I had to call Andrea to cancel my nail appointment. “My daughter, Gina, died over the weekend and we are burying her Wednesday.” Andrea was just the next in a long line of people who needed to be told. Starting with my older daughter, my husband, my parents … each person told two people, and they told two people and someone got on the internet and soon everyone who needed to know knew.
I have been getting my nails done every other Wednesday for a long, long time. Andrea is not just my manicurist. She is my friend and sometimes she is my therapist.
So now each manicure reminds me of how many manicures, ten, since I buried my youngest daughter. It reminds me of how many Fridays since I watered my plant, cleaned off my desk and went home for a weekend that would define the remainder of my life.
How many Sundays since I drove to Gina’s house after not being able to reach here by phone and turned the corner to see an ambulance parked in front. Since I was met at the bottom of the steps by a paramedic who was the first in a long line of people who were “sorry for my loss.”
How many Monday’s since we sat in the office of the funeral home, picking out flowers and caskets and going over price lists.
As time goes on, I know that it will be measured in how many anniversaries since we sat across from each other trying to celebrate without acknowledging the shadow that had accompanied us to the restaurant. How many Christmases since I couldn’t bear to hang up everyone’s stocking but hers. How many birthdays, how many … whatever.
This week Andrea called to change my appointment to Tuesday. Maybe it’s a good idea to go on Tuesday. And to think about something else on Wednesday.