Yesterday was the 4th anniversary of Tony’s passing. In case you missed it, yesterday was also Easter. I have known and dreaded for a full year that these two events would coincide.
About a month ago, I checked in with my kids about the date. Bringing the calendar to their attention and getting their thoughts on how they would like to spend the day. While I would have been happy to curl up on the couch all day, that was not what they had in mind. All three boys were fully on board to go to their grandparents’ house for Easter. To be fair, they never turn down an opportunity to hunt for eggs and procure candy.
For my part, I tried to make the holiday as easy as I could on myself. It helps this is the first holiday I know I don’t have any believers, so there was no need to sneak around at the crack of dawn to represent the Easter Bunny. The high school dance squad had an Egg My Yard fundraiser. I signed up for that, letting them count and fill plastic eggs. Due to the rain, I had to hide the eggs inside but not until everyone was already awake. Even when I signed up for foods to bring to the family gathering, I chose items that required minimal preparation.
Those actions were a kindness to myself. Each year and each milestone hits differently, and I haven’t discovered the scientific equation that formulates when it’s going to hit hard.
The week leading up to April 20th was brutal for me this year. My anxiety reached a fever pitch I hadn’t felt since right after he passed. There was the normal dread surrounding his death date. Our sweet cat is still missing. I have also had another personal issue (that I haven’t written about) in my life creating angst for months. My oldest turned 16 last week, reminding me what it was like when he was born, and we started our family. Come to think of it, maybe there is a scientific equation for grief bubbles.
By the time the actual date arrived, I was almost numb. The bulk of my tears and emotional outrage had already occurred.
The good news is that Easter won’t fall on April 20th for another 67 years. Unless I become a 107-year-old bionic woman, I won’t have to endure a feigned happy Easter gathering again. Even our children would be 83, 80, and 78 then, so they can be the grumpy patriarchal figure if they want. Those ages are a far cry from when they lost him at 12, 9, and 7.
