I've heard this before. Don't make any big decisions until after the first year is over. It always made sense to me. Thankfully, I don't have any big decisions to make. But these firsts hit you when you least expect them. And because of the closeness in timing of my parents' deaths, I think I'm going to have to deal with all the firsts I thought I dealt with earlier this year (while my father was still alive), Passover, my mother's birthday, Mother's Day, my birthday and my parents' anniversary, all over again in the coming year.
To give you an inkling of what those were like... well, the first night of Passover found me together with my dad and my son in the Emergency Room at Maimonides Hospital in Brooklyn. My son... the superhero... who was there for Pa when he was most needed. My son and I had been sad to think that we wouldn't be spending Passover together. Little did we know... And my dad and I had been playing a dance for months about what we'd be doing together for Passover. I wanted my parents to come down for the two weeks at Passover that they'd normally be with us. My dad booked a trip of only 9 days, 5 of which I was going to be in New York! I was upset. My mom was upset. At some point, I had to just let it go. And now, in retrospect, how glad I am that I did. It would have stirred awful feelings. With my parents being 86 and 84, I didn't want to stir up bad feelings... because you just never know. And really? Who knew. Who knew that a few weeks after my dad booked their flights that my mom would have had a stroke. And that we would have her buried nearly 2 weeks before their proposed trip. During the shiva, our seven official days of grieving, we strong-armed my dad into booking a flight to Florida for Passover. There was no reason for him not to spend the holiday with us. We told our Florida relatives that we'd be celebrating Passover with them. (And then I worried that it might be too emotionally difficult for me to handle! How silly, looking back.) The morning of the day my dad was supposed to fly down to Florida was the morning that my son called and told me that I had to come back up. "Pa can't walk and he asked me to take him to the emergency room." We spent Passover in the Emergency Room of a major medical center in Brooklyn, in the midst of a very, very religious neighborhood, watching many of the other patients in the ER eating their special Passover foods as we were told that the reason that Dad couldn't walk is that there was a tumor on his spine and that Dad most probably had cancer.
My mother's birthday was another tough one. I needed to be in Florida for my husband to have some surgery. My aunt, my mom's sister, had been diagnosed with cancer the week after my dad. We spent that birthday Sunday with my aunt. In the back of my mind, I wondered if this was the last time I'd get a chance to spend with my aunt. Both my cousins were there and we had a lot of laughs. But overall, it was a heart-wrenching day. Tears are in my eyes as I even think about the afternoon. Too much so that I can't even begin to write about it.
Mother's Day wasn't too terrible. Especially not in comparison. My mom hated Mother's Day. I think she hated it because she lost her mother when she was only 32 years old and a new mother herself. I've never been a fan of Mother's Day, either. I've been disappointed far too many times on that holiday. My son was a super hero again that day. He and I went to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, one of my mom's favorite places in Brooklyn (and a place I hadn't been to since I was a girl, a place I'd most likely last been with my mom) and then we picked up pizza from L&B Spumoni Gardens in Brooklyn (another favorite of my mom's) and brought the pizza back to the nursing home to share with my dad and my brother. Perfect day. This coming year, I think it's going to be a first once again... back home, without dad there at the end. Probably with my son being 1,000 miles away.
My birthday was a day that was made very special by my dad, a good friend and my son. But do you see the pattern? My dad was part of the specialness. I was still someone's daughter. Someone was there who remembered me from the minute I first made an appearance on earth. Probably remembered me even before that.
My dad and I kind of ignored the first wedding anniversary (it would have been their 57th) without my mom. We made a casual mention of it. But with my aunt in Florida fighting for her life, I wasn't prepared to make more of a deal about it. It was a melancholy day as Dad and I were each grieving alone yet together.
For me, Hanukah has always been the holiday where I celebrated with the ones I was with. I don't know if there's a Hanukah that passed that I didn't see my parents at least once, but perhaps there was. I had a large Jewish community in my former home in New Jersey. We'd gather together to light the menorah, sing songs, eat latkes and give the children gifts. In my family, gifts went in one direction only - from parent to child. Children didn't give gifts to siblings, daughters didn't give gifts to mothers. Parents gave gifts to children. This year, I am the child of no one... and I think that's where this "first" is hitting me hardest. Last year, I was with my parents for the entire 8 nights of Hanukah for the first time I was a young girl. This year, I am not. Hence, the sadness. There's a chance that I'll spend the 4th night of Hanukah with my son in good old 1137 lighting the menorah, singing songs, eating latkes and me giving him a gift. But even with that, the first of not being anyone's child for Hanukah, it's a tough first to deal with.
No comments:
Post a Comment