I hate the years that April 1st actually falls on a Sunday. Friday night March 30, 1990 when I got the call to Sunday morning after a night of pacing at the hospital and the “decision,” years when the week days line up with the calendar days there is more of a dread feeling that sits in my gut all week.
Years 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and more were far harder than year 22. TWENTY-TWO! The immediately accessible pain is much further below the surface. Covered with layers of missing. Missed conversations. Missed birthdays. Missed opportunities to seek counsel, advise, cuddles, memories, to share my life and stories with my biggest champion.
Grief and loss do not know calendars. I can have the wind knocked out of me on a random Tuesday in October with the ache in my soul. But in general year twenty-two isn’t as bad as previous years, but oh how I hate April 1st.’
The week has been hard, but game night on Tuesday with Shelly and Diane was both comforting because they take me back to that time and because it fell on Tuesday (the same day I had Shelly take me to my mom’s twenty-two years ago to tell her about my uncles abuse) was also gut wrenching. But hey this line up wont happen again until 2018, by then it will be twenty-eight years.
Today my plans included yoga class, possibly painting my bathroom and most likely taking a cup of coffee down to the beach to say “Hi” to mom and commune a little with the water.