I woke up feeling off. My stomach churned, my head felt foggy, my back hurt.
I lay in bed, testing various body parts, trying to determine the culprit. I had helped a friend move the day before – had I overexerted myself? We’d had a few drinks to celebrate — was I hung over? Could it be food poisoning? Had I gotten too close to that coughing kid on the subway?
It wasn’t until I plunked down at my computer that I figured it out. It was June 2, the anniversary of my dad’s cancer diagnosis.
Even if I don’t consciously remember, my body knows this date. Every year, around this time, I begin to ache all over. And every year, it takes a while for my mind to catch up. And even when it does I think, that can’t be it, can it? But my body answers: oh yes, it can. I have a long memory, it says. I remember everything, even the things you’d rather forget.
One might think that the anniversary of my dad’s death, September 4, would be worse, but it’s not. The date of his diagnosis is the beginning of the season of dying. The start of a cascade of memories that assert themselves with increasing insistence almost every day between June and September.
On June 2, 2006, I called my mom during my lunch break. I was supposed to have heard by then that the tests run on my dad had yielded nothing, or perhaps something only mildly serious, such as pneumonia. On my third attempt, my mom finally answered. “It’s not pneumonia,” she said. The doctor told us dad had anywhere from six months to two years to live. I can still feel — in my gut — the shock, disbelief, and devastation that followed, infiltrating my body like a sickness.
We have many emotional responses to trauma, from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder to flashbacks to sadness and depression. What I didn’t realize was that the body has its own responses, entirely separate from the emotional ones. Even after my brain is seemingly ready to let go, my body acts otherwise.
And so every year, like clockwork, on June 2, the ritual of physical remembrance begins anew.
Part of the ritual involves my brain working its way to the answer. For some reason, I never immediately understand what’s happening. Every time I figure it out, I’m surprised. Oh yeah, I think to myself, this again. I get frustrated. If only I remembered and anticipated my body’s response, then surely I could do something to prevent it. But between June and September, no matter how much I try to circumvent or hurry this process, whether I get a massage or acupuncture or attend yoga classes or soak in a hot tub, my body aches.
There are plenty of days I don’t think of my dad. There are plenty of days I’m happy, despite having believed for a long time that his death meant I’d never be happy again. Sometimes I feel guilty that I’m capable of experiencing joy without him. But every June my body silences that guilt, as though to promise my mind that I will never forget.
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