CHAPTER TWO
Steven’s death certificate arrived in the mail a week after Lisa returned to Chicago.
The administration of his death required me to notify multiple entities, including financial institutions and government agencies. I ordered ten copies.
First order of business was submitting a claim for his life insurance policy.
I slipped my pointer finger under the flap of the thick manila envelope and pried it open. It felt surreal to be holding proof that my husband was actually dead.
I barely remembered providing Steven’s personal information to the funeral home director the night he died. I was so exhausted after that horrific day at the hospital. I had arrived in the morning expecting to bring him home on hospice, but instead found him unconscious, a high flow oxygen machine keeping his body alive.
The nurses told me that Steven wouldn’t feel any discomfort or pain when the machine was turned off, but it would appear as if he was gasping for breath. They said it would be a more peaceful death for me if he was completely sedated.
What could I say? I didn’t want the last memories I had of my husband to be of him gasping for breath. I agreed to sedate him, which meant ordering a significant amount of morphine from the hospital pharmacy. I will never regret that decision, but I had no idea it would take all day to fill the order.
Seven hours later I was saying goodbye to my husband for the last time.
Afterwards, I waited in the hallway for one of the nurses to bring me his wedding ring and the contact information for the funeral home. I planned to donate his body to a local medical school which meant that it had to be delivered to them within 24 hours.
As I continued to read Steven’s certificate of death I noticed that something felt off about his social security number. Had I made a mistake when I spoke to the funeral home director? I was sure I knew the number by heart after filling out all of his disability paperwork.
When I looked at his actual social security card, still in his wallet by the front door with his keys, I saw that the first number was supposed to be a one, instead of a zero. I felt sick as I realized all ten copies were useless.
How long would it take to get this corrected?
The New York City Department of Records estimated 4-6 weeks.
Panic rose up inside me as I thought, “I can’t possibly wait that long.”
I was surprised by how vulnerable I felt after Steven died. I convinced myself that I would feel safe, secure, and taken care of again after I cashed in his life insurance policy. I didn’t need the money right away, but I felt desperate to have it.
I Googled, “How do you erase printer ink,” and found several videos that demonstrated how it could be scraped off with a razor blade.
I waited until Henry was asleep before I began my mission.
I retrieved the X-acto knife from the kitchen “junk drawer” and sat down at the large dining room table. I placed a copy of the death certificate in front of me, and leaned in very close, my eyeball almost touching the paper.
Turning the blade on its side, I began gently scraping it across the misprint.
Fearful I had applied too much pressure, I held the paper up to the ceiling light. A pinprick of cool white light shined through a tiny hole.
“Fuck,” I swore softly. “At least I have nine more copies to practice on.”
I checked the time on my phone — it was 2am.
Nine mangled death certificates lay at my feet, surrounding me like kindling for a funeral pyre.
Luckily the tenth one was the charm.
Once I successfully scraped off the zero, I painstakingly measured where the replacement number should be printed. I felt almost giddy as I looked at the finished product.
Pretty damn good.
I wasn’t sure I had the courage to actually mail it in, but ‘fixing it” kept me occupied for several hours instead of ruminating on how much stuff I had to go through before we moved next week.
I felt a wave of sadness as I put the X-acto knife back in the kitchen, the room which had always been Steven's domain. I already knew I wasn’t going to bring all of his special gadgets and appliances with us to the new apartment.
“There’s no one to use them,” I thought.
I’d gone through the contents of every kitchen drawer and cabinet, laughing when I saw we owned a slow cooker and an InstaPot. I almost heard Steven’s voice trying to convince me that we needed both because some dishes simmered all day, while others demanded a rolling boil.
“I don’t care,” I said out loud, “I'm not keeping either.”
In the bedroom, as I pulled down a stack of his old baseball caps from the top shelf, a thick layer of dust came down with it.
“Fuck,” I said, wiping my eyes with the hem of my shirt.
I was tired and angry that Steven left me to do all the sorting and packing alone.
I had planned to help him go through all his stuff. He tended to hold onto things far too long, like the club chair in Henry’s room. I always hated that chair. It had the distinction of being both ugly and uncomfortable.
But, it was the first real piece of furniture he bought after business school, so it held some sentimental value for him. When he moved into my apartment, I’d hoped he would sell it or give it away, but that was the one thing he wasn’t willing to compromise on.
I had already vetoed the 3-foot-tall Cartman doll that a friend had given him. I hadn’t watched South Park, but even if I had, I wasn’t going to waste precious square footage on something that served no practical purpose.
I decided to get rid of almost everything in his closet. It didn't make sense to schlep all his clothes, old textbooks, and enormous diploma plaques to a place he wouldn’t live.
When our apartment sale seemed imminent, we looked at a few rentals near Henry’s school. Would Steven have approved of the one I rented? He could be very particular at times, but for the most part he usually let me have the deciding vote.
I would have convinced him that the new place checked all our post-pandemic boxes: it was renovated, on a low floor (no waiting for elevators), and it was a five minute walk to Henry’s school. I knew the rent was more than he wanted to pay, but I would have reminded him that we only planned to be there a year or two.
The Junkluggers arrived on October 2nd, the day after the movers, to cart away most of the furniture, and whatever else was left behind. Goodwill would decide what was salvageable, and what would end up in landfill.
I really debated about that fucking club chair. I didn’t want to bring it with us, but I didn’t want it to end up in the garbage either. I decided to ask the buyers if there were any pieces they wanted since I was leaving everything, except Henry’s bed, which he insisted come with us.
They told me they loved the club chair, that’s all they wanted. I felt like this was a sign from Steven, and I was doing the right thing by making sure it went to a family who appreciated it as much as he did.
The Administration Of His Death