Our last drive together, taking Ivana to her final resting place.
Our final road trip together. Just us. I was taking my wife home to rest.
April 8th was Ivana’s birthday. A few weeks before, I learned that the mausoleum I was waiting for was finally ready. The marble for Ivana’s columbarium was at the cemetery. I was asked when would I be bringing her urn for interment. I chose her birthday. It seemed fitting.
Ivana will be close to her mom and dad
Ivana and I lived near Barrie, Ontario. Her family lived in Wawa, about 2 hours north of Sault Saint Marie, Ontario. (Pronounced Soo.) Every member of her family was interred at Holy Sepulchre Cemetery in the Sault. I wanted Ivana to be with her family. If I had to wait for the construction of a new mausoleum, so be it.
Ivana and her mom, Italia, talked often on the phone. More than daily. Ivana missed those conversations so much after Italia passed in 2008. In the weeks after her passing, I would occasionally see Ivana sitting quietly, with the phone in her hand. She would look a little lost, almost trance-like, and a tear would roll down her cheek.
I understood. Something about talking to Mom is very therapeutic. If you haven’t talked to yours in a while, phone now. This story will wait a minute.
I missed those phone calls as well. I liked to answer when Italia called. “Buongiorno Principessa!” Good morning princess. (I copied that from the movie ‘Life is Beautiful.’ If you haven’t seen it, you should.) At 8 p.m., the same greeting. I would get a laugh and the correction, which I promptly forgot. It was a thing we did.
A big hockey fan, Italia would always have something to say about the Toronto Maple Leafs, and we would talk while my wife waited for the phone. I’d say “This is the year!” Italia would reply “Oh, you a craze!”, in her heavily accented English. Ivana would laugh as she waited.
Now they would be close, about 200 feet away. I’m certain Ivana, and Italia, would appreciate that. Her dad, Eugenio, is beside her mom, so he can laugh in the background. He could tell her about the blueberries he picked, and the incredible produce he produced in his garden and makeshift greenhouse. I miss cooking with the garlic he grew. So good!
The grey day fit my mood as I drove
I noticed that the sun was having a hard time peeking through the grey clouds as I pulled onto the highway. Ivana and I always had great luck with the weather when we were driving north to see her family. It was fitting that on this trip a grey sky was going to be a part of my drive.
I had Ivana’s urn strapped into the passenger seat beside me, in a box to prevent her from tipping over. I had offers from a few friends to drive with me, but I declined. This drive needed to be taken with only the two of us.
Occasionally, the sun would break through, like a beacon over the highway.
Ivana and I loved road trips. We often drove for our vacations, most often on a journey south for a winter escape. The car became a decompressing chamber, in ways that an airplane simply can not. Peaceful and quiet. We would arrive at our destination relaxed, already in vacation mode.
We seldom had the radio or music playing. Most of the time it was just us, being together, hand in hand. That’s when you know you have found someone really special. When their presence is all you need.
And so it was that Monday. No radio. No music. Only the hum of tires on asphalt. It felt right.
For the proper map of my journey, click here.
The first part of the drive was very quiet. I could have counted the cars headed north on Highway 400. Sudbury was once a solid 3-hour drive, but highway improvements have lowered that substantially. I feel bad for some of the businesses along the old Highway 69. I doubt many will survive long as their customers zoom by at 120 kilometers per hour. The new divided highway is sweet though, and saves a lot of time.
Places like the French River Trading Post were regular stops for us over the years, and it was always busy. They had a great fry truck, a restaurant for those hungrier than that, and plenty of space to walk and stretch your legs.
Remembering road trips with Ivana
I stopped at the Shawanaga First Nation gas bar to fill up. A very light sprinkle fell, and the wind was chilly. It fit my mood at the moment. Ivana and I had been talking. Yeah, I know how that sounds.
I have never been one to stop much while driving. Fewer stops for a longer time were my preference. I also have this weird habit with the gas tank. I knew how far I could get, and Ivana would laugh at my insistence that “I can make the next one.” So when the ‘low fuel’ warning light came on as I drove passed Parry Sound, it was natural that I heard her voice in my head.
“Gonna push it again, huh?” I looked over and saw her sitting there, shaking her head and laughing, like so many times before.
“Yes, honey, I am.” I waved my hand in a ‘no worries’ gesture. “I’ve got lots.” Those silly memories mean so much.
I will never forget this one example. We were on our way home from Florida. I gassed up just before Savannah, Georgia. “We won’t need gas until we stop for the night,” I remember saying confidently. I had compared the GPS distance to my remaining fuel distance, and had about 40 Kilometers to spare. Golden.
I knew that I was going to use some of that extra going uphill, as we were going from sea level to the West Virginia mountains. But when Ivana told me that there was no chance, well! Consider the challenge accepted.
Stubborn male ego? Perhaps. Ivana made me a bet. The kind of sexual bet a woman makes when she is absolutely certain of the outcome.
As we drove on, I was getting concerned, but was not going to let Ivana know. I tucked behind a quick-driving tractor-trailer and drafted him for the last hundred miles as we climbed the mountains. (Drive well, and they will let you stay there. I flashed my high beams as I exited the highway, and the driver flashed his tail lights back at me.)
That saved my bacon. I pulled into the Exxon station in Princeton with precisely six kilometers of gas left in my tank. I looked at Ivana, smiled, and made a comment about collecting on our bet. She said I cheated by drafting the truck. As a racing fan, Ivana understood what I did.
It’s funny the things that stick out as great memories. I know we saw the Jays play a couple of spring training games that vacation, but I have no idea of the details. But that drive is as clear as yesterday.
We made a lot of memories during the driving part of our road trips. Playing Eye-Spy, or Person, Place, or Thing. Ivana watching for cops, and would mistake any vehicle for the police. I know too many excellent gay people to eat there, but those Chick-fil-A billboards were hilarious. The cows and their bad spelling. I sure do miss those drives.
