Death Anniversary

We commemorate birthdays, anniversaries, and an array of special occasions. We mark them off as dates to remember and to count how many years have passed since these occasions took place. Mostly, we do this to celebrate, but what about the other dates that we can never forget, even though they are associated with bad memories? How do we pay tribute to those memories, when they involve the most important people in your life? 

Today, August 13th, marks the third anniversary of Mark's passing. And on this day I did nothing, except wallow in a pity party I made for myself. It was easy to do this because five weeks ago I had foot surgery for a severely torn ligament in my ankle and I have been homebound for all these weeks. My mobility has been limited to a scooter and now a boot. I cannot drive. I was reminded of Mark in the last few months of his life, where he was constricted by the oxygen that he had to carry around to survive. He was tethered by a tube to a tank. My present situation is temporary, his was either going to lead to certain death or a lung transplant.  

I am still in disbelief when I think of the circumstances that led me to the outcome of our misfortune three years ago. That disbelief still hits below the belt as though the punch that caused it just happened. And so this day, I gave myself permission to pause and let the grief that I carry around daily to surface and envelop me from the outside world that I no longer feel a part of sometimes. I only saw one person today– my dear friend, Julianna– who came in the morning to massage my leg and foot as part of my rehabilitation. (She's a massage therapist.) She also came at night to rescue me from the cocoon I built for myself. (I will explain that later.)

I heard from several of my friends who checked on me throughout the day either through phone calls or texts. My daughters called and we cried. My son in law, Scott, sent me a beautiful text. I made plans for tomorrow night with two of my single friends to make sure I remain in the land of the living.  I looked for the signs that Mark could be conjuring to send to me.  

That veil of grief I protected myself with is heavy; it weighs you down even though it's invisible and it can obscure the signs that could connect you with your loved ones who have passed. I know, deep in my heart, though, that our souls are part of the energy that keeps us connected and as long as you keep an open mind, the signs will make their way to you and become as clear as the night sky. 

The first sign from Mark came early this morning in a memory of a video of my granddaughter, Lexi, when she was a little past two years old. She was eating a chocolate chip pancake that was most definitely cooked by Mark, who prided himself on the best pancakes in the world. Lexi was sitting on my window seat in my house in Long Island with Sonny, our dog, who was watching her carefully devour that pancake. She stopped to give Sonny a kiss on his head, while carefully guarding her pancake. Then she began to call out, "Papa" a few times before I responded, "Papa went out." 

The second sign was because my daughter's friend delivered some milk and oreo cookies as a source of comfort for this difficult day. Mark's favorite nighttime snack was oreo cookies and chocolate milk. Both my daughters were indulging in that tonight.  So I thought I should, as well.  But I was missing the most important ingredient–the cookies. And, as I mentioned, I was homebound. I started calling a few people to find out if they had oreo cookies or could run to Publix to pick up a package for me. No one could, but then I got a call from Julianna as she was on her way home from visiting her daughter in Miami. And she saved the day with a fresh package of oreos.  

One thing I didn't mention about Julianna was she has the same birthday as Mark. 

When she was leaving, tonight, she called to me to look at the beautiful night sky, something Mark always made me stop to take notice of.  I told this to Julianna and she said, "Thank you, Mark."

Mark's death anniversary day ended, with three oreos (one for each year) and some milk. The heavy veil of grief was lifted while I enjoyed Mark's favorite nighttime snack, a sweet memory and a sweet treat.  

Back to the land of the living.