Yesterday was my parent's 40th wedding anniversary.Two years ago, we celebrated in Georgia. Momma and Daddy surrounded by their grandbabies, glowing in their love, with lots of talk of anniversaries past and anniversaries to come. They held hands and blew out a candle that our waiter sweetly
brought though none of us knew what to sing or quite how to react to an anniversary cake with candle. Later that night, as we tied tags to the lilies we would give away at B's dedication the next day, Momma and I casually talked about having a big party for their 40th. Maybe at the O Club. Or James River? Invite all the family and dearest friends. She got quiet as she thought about it, pushing her hair back as she considered the options. "Let's save that for the 50th," she said. "There won't be any babies. It will be easier to plan. And 50 is such a big deal. Maybe your daddy and I will just go somewhere wonderful for 40."
Last year, all of us still mucking through the year of firsts, I felt like I held my breath all of April. RB fielded questions constantly from me as I tried to approach this anniversary the best way possible. Should B and I go up there? Should we invite my dad down? Should we send flowers? Food? I should just go up there, right? He handled it with his usual grace, allowing me to sort it out in my head and debate it with my dad and giving me the space to figure out how, at that very moment, I needed to best grieve. Then, in typical "I am my father's daughter" fashion, my dad and I both approached the anniversary through writing. I reflected on their marriage from the outside looking in; he lamented it in the most intimate of ways. It wasn't my anniversary, or Albert's, or Molly's, but we all felt it. The loss. The intense grieving. The feeling that the foundation of all we were had started to crumble away. There were too many text messages and phone calls to count. Hushed tones of how are you to each other followed by the forced happy tones of talking to nieces about plans for the day or birds spotted on the water.
This year, in a haze of a rough pregnancy and a sick toddler, the day slipped through my fingers. In what RB refers to my "stay at home" mode, I thought it was the 23rd all day yesterday. Laying in bed, closing my eyes from the nausea and fatigue, I started going over the week's plans in my head. Monday, check. Tuesday, check. As our schedule unfolded and the calendar appeared in my head, I sat up in bed with a start. The 23rd was several days past. Today is the 26th. A slew of words neither one of my parents would appreciate were muttered under my breath. I had forgotten. Another anniversary gone. The 40th. What two years ago was a most anticipated day and a year ago another day we approached with dread and caution and just worked to get through, had passed with not even a blip until almost midnight.
Instantly, the guilt set in. The guilt of not reaching out to my precious dad on a day that I am sure already feels unbearably lonely. The guilt of having something that would be so important to my momma completely overlooked in the chaos that is the life we have kept living. The guilt of having just kept living our lives while she was gone.
And as the tears came and the guilt morphed into just sorrow and loss, I realized this is how my grief evolves. That these days that were so difficult to bear the first time around just become part of our routine. The numbers on the calendar start to matter a little less and it becomes more about the every day, the overall longing. It is sometimes the most quiet and unexpected of times that her absence is felt more than ever. As we near Mother's Day, I don't want to hide like I did last year. I don't start crying at the very mention of it. I can face it. I have done it before.
But last Thursday night, a regular day with no important significance, after B was tucked in and the house quiet while RB worked late, I sat at the kitchen table and cried. The kind of crying that hits hard and fast and feels like it will never end. The kind of crying that is painful in the midst of it but afterwards feels like a cleansing of your soul. I texted two of my oldest and closest friends. The girls who had seen me argue with my mom about curfews and cardigans and how she was ruining my life, heard my stories of homesickness during college, laughed at the antics of wedding planning, and hugged my mom fiercely at my baby shower. "I am having such a hard night. I can't believe I am going to have this sweet baby that my mom will never meet. It just breaks my heart."
Their love and support immediately poured back to me, without question. Their kind words a balm to an aching soul. And it wasn't a special day. It wasn't an anniversary, or a birthday, or another holiday without her. It was just another Thursday. Another regular week without her. Another week closer to having a baby that she will never meet. This is how my grief has evolved. How the calendar has shifted with important days painful but those moments that catch you by surprise... these are the real moments that take my breath away and remind me that I am still very, very much in the midst of this process.
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