First Day

The day before the first day of first grade was one of those days that felt like a small adventure. Mom, Grammie, and I were out shopping, searching for the perfect birthday gift for Dad. The stores bustled with people, and the air was filled with the smell of popcorn and pretzels from the food court. Mom started to get a headache, but we weren’t sure if it was because she was hangry or wanted a cigarette. We decided to head home, hoping a little rest would do her good.

Later that evening, as I lay in bed cuddling Bugs (my stuffed bunny that nowhere near resembled Bugs Bunny), I could hear Dad on the phone. His voice sounded worried, and soon the neighbors arrived to look after me while he took Mom to the hospital. The lackluster ER physician, who would later turn out to not have a license, sent her home with admonishment. “You’re under too much stress and smoke too much. Take two aspirin and get some rest,” he had said dismissively.

The next morning was supposed to be exciting. It was the FIRST DAY OF FIRST GRADE. My uniform for parochial school was neatly laid out, and my books were ready. I felt a flutter of anticipation, imagining all the new friends I would make and the adventures that awaited me. But something was off. Mom didn’t get up to make me breakfast or serve me coffee, well, milk with a few drops of coffee in my melamine Looney Tunes cup. Instead, Dad did everything and dropped me off at school. I don’t even think we took a picture. It was 1983, and there were no smartphones, so who stops to whip out the 35mm camera for a quick shot?

The day at school went by in a blur. The excitement I had felt was overshadowed by a sense of unease. I kept glancing at the clock, waiting for the hands to move faster, eager for the moment I would rush out and tell Mom about my day. But 3:00 pm came and went. I stood outside on the front apron of the school, waiting. And waiting. The sun was shining so brightly, casting long shadows across the expansive parking lot between the school and the church building. Antsy teachers checked their watches and squinted in the bright sunlight, their faces growing more concerned by the minute.

And then I saw them. Walking all the way from the parish. What? Grammie is here? That’s weird. As they got closer, their faces were puffy and contorted, and Grammie was stuffing wads of tissues into the pocket of her long-flowing burnt orange maxi. My heart sank. Something was wrong.

They reached me, and I stared up, squinting myself. Why is the sun so bright today? Dad bent down; his face etched with pain. I am not sure I heard any words, just the muffled sounds that the Charlie Brown teacher would make. I blinked. I nodded. I blinked again. I squinted up at Grammie. Mrs. Romano, my teacher, reached over and hugged both, patting me on the head. “It’s okay, Janie,” she said softly. “We’ll see you in a few days.”

The walk back to the car was silent, except for the occasional sniffle from Grammie. I climbed into the backseat of the VW beetle and propped my elbows up on either side of the leather deats. I didn’t understand. We were going to get home, mom would be waiting on the porch, I would have a snack and I would tell them all about the day. I would explain the cubby system and how since I was taller for my age, I got the one on top and how we have different activities every day of the week – and computer lab and music class and art.

The road moved eerily slow beneath the Volkswagen. I just didn’t get it. And then… perhaps whispered to by the angel herself, I smiled, leaned in closer and looked left and right at Dad and Grammie and simply said, confidently and very assuredly, “It’s okay Daddy. We can get a new mommy.” I was only 6 and had no understanding of the greater world at large or the gaping hole that now existed. But, I did have the childlike faith that would carry me through this haze.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, the void left by Mom's absence grew more profound. Dad did his best to fill the gaps, but there were moments when his strength faltered, and the weight of grief bore down on us both.

The first Christmas without Mom was the hardest. The tree stood tall and sparkling, but her laughter, which once filled the room with joy, was conspicuously absent. I clung to Bugs, seeking solace in my childhood memories, as the world around me felt foreign and cold.

Over the years, I learned to navigate the complexities of loss and sorrow. I found solace in my studies, excelling in school and immersing myself in activities that kept my mind occupied.

But healing is not a linear journey. There were days when the pain resurfaced, raw and unrelenting. Special occasions, like birthdays and graduations, were bittersweet, marked by the glaring absence of the person who should have been there to celebrate with us.

It wasn’t until I became a parent myself that I began to comprehend the depth of my loss and the resilience it had forged within me. Holding my daughter for the first time, I felt a renewed sense of purpose and understanding. The love and faith that had carried me through my darkest days were now the foundation upon which I would raise her.

They say that time heals all wounds. I think they lie.

It would take nearly 30 years for me to understand God’s divine plan in that moment. To lose so much so young. Perhaps, this was the only way that I could confidently and assuredly raise my own independent, witty and faith-filled daughter now 17 and on the verge of being a woman herself. And I have never missed a First Day of School.