Tomorrow will be Easter, and I dread it like the plague. As I write, snuggled in my bed and nodding off-I can’t help but wonder why I am beleaguered by horrible holidays. Oh, there’s been a few that were notable, but few and far between.
After my parents passed, the idea of any resemblance to a family dynamic flew directly out of the window. There were arguments with his mother, as we wanted to see my nieces and nephew when given the opportunity. Monster would fuss and fight, to the point that I began dreading what fortunate people anticipate with great joy. It began when I met my husband. Our first Thanksgiving together, and the first time my mother allowed Dwain in her presence, I remember well. I woke early to feed the critters, and I was in such a happy tilly I could hardly contain myself. I sang to the cats, danced in the Fall rain-I simply couldn’t wait to be with family.
The phone rang, for me. News that my poor mother had fallen and broken her hip, whilst attempting to bake us pies. In the hospital, she screamed in agony-my heart was filled with pain to see her in that helpless and vulnerable way.
That was the last holiday (with the exception of one Christmas with my daddy after mom went home) I would look forward to, and the last I care to remember. These days, we go to my in laws-due to my having to live this fresh hell tomorrow, I’ll keep the details to a minimum.
It sucks dogs balls.
Three Easters ago, I was baptized in my current place of worship. My sister had invited us to Easter-my annual sinus infection was in full gear, and in church I was dunked under ice cold water in an air conditioned building. I was completely alone. My husband had a stick up his apple, for some reason. I remember the Spiritual Director taking me aside:
You’re here alone? No family whatsoever. Utterly alone.
Last Easter my step son and we were on the outs. Dwain asked his mother to invite Bud for the afternoon, so we could visit before noon. Actually, Dwain had hinted that it would be a good thing if maybe she could skip inviting him altogether. Days passed, and the holiday loomed overhead. As we were dressing, my man announced that Brad’s truck was already parked in his parents driveway.
She said nothing whatsoever to Bradley. We stayed home.
This year, again we do not speak. He doesn’t understand, even after living in the tragic past, that I don’t have my parents, no close family-not even a friend to spend the day with. One Thanksgiving I spent the day in a nursing home, visiting a friend, and made no apologies.
I tried going to the Farmer’s market in town, after driving to Urgent Care (pulled a tick off of my chest yesterday) for ten days of Doxy, but after I saw the waiting room? I left toute suite, not even remotely in the mood to wait at least an hour.
I understand that every one of us has to pick up their cross and follow our glorious savior Jesus. My problems are one thousand percent insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Maybe there will be holidays in heaven?
Nah. He is a just and compassionate deity.