Day 399

Thursday was my anniversary (sixteen years) but the day came and went with no celebration. It was just another day. My spouse and I — more so me than her, I suppose — joke about what an awful day we got married. When you look at the “This Day in History,” you see nothing but tragedy. Lincoln died. The Titanic sank. Boston was bombed. And taxes are due. Of course, it was the day before, April 14th, that Lincoln was shot and the Titanic hit an iceberg. Since last year, I’ve been trying to figure out how my life fits into that equation. April 14 — Dad died. April — 15 my wedding anniversary. I guess it doesn’t really matter, except to say that my anniversary will forever be marred by Dad’s death. That is the event that will be foremost in my every April.

Having Dad’s funeral was supposed to bring some sort of closure. But it didn’t. When I said that to my spouse she responded, “I’m not surprised. The only the thing that would have brought you closure was the hug you never got.” I think she’s right. I will spend the rest of my life feeling cheated, as though Dad were stolen from me by a God so cruel he wouldn’t even let me say goodbye. 

I went walking early in the morning on Thursday, right around dawn, like I walk every morning. As I strolled through the local park, I smelled Dad’s shaving cream. The smell was so strong, I put my book down and looked around wondering where the smell came from. But there was no one anywhere near me. The smell transported me to high school, when I used to ride the bus with Dad every morning. I’d sit next to him and read a book for school. He’d flip open the paper to the sports section and scan the stats. For a good fifteen minutes, the smell lingered, and by the time I got home, I felt such an oasis of emptiness that I found it difficult to push through G3’s homeschool lessons. 

Yesterday, G3 competed in a virtual tournament. He didn’t place in the top three for weapons, but he did take second in forms. He was disappointed that he didn’t do better, but he has another tournament to look forward to coming up in a couple of weeks. 

My arm isn’t getting any better. I’m angry that in everything I had read and heard about the vaccines no one mentioned excruciating and lingering arm pain. It’s been a week since I got the shot and I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever get the use of my arm back. I can’t lift it. I can’t even undress myself. I can’t pull anything over my head without my spouse’s help. And even with her help, the pain is blinding. I’m furious that I can’t do taekwondo (and I’m supposed to have a mid-term this week). I can’t life weights. And chores, such as doing the dishes, hurt. I am now in Long Island. I may not shower until my mother gets here next week, because I can’t take off my own sports bra. When I try, the pain is so bad I have to lay down and wait for the wave of nausea to pass. I have no idea how I will do laundry. There is no dryer out here, only the old fashioned clothesline. But hanging clothes with one hand will be a challenge.

This morning, my son and I drove out to Mattituck. Being at home I just felt so overwhelming sad that I had to get away. But I’m not sure being here is any better. In some ways it might be worse. I’m missing Dad more, not less. And thinking about next year only exacerbates the emptiness. I lost my job due to Covid. But this year I’ve kept myself busy teaching my son. It’s given me purpose. What will I do in the fall? I hadn’t been able to find a full time teaching job before Covid. With so many districts cutting their budgets, my odds of finding something aren’t getting better. It would be lovely to think maybe my wish would finally come true and I’d find a way to support myself with my writing, but I’ve been completely disillusioned. Those sort of fairy tale events happen to other people — not me. And how will I survive another year in a state I don’t like? This year, homeschooling my son meant we could escape often. Next year, I won’t have that luxury. I’ll go back to feeling completely trapped and miserable. 

When we got out here this afternoon, my son asked if we could go to the beach. He wanted to sit looking out over the water and paint. I was just happy to be outside. To feel the wind. To hear the water rolling onto the sand. While my son painted, I read. I now know more about Hamilton than I ever cared to know. But I’m finding his life interesting. More interesting is the fact that he was brilliant and did so much for our country, and yet he’s not much more than a footnote in the textbooks.

On another note, Caustic Frolic, an online literary journal supported by New York University, accepted my essay titled “Lent.” It was the blog post I wrote on Ash Wednesday. But then I took it down when I realized it worked as a stand alone essay. Journals don’t publish work that’s already been published and many of them lump blog posts into that category. It’s slated for the spring issue, though I’m not sure when the release date will be.