The Week

why did everything happen between May 10 and May 16?

Turning 42 at the VA Medical Center, the year my dad would have turned 75

My dad died on Mike’s tenth birthday, on May 14, 1985. In my brain, he died on the day between Mother’s Day and my mom’s birthday (May 15), but when I look at an actual 1985 calendar, that is just partly true. Mother’s Day was May 12, that year (not the 13th), and there are two days between. But still. Someone, I don’t know who, bought Mother’s Day and Birthday cards for my mom, from my dad, while he was dying. He signed them, in barely legible penmanship. I was in charge of giving them to her. It was an incredibly thoughtful thing to do. My Mother really liked cards and sentiments. I wrote her a poem once, for Mother’s Day, and she framed it. I felt guilty about it, vaguely, because it was easy for me (it probably took fifteen minutes, if that) and seemed like not enough, somehow. But maybe it was. It was in our dining room for years.

Since my dad died, the week in May has been hard, and the feelings are complicated. When my mom died, she picked September, like Mike, but Mother’s Day still hit me like a ton of bricks every year. It never seemed to be about me, even when I became a mom.

Became a mom, and had two babies both born in that same week. Just because, I guess. May 11, May 16. I thought Duncan was going to be born on my mom’s birthday, but he has always done things his own way. He arrived on the morning of May 16, three days before his dad graduated with his doctorate, and the way I remember it, he slept for those whole three days. These days too are complicated now.

When I fell in love with Mike and found out his birthday was the day my dad died, it didn’t seem like an accident. But I guess nothing does, anymore. Of course it is. Of course your birthday is May 14. When he was alive, it felt easy to celebrate it, usually with a steak (for him), except for the year he was in the hospital. Because that’s the thing: it’s kind of more than a week. May 7 is the day we found out Mike had cancer.

My nephew Isaiah died May 10, 2016. Too young, way too young. In that week. The sorrow I feel is more for my brother and for my sister in law, who should have four alive children. It is still sorrow.

With Mike alive, the week was a lot, and with him dead, more than a lot. The way to live through it seems to change. The first two years, maybe three, I bought Mike a cake, with buttercream frosting like he would have loved. He too has children with birthdays within days of each other (in July), and when I was buying cakes (plural, separate) for them, the first time, I asked him if he liked cake. Not everyone does.

I love cake! I’ll eat the shit out of it!

is what he tells me. He did, too. We had matching sweet teeth, along with matching dead parents/siblings, a matching religious background, and some other matching things. Maybe I should have bought a cake this year, but I didn’t. I take the day off work, and go to yoga. I bring him red roses - they are his favorite - and sing to him, then realize that maybe I don’t want to be alone. Regie meets me at Machete and has tacos and margaritas with me, even though she is literally in the middle of moving. We raise a glass to my love. I go to trivia, afterwards, and raise glasses with other friends. I even win. But something in me is craving buttercream. Maybe it is the whispering of my dead husband (Eat the shit out of it for me, baby!)

I breathe a sigh of relief when May 17 comes and the week, the first part of May, is over. I feel lighter. Like I can look forward to the summer now. There are so many happy memories in the summer, and there are plans. I’m building a deck! I am traveling! Maybe I will eventually even mow my lawn (Just kidding! I will pay someone else to do it).

Every year, people get me through this week. Remembering that Mother’s Day is complicated, eating tacos and drinking beer. Remembering with me when I post pictures. Helping me celebrate what is beautiful and cry when there is heartbreak and sorrow. Understanding.

I love this picture of my husband, with his “birthday in the hospital” face. It is perfect for the week. His look says I love you and this is hard. But maybe also I’ll still take a corner piece with lots of frosting. Happy Birthday, my love.