What to do with Mother’s Day now?

Mother’s Day is a tough one. Dread seeps in to me weeks beforehand, building steadily. The thought of it drains my energy and knots my body with anxiety.

Last year, I spent the entire day before Mother’s Day in bed, sleeping, eating potato chips, and playing Candy Crush to still my heart and numb my mind. I wanted to go to bed on Saturday night and wake up to Monday morning, ready for work. A Monday work day was infinitely preferable to the terrible tomorrow ahead of me: my first Mother’s Day without my son, Tristan.

What the fuck was I to do with Mother’s Day now?

I thought I would just skip over it. Not show up. Not answer my phone. It would be easy to disappear for a day. I could book into a hotel where nobody would find me. I could leave my phone at home to avoid the calls. Every part of me screamed to escape, to run away. Now.

I investigated hotel costs.

In the end, I showed up. On Sunday morning, I dragged my heavy carcass out the door, pasted a slapdash smile on my face, and showed up at my mother’s house for Mother’s Day lunch. It was a quiet get-together, just my mom and my two daughters, all of us mourning, all unmoored. And my granddaughter, Ava, who mourned her uncle as 4-year-olds will—with questions and confidence and no emotional burden at all.

I showed up for them.

Ava greeted me with her warm pudgy hug and bouncing golden curls; a whirlwind of words and energy bounding in different directions. She demanded my attention and I gratefully gave it to her. Wrapped in her joy, I was distracted from my pain.

Together, we remembered Tristan in heart-felt moments between Ava’s busyness. We thought about what he’d be doing, or cooking, or saying if he were with us. I imagined the tight hug he’d give me and the quick kiss on top of my head, before going to investigate the action in the kitchen.

So different from the year before. The year before, Tristan helped to arrange a special day for me, his sisters, his grandma, and niece. We decided to try an escape room adventure. It was a cowboy scenario, and we failed miserably, happily, together. We went for a Korean barbecue dinner, and ate and laughed until we couldn’t eat another bite. All my children together, with my mom and my granddaughter, everyone healthy and happy and well. My heart was so full of love and gratitude it was fit to burst. In that moment, I had everything I wanted and was blessedly aware of it.  

But that was two years ago. That was when I knew exactly what to do with Mother’s Day.

Last year, we were grateful for each other; the mothers and daughters and granddaughter still here. We leaned on each other. We made it through the day, together. Ava’s laughter and bubbly chatter helped, and I was glad to have showed up and shared my joy and grief with all my people, minus one.

But now, a year later, Tristan is still gone. Will always be gone.

And what the fuck am I to do with Mother’s Day now?

This year, I recognize the familiar dread and anxiety as they set up camp in my body. It’s just like last year, only less surprising.

I know I’ll show up on the day, though. I don’t even consider escape. In fact, I consider what I may want to do, this Mother’s Day. Take everyone out for afternoon tea? Or for a stroll around VanDusen Gardens? Find a nice place to eat on the Quay? There’s a beautiful dreaminess to thinking about Mother’s Day possibilities, a feeling of being right, and whole, and OK.

This year, I consider these ideas but can’t seem to act on them. Musing through possibilities is fine, but making a specific plan terrifies me. That’s when the anxiety leaps to the foreground, blotting out reason. It’s as if planning something would make Mother’s Day real, and part of me doesn’t want it to be real without Tristan.

A huge part of me still really, really likes the sound of a day in bed with potato chips and Candy Crush.

But, this year, I can imagine spending time with my family on Mother’s Day. I want to have fun with them, and I know I’m capable of finding joy with my loved ones still here. Even if I don’t seem able to plan anything. I suppose that’s progress.

The fact is, Mother’s Day is now a day of mourning for me. It always will be.

It’s right up there with Tristan’s birthday and Christmas and the date of his death. It’s fucking hard. Even with all the joy and happiness I have in my life, it’s not easy. The love and gratitude I have for my daughters, and mother, and granddaughter doesn’t make things right or lessen my grief.

This year, I also know that my grief and sadness won’t stop me from finding joy with my girls, and my mom, and Ava. It won’t make happiness impossible, or wrong. We’ll enjoy our time together and be grateful for each other—all our lives so precious and short.

This Mother’s Day, my grief and happiness will intertwine; two halves of a whole.

I just hope that somebody else does the planning, so I don’t end up spending all day in bed, eating potato chips and playing Candy Crush.