mom) handmade as his high-school graduation gift. All his interests and hobbies; the things he loved- his life, all in pieces that we had to load into a trailer to bring home. This....was not easy. This was hard.

We really tried to be practical, to just get on with the task.

I did okay as we unloaded the storage unit.

And then I wasn't okay. So I walked away and cried. And then I went back to help.

Heather is an awesome packer. Somehow, we got all of his belongings into that little U-haul trailer.

The trailer. The trailer is a whole other story. A frustrating saga that dragged on and on as we searched for anyplace that had just one trailer we could rent for this sad task.

Once we had it loaded, we drove to the restaurant where we would meet up with these amazing friends of our son (one we'd met earlier; the other we met at the restaurant), and their families, and Heather's husband Nick, to have dinner together.

This was a restaurant we only know because of Michael. As Heather said, any time we were with him for a meal, we wanted him to pick the restaurant, because every place he took us to was just so good. The last time we'd been there, Heather and I met up with Michael for lunch, just last October.

It was a little tough, but mostly very, very good to gather in that place, with these friends who loved him so much, and who had gone so incredibly above-and-beyond to do what needed to be done in those hard, hard days.

It was so good to meet these guys, and their awesome wives, and their cute, cute kids who loved our son. It was so good to hear their stories of his huge heart and generous spirit; to hear how he was such a fun uncle to their kids, and always bought them awesome birthday gifts.

We talked about some of the hard things, too, which was important.

Now, we're home again. We've unloaded Michael's belongings into storage here in town, and the dogs are super happy that we're home.

And we're tired.

It bears repeating: grief is just exhausting.

So, that is what this journey is like right now: this jarring jumble of searingly painful and oddly normal and deeply good.

It is gummy bears and choosing an urn for the ashes of our son and brother.

It is meeting wonderful, very real people in the most painful circumstances, and being blessed by their love for our son, and sharing laughter and fighting tears, and giving heartfelt hugs to people we've just met and hoping that's okay, and trying to express gratitude that is really too deep for words.