The Day the Music Died

A long, long time ago
I can still remember how that music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they'd be happy for a while

But February made me shiver
With every paper I'd deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn't take one more step

I can't remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died
-Don McLean-

It wasn’t February.  In fact, it was far from it.  The summer was coming to a quick close; it was still blazing hot outside and the grass was scorched amber and a persistent dust layer clouded every outdoor surface.  Everyone was still in post-pandemic mode cursing the drought and new neighborhoods that were drying up precious natural resources.  It was a time of continued insecurity in our country and in ourselves.  The kids were soon due back at school to face the dreaded new beginnings that plague each child.

My life was also facing new hurdles and challenges.  For a few years I had been secretly pedaling funds into a separate account, saving a nest egg for my pending escape.  The previous two years, I had been denied home loans by banks because I worked for myself and not W-2 despite having no debt and an excellent credit score.  I had been sleeping on my couch or in my kids’ beds for years playing “house.”  I worked endless jobs and hours to avoid coming home.  I missed so much of my kids’ lives because I was so miserable in my own skin.  My “husband” had refused to leave our family home for years leaving me trapped.  I was plagued by this history of post-partum depression and psychosis that almost ended my life and that of my son’s.  It was no secret that the both of us barely made it out alive and while I was alive, I certainly was not living. 

My threats to leave fell on deaf ears.  Honestly, I had no place to go and he knew that.  I had no support system.  I had no one I could talk to, except my mom and Aga and neither of them could help me get out of the mess I was in; plus, Aga was due to return to Poland in a few weeks.  Like so many times before, I found a place move-in ready and I thought I was finally stable enough mentally, emotionally, and financially to start a new life that I could be proud of and that my kids could flourish in.  Finally, I could show them that life is full of possibilities and opportunities and that marriage, more importantly love, is so much more than the awful example we had given them.  I once again mustered the courage to tell my ex that I was leaving the business arrangement we had been in for years; in his anger, he shouted at me that I would never get custody of the kids with my mental health history.  Honestly, I had never even considered how my post-partum depression and brief trip to the mental hospital could possibly affect how some judge may determine my ability to care for my children.  I had been beaten down for so long emotionally that while this thought terrified me, I was willing to take my chances.

I called my former in-laws and asked them to come get the kids as soon as possible that we were separating/divorcing with no chance of reconciliation and it was becoming less amicable; neither of us wanted the kids around while things were being sorted out.  Their dad and I collectively put on brave faces and drove them “as a team” half way to their grandparents’ and dropped them off, they never the wiser.  Then, we turned right back around and never spoke another word to each other.  I gently sobbed the entire 5 hours home.  I knew my kids were oblivious as to the life they would be returning to.  A life that to them would feel shattered over-night and a life of two of everything except a family.  Their family would be no more.  They would now have a mom and a dad, separately, never again together. 

Somewhere along the long car ride home I text my brother.  I asked him to come as soon as he could.  I told him I didn’t want my parents involved and I didn’t want anyone to ever feel like there were “sides” to be had.  My brother drove all night from Colorado just to sit along side me.  No deep conversations to be had and no words were necessary.  In the end, my ex was the one that left.  He found an Airbnb a few miles away and worked tirelessly over the next few days carting out anything he thought may have some sort of monetary value.  I didn’t care.  It was the first time in years I could take a deep breath. He could have anything he wanted if it meant my misery was finally over.

My mom got wind that my brother had come to town and asked if she and my dad could come have dinner with us the next day.  It was her 62nd birthday and somehow in all the madness, it had slipped my mind.  I knew it would be a 4 hour drive in and 4 hours back and they insisted on doing it all in one day.  I begged them to plan to stay the night, but they didn’t want any part of the madness that was my house and likely wanted to remain neutral, I’m sure.  It was best that way. My brother and I were set to meet my parents around 4:00 at a Brazilian steakhouse near my work.  However, the surgeon that day was taking her sweet time.  She arrived late and then had zero respect for turn over times.  We were already way past her scheduled end time.  I remember feeling annoyed and flustered that my parents were sitting at a restaurant waiting on my brother and me and this surgeon was laughing and telling jokes while the patient waited in the operating room.  Each minute, I was getting angrier and angrier.  I sent my mom a text letting her know I’d be late and in her typical fashion, she replied “No problem! We will be there awhile.”

My brother met me at my work and I drove us to the restaurant.  We were the only patrons there.  Not one of us mentioned the mess that was my life at the time.  We all laughed and talked and carried on like this was something we did every Wednesday, even though it was the first time in over a decade that I can remember it ever being just the four of us.  We sang “Happy Birthday” and then my mom insisted on taking a picture of just the four of us outside the restaurant before they left. 

A few years ago, my brother had bought all of us a “Storyworth” gift for Christmas.  Essentially, each week for 1 year, a question that he preselected would be sent to our email for us to answer.  The questions were meant to chronicle our life and stories.  It was a self-made autobiography of sorts complete with the ability to insert photos and free text.  My mom was the only one to actually embrace the gift and take it seriously.  Unbeknownst to me, she had finished it a few weeks/months prior but had been waiting for the perfect picture to put on the front of it.  After we snapped the photo of the four of us in front of the gray drabby restaurant door, my mom turned to my brother and said, “Now it’s done.  I finally have my cover picture.”  We all hugged and waved goodbye never once thinking it would be the very last time that the four of us would ever be together again.