Letting Go of Dates

I've never really been sure why we insist on remembering dates. Birthdays, first date, first kiss, weddings, and more all seem to hang over us like annual obligations on the calendar. I've never been a big one for dates. I couldn't tell you when my husband and I started dating or even when we got engaged, and I only remember our anniversary because we got married on the first summer month that had the first day of the month on a Saturday. However, in lieu of all these wonderful memories I could associate with each passing year, I seem to be caught up the tragedies that have marked milestones in my life. I remember the date for most and the week for the rest, and no matter how old I get or how much life I live, I can't seem to leave them behind.

The first anniversary I remember is my grandfather dying. I was ten years old, and we had been living with my grandparents for a few years by then. His birthday was April 8, and he died on April 22nd. It was a Thursday. At fifty-six years old Paga (as we called him) had already lived through a stroke, cancer, and at least one heart attack. On more than one occasion the doctors had instructed his family to go in and say their final good byes, and each time he pulled through until this one last heart attack too him when he was still far too young. I don't feel this anniversary hanging over me in a tragic way, yet something prevents me from leaving the date behind.

Four years after Paga died, my grandmother took me and my sister to New York to visit our aunt. After spending about a week at her home in Oswego, we took off on the road to return to Saratoga Springs, the town where my grandparents raised my mother and her siblings. Along the way, we were rear-ended by a college student who was driving in excess of one hundred miles per hour on the interstate. I had been sitting at an angle in the backseat, and my head whipped back into the door on impact. Afterward, the man at the car garage asked if the person who made the dent in the door had survived. That was March 22, 1997, my first experience with brain damage and exactly one month before the anniversary of my grandfather's death. Again, I don't find myself pausing in life to recognize this date, yet I know when it is just the same.

At this point I could continue to list anniversaries that stay with me, but it's that time of year again that I find myself caught up in the date that does hang over me: May 24. On May 24, 2000 my life changed forever and another life ended far too soon. I've written blogs about it in the past, but I don't know how you can ever write enough about losing a friend in such a horrific tragedy. The day started so simple. I hate saying that. I hate the idea that, to the rest of the world, that day was like any other. The weather was clear and hot, and everyone was preparing for the end of the school year. Nicole and I drove to the mall during our open hour, and we took a shortcut on a gravel road to get back to school on time.

I won't get caught up in hindsight or retrospect on choosing that road now, but I think I'll always wonder what if. What if we had chosen a different road? What if we had driven a little faster or a little slower? What if that driver had paid a little more attention? Perhaps we wouldn't have been hit. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad. Perhaps I would be able to think better, smarter, faster if I hadn't had my second experience with brain damage. Perhaps Nicole would still be alive. Perhaps I could live one year without thinking of May 24 as the date that will haunt me forever.

I've noticed in years past that May 24 is unlike other anniversaries. Birthdates tend to be as short as a special meal or as long as the few days it takes to get from the date to the party. Anniversaries are as short as a date or as long as it takes to find the perfect present. May 24 is not like either of these. For me, May 24 is a month. It's week after week of waiting for something to go wrong. Listening for a phone call, watching for someone with bad news, and collapsing with relief when it's over.

In an earlier post I wrote about a man I met on the side of the road, P.J.C., who visits the place where his son died at least once a month. He explained how these visits ease his conscience and assauge his guilt as he leaves a physical reminder that he has not forgotten, will not forget, the son he lost that day. For him, it's been four years. He asked me that day if it gets easier, and I didn't have an answer for him. I still don't.

Instead, I've turned his question back on myself and wonder when it will be easier for me. Eleven years later, all I can think of is that day and wonder if it's going to happen again. I think about Nicole and find my mind going blank as I try to formulate questions about how she must feel, what she's doing, who she's with. I think about what I'll do on the actual day and wonder if everyone can tell just by looking at me that something isn't right. Still, I know that on May 25 everything will be over. Another year will have passed, and I'll find myself in a remission of sorts for eleven months - once again.

For most of the world, May 24 is just another date. It's an anniversary of other sorts for other people, but for me and a handful of other people I know, it's an era of mourning. Mourning Nicole didn't happen in a set of weeks, months, or years immediately after she died. Instead, mourning comes from a collection of one month anniversaries across countless years. Every May, I return to mourning. I can't remember most birthdates or happy anniversaries, but I remember this date more than any other. In truth, I don't know that I want to forget.