Easter

Two years ago

April 2015 was rough. I was still reeling from the devastating disappointment of the decitabine failing, when David started a clinical trial of the experimental drug CPI-0610. Yeah, so experimental they hadn’t even given it a proper name. We spent the first day of the trial in the clinic for 8 hours: 4 EKGs and 8 blood draws.

CPI-0610 was so new the manufacturer was only making it in 25 mg pills, so David had to swallow 12 large capsules each morning.

On Sunday, April 26, we all went to dinner at the Bements. David played with little Eli; he was always very gentle and relaxed around young children. Eli loved him; they developed quite a rapport.

Easter 2017

What with our trip to Italy and getting ready for Patriots’ Day (we park between 40 and 60 cars on our acre lot, I bake six large breakfast casseroles, and we host a breakfast for all comers (usually between 100 and 150 people)), I didn’t take time to think much about Easter. The Easter program at church was lovely; I sang in the choir. Sixteen-year-old Bella, a young woman who moved here from Brazil with her family a year ago, gave a sweet talk.

The Friday after Easter, I happened upon a journal entry I wrote a year ago. At the time, I was in great pain. And then a well-meaning friend greeted me on Easter Sunday: “Oh, Mary, this must be the happiest Easter for you, knowing that David will be resurrected.” No, it wasn’t; it just plain hurt. Badly.

So this year, without planning it consciously, I let Easter slip away without much fanfare. I’m not in deep anguish, but I don’t feel like celebrating. I trust that next year I’ll have healed even more. For now, I’ll accept that the past two Easters has been hard holy days.