The Hardest Day

It wasn't the day I got the call that he was gone. 

It wasn't the day I saw his body. 

It wasn't the day of his funeral. 

It wasn't the day I picked up his ashes. 

It was my birthday. 

You see, as horrible as the first few days were, it wasn't real yet. It hadn't sunk in. The shock blurred the edges so the pain was dulled with confusion and a haze of unreality. The pain was diffused and unfocused. But now, it's slightly less horrible, but it's so very much more real. The pain is crisp and clear. It's sharp as a razor. Sharp as shards of shattered glass.

My family did their best to make my birthday as normal as possible. My sister and brother-in-law had us over last weekend for dinner and cake and presents. My daughter brought me coffee in bed. My son wished me happy birthday. My aunt and uncle called and sang to me. A few friends sent gifts. I got calls and texts and Facebook messages and emails from literally hundreds of friends and family. 

But it wasn't the same. There was no bouquet of roses, no homemade gourmet dinner with appetizers and wine and candlelight. There was no date night at the Melting Pot. There was no dressing up to the nines and taking selfies. There were no birthday kisses. 

It hit home, and it hit home HARD. I cried all day. Well, I cried all day until my kids came home from school. Then I pulled it together and put on a brave face for them. But when they left the room, I cried some more. When I drove my son to his trombone lesson, I cried silently in the darkness of the car all the way there. And I kept crying in the parking lot, wiping my face before he got back in the car. When I went to bed, I cried myself to sleep. 

It was the end of so many traditions of love and family and feeling special and being cherished. It was the closing of a chapter of my life that was so incredibly special, so incredibly wonderful, so incredibly a part of who I have become, that it felt like losing my entire identity, my entire purpose. 

But I can make it a beginning, as well. One chapter has ended, but there are other chapters waiting to be written. There are new traditions of love to begin. There are children on the cusp of adulthood to be loved and guided and celebrated and launched into lives of their own. There are opportunities to grow in new ways. There are other relationships to be developed, and cherished, and relied on. I still have an identity and a purpose, they're just different than they were. And that's hard to accept. I'm not good at change. I never have been. 

But change is inevitable, even when it's hard. Even when you have to be dragged, kicking and screaming and sobbing, into a new chapter, that new chapter will come. I don't have to like it, but I have to accept it, because I can't control it. 

What I can control, however, is how I deal with it. So I will choose to deal with it with grace, with courage, and with faith. I will choose to set an example for my children of how to deal with adversity. I will choose to make the best of what life has dealt me. I will choose to write this new chapter with my head held high and my eyes on the future and my heart open to a new way of life. I will choose to go on. 

But first, I think I'll have another good cry. 

Then I'll be ready to take on whatever the future holds. 

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,
“plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future."

- Jeremiah 29:11