Those memories went through my head the entire drive to Sudbury.
I made the sweeping cloverleaf turn onto Highway 17, part of the Trans-Canada Highway. A bit more sun was streaming through the clouds. After a short drive, I pulled off the highway into the rest area at Espanola.
I didn’t need gas, but I did need to use the facilities and grab a coffee. As always, this area was busy. This is where Highway 6 cuts off to the south. It winds through Manitoulin Island to the ferry that takes you to Tobermory. Ivana and I had taken that route before.
Sudbury to the Soo, more memories and reflections
The highway was busier now. I paid more attention to the traffic and had less time to let my thoughts wander. Still, I remembered moments along the drive, and spoke to Ivana about them.
The first time I made this journey with her, all those years ago. I was going to meet her parents for the first time. Ivana was so nervous! A story partly written, of a great weekend had by all. “Culo gross!” was the joke that broke the ice and let everyone relax. (Big ass, in Italian.)
How Ivana would be concerned about the weather as we drove up for Christmas. No matter how nice the weather was, she was always on the lookout for a snowstorm over the next hill. Her parents loved to see us for the holidays, but that visit was completely dependent on good driving conditions. Blizzards north of Sault Saint Marie could shut down the highway for days.
The time we drove way too fast, trying to get to the hospital in Wawa before her mom passed away. If I was pulled over, I planned to ask the officer for an escort to Wawa.
We didn’t make it. That was tough. Real tough. Never have I needed two hours more in my life. I wrote about it, the link is below.
I could picture Ivana sitting beside me. Reached over as if to put my hand on her thigh. I imagined her hand on mine. Sigh. Wipe away a tear. I remembered her words at her last cardiologist appointment, as we sat hand in hand, getting grave news. “It’s okay, Boo. It’s okay.”
“No. No, it’s not. It’s too soon.” I said it to her now, as if she was sitting beside me. Because she was. There was a tinge of anger in my voice, which I couldn’t hide. It was real. Dammit. Too soon. Too young. Too full of life. Too many bucket list adventures were not getting crossed off our list.
I must have something in my eye as I type this.
I take a break and reflect on us
I bought another coffee in Blind River. I stopped at a little rest area just west of the town for a break. I needed it. And I had planned to stop there anyway. Ivana and I had often stopped there.
The picnic area sat alongside the Mississagi River. In the summer it was a great spot, lush and green, with a nice breeze coming off the water. Often we would pack a lunch and eat here. I took a few moments to reflect, sitting and drinking my coffee.
I was jarred back to the present by a guy getting ready for the eclipse. He yelled over to me, asking if I was ready to be raptured. I was glad of the laugh, I don’t believe in any of that silliness. I hope he wasn’t too disappointed as he sat in his folding lawn chair, arms wide, as if on a cross himself.
The highway winds through several little towns. Sadly, a few have fallen into disrepair. I don’t know how people can handle living in Mckerrow or Webwood. They look so depressing. Once upon a time, the railway needed more workers, there were mines with good jobs, and people stopped more often for gas, drinks, and food. Cars were not so comfortable and the drive took longer.
Over the years we have seen these towns change. Ivana lamented how the drive was so different from when she was young. Much faster now, but it was sad seeing so many boarded-up businesses. I understood why. We rarely stopped in any of those towns. The gas I bought at the Shawanaga First Nation stop was twenty cents cheaper per liter than in Iron Bridge, Massey, or Bruce Mines.
Sometimes, Ivana would scratch off lottery tickets as we drove, so we stopped to cash them in and reload. On a hot day, we might stop for some ice cream. But that was it.
At the cemetery, tears and finality
As I approached Sault Saint Marie, the highway widened into four lanes, and my mind moved to the present. I hoped that there were no issues with the marble. I had seen what it was supposed to look like, but I needed the marble and Ivana’s cameo picture to be perfect.
I arrived at the cemetery and signed the required papers in the office. I followed two cemetery workers to the mausoleum. My hands were clammy as I fumbled with the seat belt holding the box with Ivana’s urn. I lifted her out and walked over to her final resting place.
The marble was perfect. I love the picture, it was taken at Canada’s Wonderland, a theme park just north of Toronto. The last picture I took of Ivana before her health began to decline.
I will always prefer to remember Ivana as the healthy, vibrant woman I married.
I gave Ivana one last kiss before I placed her urn in the little box. I nodded to the workers, and they put the marble front in place. It was secured with four long bolts. I thanked the cemetery workers as they left.
I stood there for a while. I didn’t think of much. On the drive to the cemetery, I had many thoughts. Now, standing in front of her columbarium, all I could think of was how final this was. Ivana was in her final resting place. It was over. Did my mind really think she was in the car with me for the drive? Why did I not feel like this before now? Or had I, and this moment overshadowed my memory?
Ivana had passed away over a year before, but the finality of this moment was crushing. Tears streamed down my face.
I stood there for a while. I told Ivana that I missed her more than she could imagine. I told her I wished I had been more patient when she was ill, and how I regretted that, but was doing the best I could.
I told her that I loved her. And cried some more. I think I cried more standing there than I did at her funeral.
My drive to the Sault had been a myriad of different thoughts and emotions. My drive home was different. Not much thinking at all. Strangely emotionless. I just wanted to get home.
I am going to keep writing about Ivana. I find it therapeutic, even when it hurts. Maybe more so when it hurts. I miss her so much.
Copyright 2024, Michael Williams. All rights reserved.
Please read my other stories about Ivana published in The Memoirist on Medium.com
Follow me on Instagram: instagram.com/michaelwwrites to know when I have posted another story about Ivana or my travels.
