In theory, I can write about May 13, 2017 without too much trouble. I remember what happened one year ago today without the help of text messages or emails. I can look up the dose of Dex Matt was scheduled to take. I know where we went out for dinner, which friends we saw, and the plans we made for September. No shortage of material. And yet the words aren’t coming today. If I’m being honest, I’ve been struggling to find the words to tell this story for the last few days.
I’m not completely sure why. A year of daily posts is an ambitious goal and maybe I should have set my sights a little lower. But I don’t think the frequency of posts is the issue. There are days in the coming months that I know will almost write themselves. Interestingly, they are the toughest days to have lived through. And this makes me think that the problem with the last few days lies in living this post hope year.
I promised honesty, but it feels disingenuous to write about those May days that were easy and ruled by hope knowing what I know now. It’s hard to look back on the person I was, the things that Matt did, the smiles on the kids’ faces without seeing that darkness coming for us.
The other night I spent forever trying to write the post about decreasing the steroid, how it felt like a triumph over the cancer. An hour before I started that post, I sat with G and H in Matt’s closet looking at all the pictures they’d drawn him over the years, the ones he’d deemed special enough to save. And apparently, I cannot write smoothly about how much hope we had a year ago today after tucking in two heartbroken kids. So I’m not going to try.
A year ago today, G had a dress rehearsal for her dance recital the following weekend. I showed up at the rehearsal with only the first of the two costumes she needed. I called Matt and he bailed me out, brought the other costume and the piece of the first costume that I’d dropped on my way out the door. May 13, 2017, there was so much hope. So much taking for granted that I’d always be able to call him and he’d always come to bail me out.
A year ago today it was not Mother’s Day, so I don’t have to write that post yet. And I don’t know how today, Mother’s Day in 2018, will go. I assume it’ll be hard, for me, for the kids, for Matt’s parents and family. But I know that however hard it is, we are all together, we’re all getting through this together, and that if one of us needs someone to bail them out, they’d have someone to call.
I know Mother’s Day is a hard day for a lot of other people, too, for a dozen different reasons. So, for anyone following along my post-hope journey who is struggling today, I do have one hope to share: I hope you can find a reason to smile today. Sending love and support to anyone who needs it today, and really everyday.