By now I should know that these anniversaries never go the way I want them to. After all, at their core, they are blatant reminders of how little control I have over my own life. But when it comes to grief, there is just no way to know which memory, realization, or well-meaning comment is going to sucker punch you and leave you gasping for air.

I really thought the baseball game Saturday morning would be great. That it was a nice and simple way to allow a little life back into a day that up until now I have held sacred (the anniversary of Adelaide’s death). Aside from the standard morning chaos of getting everyone out the door with everything they needed for the game, we were off to a good start.

The Cervantes family was rolling deep. My parents were in town for the death day/birthday festivities and my best friend from Chicago, Jenny, had surprised me by flying in for the day. We were going to cheer Jackson on and make the most of the day.

Then I sat down on the bleachers and looked around at the other families in attendance and it hit me. None of them knew. Not only did they not know what the day was, but some of them didn’t even know that Adelaide existed.

And why would they?

It wasn’t like I was going to make an announcement in the team chat about the anniversary of my daughter’s death. So, unless we’d had more in-depth conversations beyond how our twelve-year-old boys were still incapable of getting themselves ready for their games, or they read my blog, there was no way they would know.

A few of the mom’s I am closer with and have shared about Adelaide, but none of them ever met her. And they certainly wouldn’t know the significance of the date and the extra weight we carried with us that day, in addition to the water bottles, equipment bag, and Anessa’s backpack filled with coloring books, dolls, and snacks.

So, if I wasn’t upset that they didn’t know and I was giving myself a pass for not telling them, why was I so upset?

And then looking between my family and the rest of the team families it became clear: enough time had gone by, five years, that our life and the people we spend it with are far enough removed from our life with Adelaide that in certain pockets she ceases to exist. This reality was inevitable the moment Miguel accepted the role of Hamilton on Broadway, and we moved from Chicago back to the East coast. It is no one’s fault, and in many ways, it could even be considered healthy. But you know what else is healthy? All Bran cereal and it tastes like cardboard.

In contrast, on Sunday, the very next day, we hosted over thirty friends and family in our backyard for Adelaide’s birthday party. Now, in the future, I will not be hosting the birthday party the day after death day since my hangover, both emotional and from excessive alcohol consumption the night before, provided a rough start to the morning. Thankfully, that didn’t stop me from accepting and appreciating the love and support surrounding us.

Many of the guests had known Adelaide and were missing her right alongside us. But plenty were more recent friends. They chose to celebrate the life of a little girl they never got to meet because they know and love our family now. 

This is what I tried to remind myself as the weekend’s exhausting and emotional festivities came to a close. Yes, there are so many more people in our daily and weekly lives that are unaware of our fifth family member (or sixth for that matter, Elvis). But we are also lifted up, across the country and even the world, by people who knew Adelaide, or simply knew of her, and who love and will continue to support our family.

It doesn’t make my experience at the baseball game less shitty, but maybe it makes it a bit more digestible. Kind of like how my mom eats her All Bran with Greek yogurt and blueberries.

I guess I just wanted to be honest, that even though I have created traditions, and done the healing work, and written a freaking book about it all, that these days still suck. They still knock you out in ways you don’t see coming. There is no right or wrong way to get through them, except to simply survive.  

Thank you all for holding our family close this past week and for helping us to keep Adelaide’s memory alive. It truly means more than you will ever know.

Image Description: A sunflower amongst a field of sunflowers with one small ladybug on it.