Some Days Are Special And Somber
My dad was diagnosed with his cancer right before Easter in 2005. A month later he and I posed for a photo before I went to prom on April 16. On Mother’s day three weeks later, my family spent the afternoon hanging out in our back yard on May 8th. Those were the last “special” dates before he passed away on May 22, 2005.
They say that when it rains it pours. In regard to “special days", that was particularly true for my family immediately after he was gone. Over the next 21 days the calendar would reflect the date of his burial, memorial service, what would have been my parents 35th wedding anniversary, two of my sisters’ birthdays and last but certainly not least…. Father’s Day.
So much happened in those weeks and most things really just felt surreal as we went through the motions. I remember feeling like the labels tied to those days were just a way for the world to rub salt in wound, kick us when we were down, etc. I worried that all of the days to come were going to feel like that in a way, they did. Every day following May 22 was the first one without Pop over the next year and all of them came with varying degrees of tough.
Over the next 365 days, my anxiety would begin to peak when “special days” were approaching. That anxiety was triggered primarily by three fears:
People around me would remember that a certain date may be difficult, kindly acknowledge it in some way, but that I wouldn’t respond well and it would be weird for everyone.
People around me would remember the certain date may be difficult, not know what to do and awkwardly stare at me in a panic as if I had a tattoo on my forehead reading something like “today is my dead dad’s birthday.”
Maybe no one would remember; therefore confirming that he was forgotten and the validity around my feelings of grief, loss and sadness had expired.
Ultimately, some version of all of the above happened in that first year and overtime I eventually learned how to navigate each scenario.
The other scenario that wasn’t fueled by a fear was the reality that oftentimes many people would remember special days or consider that certain occasions may be tough. Trusted teachers pulled me aside to check on me during the holidays. My girlfriends had noted the anniversary of his death in their planners and I felt them monitoring me like emotional security guards in the hallways. Family friends gathered at my mom’s house on Fridays before my brother’s football games to help us ease into some of those first normal things Pop wasn’t there for.
In the following years I moved away from home and the community that was around me during the peak toughness of 2005 but I still received many cards, emails and text messages from friends on some of those days. The thoughtfulness of that kindness has and will always stick with me. As one may expect, the volume and frequency of these acknowledgements has lessened each year.
On May 22 just recently I had one of my busiest days of the year as I was working a large scale event with more than 2,000 attendees. As the event was winding down and the organizing team popped a bottle of champagne, I received a text from my childhood best friend and next door neighbor that simply read:
That one message was just enough. She remembered the day, she remembered him, she remembered me. Other than my memory, that one text message was the only other way May 22, 2005 had been acknowledged and I realized that it was okay and I was okay.