Anniversaries
/Anniversaries. To me they’ve always seemed a bit arbitrary, 365 days after the last time the same event was “celebrated.” Labor Day weekend had always had a positive connotation in my mind. Often a day or a weekend of celebration. The weekend to get away with family or friends, go on a quick trip somewhere, or just recuperate from the last several months. Also, the opening weekend of college football. (But we’ll get back to that.) Now, Labor Day weekend is an anniversary. On Sunday of every Labor Day weekend, I will wake up and realize that X number of years ago my life was inexorably changed in an instant. The life of everyone close to me was changed. This year, obviously, X = 1.
It’s been one year since my accident. I look fondly at pictures of that weekend and memories of biking with Ron and June, the little house on the lake that we rented, pour-over coffee, breakfast sandwiches, and killer manhattans. And the thrill of being on a mountain bike. Little did I know the year that I would have ahead. Nor did I know the incredible people who would enter my life in new ways. Or old friends with whom I would re-connect more intimately and with greater vulnerability. I didn’t know that I would have to learn how to ask for help from friends, family, and total strangers. The humility that I’ve learned and the gratitude I feel for the people in my life - especially my parents - is unmeasurable.
I don’t quite understand why people are making a big deal out of this being the one year anniversary. Every day I wake up wondering if I’m living a dream and if today will be the day that my legs start working. I don’t think Sunday of Labor Day weekend will be any different. Clinically, it moves me from the “acute” to the “chronic” category of spinal cord injuries. So there’s that. But yes, I realize the weight of the weekend on me and people in my life. I imagine my parents won’t tell me, but they will likely relive the worst phone call of their lives, received in the middle of the night while they were in Europe. (They’re not with me this weekend, so I can’t hug them and kiss them and look at them while I thank them for selflessly giving six months of their lives to sit at my bedside and care for me.)
Over time, I think that people will start to forget that Labor Day weekend has a very different connotation for me than it does for them. I imagine that I will never want to be alone on Labor Day weekend. (I half-jokingly say that my family coming to town is really a suicide prevention watch party.) But I guess I don’t yet fully know what set of emotions I will experience. I will surround myself with friends and family. We will “celebrate“ the “progress“ that I have made over the last year. Next year we will celebrate the progress I have made from this year. In general, I have not really paused to mourn the loss that I have also experienced. That shouldn’t surprise anyone who knows me well; they know that I am incredibly driven and goal oriented. So my mourning is replaced by drive. But, perhaps in addition to celebrating, I should allow myself time mourn a bit as well. We’ll see.
I’ve mentioned gratitude several times. I can’t properly describe how grateful I am for the people who visited me, donated, sent me a card or a text or an email, slept by my side, traveled across the country – or the ocean, sent food, books, flowers, fidget spinners, candy, played cribbage with me, held my hand, gave me a hug, a smile, made me laugh, told me they loved me. Please know that I’m grateful. I didn’t get where I am today alone. It was a team effort. I can’t express my gratitude. I’m too many thank you cards behind to count. But damn am I grateful. Thank you.
The other thing about the Sunday of Labor Day weekend (Sunday, September 3, 2017 to be specific) is that I didn’t suffer loss alone that day. My dear friends Mike and Kia Locksley lost their 25-year-old son, Meiko, to a senseless and as yet unsolved murder. Every Labor Day weekend I will call Mike and Kia and speak a language that only some people understand. To be clear, I will never understand what they’re going through. And they don’t quite know what I’m going through. But a shared anniversary of the craziest day of our lives means that it’s important to take a moment and be together. For Mike and his family, Labor Day weekend used to mean the joyous beginning of the football season. Now, it’s an “anniversary.”
An anniversary also means a time for people to call and ask how you’re doing, for them to send you text messages to let you know that they are thinking about you. I’ll be grateful that people care about me and I know people are well meaning. They understand the impact of the arbitrary year as well as I do. But I won’t quite know how to respond. Maybe I’ll have the emotional energy to respond “thank you” to each one. But I doubt it. There are still unanswered emails and text messages from a year ago.
Sunday of Labor Day weekend.