As is the custom, I thought I’d be writing more frequently about life after Ron. I imagined a powerfully morose muse that would let me wordsmith my way through grief. That didn’t happen.
Instead, my grief took sharp, unexpected turns and deep dives early on. I embraced it. I let it flow through me as my only defense, because I was powerless to stifle it. A few days after my last entry, the tears simply stopped. I can’t explain it. It just changed.
There was no escaping Ron’s influence while carrying out the duties his death demanded. There were closets to clean—mostly black T-shirts and Levi’s, with a couple of nicer shirts. His recliner, to re-home, his shed to sort through, his vehicle to send on down the road. I dispatched the totality of his life’s possessions to their various afterlives. Ron’s world was small and well-organized, but sorting through it still took everything out of me. There was no avoiding it.
Then came the mountains of paperwork. Not knowing what might be needed when, I moved through it like a methodical snail with OCD. Old accounts and insurance policies kept me awake at night. Contracts and companies had to be confronted.
Dad’s cell phone was especially hard to disconnect—both emotionally and practically. That phone had been my main connection to him for a decade. As a traveling salesman, it was the tether that kept us close. For some reason, Ron was one of the few people I preferred to call by dialing his number directly. After he died, I looked at that old flip phone—his “dumb phone”—and saw roughly 300 calls between us. I don’t know if the count had reset or how long he’d had that particular phone, but 300 calls with anyone tells you how well connected you were.
When the pragmatist in me finally mustered the courage to cancel the line, the real adventure began. I hadn’t canceled a phone in twenty-five years, so I walked into a Verizon store hoping I wouldn’t cry. I explained my situation and was politely told, “This is a franchise store—we don’t handle death cancellations. You’ll need to go to a company store.”
The next night I tried at a company store and was told I needed an official death certificate (which, of course, I didn’t have on me). The following night I returned with the certificate, only to learn that the account was in Greta’s name, so I’d also need a Power of Attorney.
I was pissed.
A day or two later, armed with every depressing document I could gather, I tried a different company store. They canceled the line without much fuss. Even then, I noticed I was still angry. My emotions were riding a much hair-trigger edge than I wanted to admit.
By contrast, Spectrum Cable was shockingly good. I called the general customer service line and told the man my situation.
“I want you to hang up with me,” he said, “and sit by the phone for five minutes. Wait for a callback. Don’t take any other calls.”
I had my doubts, but three minutes later, the phone rang.
“I understand there’s been a death and you need to cancel a subscription—is that right?” The woman asked gently.
“Yes. My father.”
She confirmed the address and said, “Thank you for being a customer. The service is canceled effective immediately. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
I was stunned. I didn’t hang up right away.
“Are you the customer service of death?” I asked.
She chuckled softly and explained that yes, she was part of a special team trained to handle these situations. Spectrum wanted to make it as easy as possible for grieving families dealing with paperwork and heavy emotions. I was blown away. In a season full of friction, their kindness felt like grace.
Ron left plenty of instructions—both spoken and implied—about what should go where and who should be told what. I did my best to honor all of them. It was emotionally exhausting.
The crown jewel, and Ron’s most prized possession, the hardest piece, was taking care of Greta. If I had a nickel for every time Dad told me, “Take care of your mother” in those final months, I’d have a full roll. My brother, equally rich in those instructions, had already started the process weeks before Ron passed. We kept Dad updated on assisted living options, visited places, and talked to referrals. I believe Ron held on as long as he could to keep caring for her himself. Once he knew she was in good hands, he was finally able to rest.
I’ve settled into a new post-Ron routine now. It’s strange, but he’s still here in my mind almost as much as before. The manner has shifted, but the content feels the same. An even stranger truth is that I’m aware I’m thinking of him. I cut the grass—Ron. I order chicken wings—Ron. I wash my truck—Ron. I hear someone else has died—Ron.
These aren’t painful moments. They’re happy reflections. I don’t mind them at all. I find comfort in them.
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