I watched Saraband on Saturday. Saturday was the 28th. The 28th is when I left Toronto two years ago to catch a plane to arrange a funeral and deal with the passing of the most important person that’s ever been in my life. It was the day I got a phone call from my family, and my brother had to tell me because my mom was in hysterics. He fumbled the words. I remember being on my cell phone in the cross between the bedroom and bathroom door in the living room. Jason was sitting down at his desk beside me when they called. His feet up on the desk, making music. It was the afternoon, but that doesn’t make sense because he died early in the morning. Maybe it was the morning? But the six hour time difference? Maybe my grandmother didn’t call us until later, which would have made it morning. Yes, because I had to go to work that day and I had to call work that I would not be coming in and that I would be back sometime in late August and I don’t know when. They kept pestering me on the phone while I was shaking, still in partial denial shock. When you first hear of death, your body doesn’t register it as ‘gone forever’ but as a temporary mark of ‘not around right now’, only after a few seconds you hear the word ‘dead’ in your head. The conversation with my brother was very brief. He told me that mom is sending me on the next plane available. Was it that day? Or the next day? I don’t even remember. I don’t remember packing or getting to the airport. I remember brining my Zara heels because I needed to presentable for the funeral. How did I get ready? Did Jason pack for me? Was I able to eat? I was trying to figure out whether it would be worth it to bring my laptop but Jason said I should just focus on Poland and not worry. HE’S FUCKING GONE NOW, WHAT DOES IT EVEN MATTER WHAT HAPPENED?! Were my parents at the airport? I don’t recall seeing them. I remember numbly saying goodbye to Jason yet bawling uncontrollably. He asked if I wanted him to come with me, but I wanted to do it alone. I had to do it on my own. In the plane I read some Shopaholic book all the way through to keep myself occupied with triviality as to be somewhat manageable. I flew through Amsterdam and did yoga in the terminal. Everyone looked at me while I squatted in the waiting area by the big windows that overlook the runway. I wore my lululemon Capri pants with an olive green tank top and a black fitted tee shirt over top and my green hair ribbon tied around my neck and my olive green Fila thongs. I see myself so clearly. There was a certain freedom I felt having my bags on the stroller, skipping through Schiphol all alone. I hadn’t slept and all of my energy came from the reserve stationed for situations like these and the fact that I was going to handle all of my grandfather’s proceedings. I was in charge of it all. Of course, I had help along the way, especially considering my Polish isn’t good enough not to get ripped off. So many costs were incurred regardless. So much tension in my body to hold back tears every moment.
I woke up on the 30th of this year to find out that Ingmar Bergman had died at the age of 89. He said Saraband would be his last project. He was able to know that. He was able to let others know that. The 30th was the day after the funeral proceedings and the day I was able to finally lay to sleep.
In Saraband, Karin talks about grief and how it doesn’t subside but coping with it gets better. Do we ever let go? Do we ever accept death?
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