Day 360

My mom asked me to post the information about Dad’s funeral/memorial mass. So here are the details:

April 14 (the one year anniversary of his death)

11:30 AM

Sacred Heart Church

83-17 78th Avenue

Glendale, NY 11385

Today has a been a bad day — actually the whole week has been difficult. We are back in March and each day brings a haunting reminder of where I was and what I was doing last year at this time. I cry for no reason while I’m trying to teach my son. It’s gotten to the point where he just looks and me and rolls his eyes. “You’re crying again,” he comments, stating the obvious before returning to his work. Seriously, Treasure Island is NOT a novel that would ordinarily make me cry, but while discussing it with my son he’ll make a comment about his grandfather and the tears take over.

A year ago today, I got word from the university where I was teaching that when students returned from Spring Break classes would be virtual. I was not happy about it. I grumbled on facebook: “And the person who is completely incompetent in regards to technology now has to teach classes online.” The virtual teaching did not go well. Not at all. We didn’t have the technology to support it. Our condo was too small for three people trying to work online. And teaching while being a full time mom — my son eventually went virtual as well — proved impossible. But I truly wish that had remained my only frustration. In retrospect, it was a very minor inconvenience. Now, here I am a year later — sometimes it feels like yesterday, other times it feels like a century — and I have no job. Will I find a new one when the pandemic ends? It would be lovely to be optimistic but while people claim there is a teacher shortage, I never seem to be the candidate anyone wants. And, well you already know, losing my job sucked, but a year ago Dad was still alive. If only I knew what the next month would bring, I’d have embraced those technical challenges. They were the high spot of this entire ordeal.

Also a year ago, I sent my father and my cousins a message on facebook uninviting them to my son’s taekwondo tournament. My son was supposed to compete on March 28 up in New Hampshire. For four months, we looked forward to that day with anticipation and excitement. We — my spouse, son, and I — were going to leave work early and drive up the day before. We were looking forward to seeing family as much as we were looking forward to the competition. But by March 10, news of the pandemic was starting to look exceptionally grim. Large gatherings, especially for older people, were becoming deadly. I uninvited everyone because I didn’t want anyone to get sick or die. But it ended up not mattering that I told everyone not to come. A few days later, the taekwondo organization suspended all tournaments. But March 28 eventually arrived, and instead of bringing joy, it brought heartache. It was Dad’s first full day in the hospital. It was the beginning of the end. I’d never see or speak to him again. How could a day that was supposed to make everyone happy, a day that my dad looked forward with more enthusiasm than any of us, end up being a day that will haunt me forever?

While I was messaging everyone not to go to the tournament, Dad sent my son a picture of a rainbow over the water with the caption: “A rainbow but no rain.” Rainbows are supposed to bring good tidings, not bad. They are supposed be symbols of hope not sorrow.

Yep, I’m still falling to pieces over here. I suspect I’ll only get worse as the days continue to conjure up memories of last year — where I was, what I was doing, what I should have done instead. My mood is definitely darkening. I’m snapping at everyone and everything. It’s probably good we’re still in a loose modified lockdown. It’s easier to be alone. This way I’m less likely to accidentally offend anyone.