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A couple of days later reality kicks in: seeing snow means riding through snow (and the ice and weather that comes with it) in a Greyhound bus.  I start checking the weather in areas where I would be traveling.  In Denver, the forecast is 5 degrees during the day, -7 at night. It’s about the same in Cheyenne, WY.  Portland is experiencing a snow storm, and drivers are abandoning their cars in the middle of the road because traffic isn’t moving and they can’t get anywhere.  I call Greyhound to find out what would happen if part of my trip were cancelled.  I’m not sure the customer service rep understood how far away Salt Lake City was from here, and/or my concern about being stranded there.  I call the Oregon company who will be handling the last portion of my trip.  He answers my multiple questions patiently, my concern is slightly mitigated.

I start to think that maybe I’ll just try to work through it over here in the heat, but it looks like my Uncle Sam never left that same small geographical area in his entire life.  I can’t say goodbye to him clear across the country, I know that I will need to go back. The weather gets worse- the northern part of the country is facing record low temperatures.  Do I somehow need to pay penance, to the point that I’m putting myself in danger or at risk of never even making it to my ending point due to travel cancellations? Why am I doing this?

Earlier in the year I had tried to find a job in a different city, and recently a hurricane had torn through the south, hitting the cities (some of which hadn’t experienced hurricane warnings in years, let alone an actual hurricane) I had been considering while completely missing the city I lived in.  Now, I was contemplating traveling across country, and the places I would go through were experiencing brutal cold.  Maybe there was a message somewhere, but I knew I had to get out of town, go somewhere, take this trip now.  I watched the weather zealously, and eventually the forecast improved.  I bought the ticket, spending an extra 20.00 because I had waited.

The costs just kept adding up.  I found incredible deals on gloves, a hat, a scarf.  I scrounge up another great deal on fleece lined boots, which I only found because another customer had returned them unused; stores in my area do not receive shipments of warm footwear. I ordered long johns, a phrase that I hadn’t used in years, to be delivered to a store close to where I would be dropping my dog off for boarding. I booked the hotel and the rental car.

The weekend before the trip I came back from shopping for supplies for the trip, mentally cringing at the money I had spent.  I walked in the door to find a destroyed throw rug. The mess had seeped through to the carpet.  I sat down heavily in a chair and desperately wanted to go down to the Greyhound station, board a bus, and tell them to take me anywhere but here.  Instead of spending the afternoon packing, I spent it cleaning up a dog mess.

My dog likes to be held up across my chest, and one evening I’m sitting, crying, with warm dog up to my heart.  I can feel something break apart deep inside my chest. The weight has dispersed for the moment, I feel lighter.  The emails from my sister continue to discuss family issues and news, she states that she too has stopped communicating with certain members of the family.  I am being sucked back into this world, and I can feel it closing around me again. I spend evenings crying on the couch when I get home.  It is comforting to know that I can grieve, though I’m still not sure what I’m grieving for: knowing that I’ll never see Uncle Sam, that I wasn’t told anything about him, that he didn’t live the life I thought he had, my childhood.  I just know that to me, he was my favorite uncle.  The weight of the grief is back, in my stomach mostly, and I carry it around with me.  Feelings like this are why some addicts use, and the more they numb the feelings, the less they can handle them, the more they need.  I can understand it, almost, but I just sit in the weight. I will be able to make it through.

I debate whether to let my sister know that I will be traveling.  I will only be there 3 days, she has let me know which cemetery Uncle Sam is buried in, I don’t know if it will seem as if I am trying to impose.  I research place to visit and things to do in the area.  In the end, I let her know and leave it up to her.  She sends me my grandmother’s number.  The next day during my lunch hour I pick up the phone, take a deep breath, and call.  I don’t know if my sister let her know I might be calling, but she doesn’t seem that surprised to hear from me.  She keeps saying that it’s good to hear my voice, that it’s good to know that I’m alive.  She’s surprised when I tell her where I am.  She tells me that Uncle Sam is not buried or been put anywhere yet, confirming what the chapel told me instead of my sister’s version.  I am almost relieved.  I couldn’t picture how visiting a grave was going to help me, this might give me something to do, some closure.  I plan on asking if I can disperse the ashes in some way.

It is difficult for me to call; it is difficult for me to talk to her.  I don’t know what to say.  I don’t know if she’ll be angry that I left without a word.  I don’t really know these people any more.

The day of the trip is bright and clear, a balmy 60 degrees with a forecast over 70. The sun is blinding through my windshield, I flip down my visor.  I’m late anyway, so I stop at a doughnut shop to pick up something for my coworkers. I carefully choose the doughnuts as if it is the most important thing in the world.  I’m already nervous.