Photography by Lori K. Tate
I think about the past way too much, forcing the present to constantly hit me over the head to pay attention. And the future? I dabble in it by making plans (and even setting goals), but I don’t spend nearly enough time there.
I’m a big “a year ago today we ….” person, but these days I’m finding that game much too painful. Sure, the first Thanksgiving and Christmas without my mom were tough, but the field of memory land mines I’m about to walk through is much worse. As the calendar creeps toward June in our new world, my heart is still breaking in our old one.
June of last year was one of the happiest times of my life. I had just resigned from my job with plans to spend a fun summer with The Tots. This was going to be the summer we’d always dreamed of, complete with popsicles, boat rides and plenty of beach time. Instead of deadlines hanging over my head, I’d have a pool umbrella towering above me.
Seven days later everything came falling down. Dad called early that morning saying that we needed to take mom to the doctor. Five days from her doctor visit, mom sat in a wheelchair as I pushed her into the hospital. Four days after that on July 4, she celebrated her 82nd birthday there. The next day she found out she had stomach cancer. Forty-eight hours later on a Sunday, the doctor told my father and husband that she had four to six weeks to live.
The anniversaries are a blur after that — admitting my mother into a nursing home, managing her care, figuring out a way to bring her home, not realizing the last time she could speak to me and know who I was, saying goodbye, organizing her memorial service, the list goes on. Every time I try to open that box of memories, I slam it shut. One day I’ll sift through it to see what I need to save, but for now, those memories need to stay in the box.
Last night when I shared my anxiety with John about this upcoming summer, he asked me why I don’t think about the good anniversaries. He’s right in that some good things also happened last summer. The Tots learned to wakeboard. I drove the pontoon at night on my own. Graydon skied for the first time. We had a great day at Carowinds’ waterpark with short lines, and a cool family moved in across the street from us.
Those were all wonderful things filled with goodness. It’s nice to think about those things when I let myself shift focus, but doing that is easier said than done. Regardless, I’m trying. Today, for example, despite the rain wanting to infest us with a dismal mood, I went on a date with my son.
Clad in masks and lathered in hand sanitizer, we ventured into Davidson to grab a slice of normal. We ended up at The Soda Shop. While perusing the menu, the owner came out to catch up with us. We talked about the pandemic, what’s happened and what’s next. And then we talked about how this has been good for us in so many ways because a lot of us, definitely me, are spoiled.
Prior to COVID-19, most of us had fun choices to make every day, choices that we took for granted. Before the world was turned on its end, my family and I would have had a good time at The Soda Shop, but we wouldn’t have placed a special value on the experience, and it probably wouldn’t have ranked high enough to be one of our “a year ago today we ….” memories.
Today is different. Today the cottage fries were extra crispy. Today the vegetable soup was seasoned just right. Today talking to people I hadn’t seen in months meant everything. Today is when we bravely flirted with things we used to do. Today is now officially marked in my mind as a day I will happily remember a year from now.
June is coming whether I like it or not, but I can control what I let it do to me. I can wallow in the past, recounting every painful moment of last summer, or I can fold those memories into my heart as I carve out happier ones to reminisce about next year. The choice is up to me.