July 1st Again

 

Here we are in July.  The above photo was taken on this date in 2023.  My son had graduated from high school nine days prior and I had arranged for a 5 day family vacation to celebrate.  He had no party; this was his "gift," We needed to celebrate him.

And we tried our best.  But it was hard.  Dad was finally home, but on hospice care.  I'd seen him a week ago and I truly expected him to last until after the 4th of July.  After all, mom did the year before.  (https://bfthsboringblog.blogspot.com/2022/07/one-month.html).  But he didn't.  He died on this day (actually evening) two years ago...about 8 days after I finally got him back home.  (Something I wasn't able to do with my mom.)

Two years later and I still feel guilty about not being around when he died.  After all, my mom died while I was holding her hand.  I wasn't there and in all likelihood, I wouldn't have been there even if I had been in NJ since it happened after dark.

What still makes me feel guilty is that I never picked up the call from the hospice nurse or from his live in health aide that night.  I didn't hear the phone...or maybe it just didn't come through because I keep my phone on do not disturb after a certain hour of the evening.  (Although my father's land line or cell phone number would have gone through no matter what the time.)  I slept.  My father died.  And I found out about it when I woke up the next morning.

Our vacation was ending that morning anyway.  So we got up, had breakfast (I think I ordered a mimosa out of which we all took a sip as a pseudo toast to my dad.)  My son and I went for a walk.  Not a long one, but a nice one.  A calming one.

Then we drove home and I made the arrangements.  The next day my husband and I drove to the shore and took care of some things.  We actually had a sort of nice 4th of July.  And life went on.  Without my dad.  Without my mom.

A year went by.  Another July 4th spent at the Jersey Shore.  This time with my son and his girlfriend.  I knew it would be the last.  I didn't know we'd be so rushed after the 4th.  (The house went on the market on the 5th and people were practically knocking on the door as the sun rose.)  

This year there will be no 4th of July at the shore.  And while that has happened in the past (I know we spent 4th of July in 2020 in the Poconos at Skytop...just 6 or so mile from where I sit now), this will be the first July that I won't be at the Jersey shore since...well maybe 1972.  (That was the first year we rented a house there, a tradition which continued until my mother purchased her house in 1995.)  And that's going to be weird.  

Yes, I could drive myself down.  I know people down there.  I could probably spend a day.  I want to, but I don't.  I don't want to see what's there and what's gone.  Driving on the barrier island would be too uncomfortable.

I could go to a different place at the shore.  I could go to Cape May, Atlantic City or Asbury Park.  But I don't "feel" that.

As we enter July I'm not just mourning the loss of my parents (and to some extent my brother who died on June 2, 2012), I'm mourning the loss of the house, but more importantly what it meant.  What it represented to me.  A place where my family spent summers (or parts of it) for decades.  The place where I got married.  The place...period.

Here I am again.  Moving into another July.  Moving into another summer that will be like no other.  (Of course if I think about it, summers have been like no other since 2022.)  Summer will be different this year.  (Summer HAS been different this year even if we've just moved into it.)  Summer will be what it will be.

I expect that there will be fun. I expect that there will be disappointment.  I expect that there will be sadness.  I expect that there will be joy.  I expect that there will be lots of unexpected.  Because there always is.  There always is.