Recently, my husband and I watched one of Celine Dion's concerts on TV, and after the last song, I felt this tinge of sorrow. No stranger to sorrow, I was aware of the tinge. Because I'm the type that labels my tears and emotions, I asked myself why I felt sorrowful. What was this sudden onset of an ache in my heart? Was it due to the song Celine Dion sang at the end, My Heart Will Go On?
Perhaps that was it, I concluded. I smiled at the two photos on the mantel of Daniel, my four-year-old who died from cancer treatments in 1997. The song, along with the movie that made it famous (Titanic) came out shortly after Daniel's death. My eldest daughter and her friends sang it at a family and friends event the first Christmas without Daniel. I recalled how I had listened to every word and couldn't hold back tears.
It was days later when I stood in the upstairs hallway that I found the reason why I had been sad. There on one of the walls hangs the bear and quilt painting I had purchased at the Raleigh flea market days before Daniel's birth. When a vendor asked when I was due, I'd said, "Yesterday." Daniel was late arriving and sat on my sciatic nerve, making it painful to walk. I placed the watercolor in the room we had decorated while waiting for his arrival.
Across from the painting is a curio cabinet I bought after Daniel died. In it are some of his favorite toys---airplanes, Matchbox cars, and a collection of tiny books we read to him in the hospital. Next to the wooden cabinet is the plaque a cancer organization gave us after donations were made in Daniel's memory. In the nearly twenty years that we have lived in this house, I never realized the significance of the wall sharing an item I bought before my son was born and one I bought after he died.
While that was one of those aha-moments, the real aha came when it hit me why this was a tough week. Sunday was Mother's Day! We'd be celebrating with family and my three children. And, once again, Daniel would not be with us. Why had I not connected the dots? The first Mother's Days since his death, I had been keenly aware of how bittersweet the special day would be. Now twenty-seven years later, I was surprised the days before Mother's Day could cause a pang of sadness.
I've often said that a mother could be on a deserted island without a calendar and yet still know that a significant day surrounding her deceased child was approaching. You cannot hide from it. That's how tightly looped mamas and the holes in their hearts are.
This is grief. And we grieve because we love.
