Fucking first times, my therapist calls them.  First holidays, significant occasions, anniversary of the death.  The first time after you’ve lost someone, lost a child.  It caught me off guard the first year, things that I didn’t expect took me to my knees.  Easter, why did that leave me weeping, lashing out at everyone, feeling like a horrible failure?  We weren’t religious and even if we were, Nel was most certainly not.  She’d called me from prison the last Easter she was alive, Happy Easter! I tried to chirp at her.  She stopped me mid-happy.

“Don’t start that shit with me,” Nel said, “you know what I think about that so don’t even start.”

Ruby’s first birthday saddened me terribly.  Ruby, the five month-old daughter Nel had left when she’d died.  I felt sad when Ruby was eleven months, thinking that she had now been alive longer without her mom, without my Nel, than with her.  It never occurred to me I’d find Ruby’s birthday a sad affair, but I did.  The regrets for all that Nel had missed, all that Ruby would never have.  Ruby forever an orphan, turning one, cracked my heart.

Mother’s Day perplexed me that first year after Nel’s death and it was doing the same today, year two.  I’d spent several Mother’s Days without Nel, her being in jail or prison or lost somewhere in the heroin ether.  One year, when Nel was incarcerated, I asked if she preferred I purchase a funny card for myself or a sentimental one, on her behalf.  I think she said funny.  I bought a card, signed it per her direction and displayed it on my fireplace mantle.  I wish I could find that card, but I’ve searched and have been unable to.  I’d repurpose it year and again if I could.

Nel and I had fun with cards.  Once she asked that I send her a card and some pictures while she was in prison, and I sent a card with stick figure drawings in it.  “You” I labeled one of the stick figures and “Me” I labeled the other.

“Did you get my card?” I asked her.

“No,” she said, then remembering said, “yes, I did, and you’re a dick. I showed my friend. Said look, I asked my mom to send me some pictures and this is the shit I got.”

“It was hilarious.”

“I do get my best material from you,” she said, “but you’re still a dick.”

Everything I sent Nel had to include her inmate number on the envelope and the contents.  Everything had to include the full name of the sender and I often included my own number as well.  My self-proclaimed number, #1, I’d write next to my name, likely amusing nobody other than myself.

I find myself wondering about those who’ve lost a child but have other children.  Does the parents’ grief upset the others, leave them feeling lacking?  Do they run through hypotheticals in their minds, sibling rivalry still intact even though one is gone?  Are they weighing whether the grief would be equal, more, or less if they were the one no longer here?  Or do they feel smothered, their mothers hellbent on never losing another child, thus suffocating the ones left?

I had only Nel, I’m a mother without a child.  Even though I’m only on year two, I’m learning the ropes.  The awkwardness it creates for others makes me uncomfortable.  The friends who used to send collective “Happy Mother’s Day,” texts now avoid me on this day.  I’m not saddened by the lack of communication.  I’m embarrassed, embarrassed that my life has caused them discomfort.  Or those who feel compelled to reach out in some way, texting that they hope I’m okay and they’re thinking of me.  Bullshit I want to say, that is bullshit.  You’re texting me out of some ill-conceived concept of obligation, going about your stupid fucking Mother’s Day and pausing to send poor Kim a sad emoji text. Then moving on with your day, thanking God that you’re not me.

I felt mostly okay, this round two of Mother’s Day absent a child.  I know the difference between grief and self-pity.  I considered immersing myself in self-pity earlier in the day.  I asked Ruby to let me video her saying Happy Mother’s Day to my mom and my sister.  I hesitated before suggesting the video.  My husband was in the room, and I knew he didn’t even realize it was Mother’s Day.  It would alert him, if he heard me trying to coax Ruby, now nearly two, into sending a video message.  Not that it would have changed anything, but it would disrupt the silent resentment I was stewing in.

The longer the day wore on, with him not realizing, the more entitled I felt to bask in self-pity.  Sometimes, anger feels easier to handle than grief, even if that means needlessly creating something or someone to be angry at.

I didn’t fully break down until I looked to see where Nel was.  Nel’s cremains, launched into space in early January, continue to orbit.  This won’t continue forever, she’ll fall out of orbit, breaking through the atmosphere and exploding like a shooting star.  There will be no warning, no way of knowing where she might be over this lonely planet when she re-enters.  I hope someone sees her star when it happens. 

Me and Nel, sitting together for Mother’s Day, I at my computer watching Ruby on the baby monitor, fighting against her nap, while Nel sails over Madagascar at 16,000 MPH.  I like to envision Nel commandeering this vessel, taking control of the strangers’ cremains traveling alongside her.  She’s taken the wheel, controlling the radio, window down as she smokes another cigarette, pedal to the metal, no plans of slowing anytime soon.

Nel won’t be orbiting at this time a year from now.  Her orbit, dependent upon the solar winds, was never meant to be forever.  We’ll have to find a different way to sit together next year.

I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette and heard the bells from the church up the street.  It was three PM, not a normal time for the bells to ring.  It must be something for Mother’s Day.  I stood and listened, tears running down my face.  It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.  It felt like Nel.

-Kim McVicker

Kim McVicker is a life-long resident of Iowa but has no cows, chickens nor any farming experience. She worked for decades in the financial services industry, which is as dull as it sounds. Mother of one, now gone, she finds solace in writing about her experiences with her daughter, even the ugly memories. When not reading, writing or listening to NPR, she enjoys letting her granddaughters squish mud, fingerpaint and otherwise make whatever messes bring them joy. She lives in Des Moines, IA with her delightful, patient and mess-hating husband David.