I had a meltdown two weeks ago—a real whopper of a meltdown as I put the finishing touches on a huge graduation cake I was asked to make for my Godson’s daughter.

I had been waiting for the proverbial “other shoe” to drop since the end of January. 

Five months of filling up with no place to dump the tears.  Fearful that once the faucet opened, there would be no closing it—not ever.

This is surely not the end of it; I own dozens of “other shoes” whose exact moment to drop is impossible to predict. 

I thought while I was decorating about how even though Bill’s graduation from high school between chemo treatments was indeed an above-average accomplishment, we did not have a party for our son.  Were we afraid to celebrate? Were we predicting his demise or a grim future by skipping this standard American rite of passage?  Why oh why did we deny him then, and ourselves now, of a pleasant memory?  My question to myself broke the levy and the tears gushed and hysteria reigned for 20 minutes.  My husband had just shut the water from showering and the sound of my wailing brought him directly and suddenly to the kitchen.  Alarmed and confused he demanded:  “What’s wrong?!”  I sobbed and accusingly posed the question to him.  With his simple and direct logic, he answered it immediately, pretending to ignore both my hysteria and his nakedness.   “He didn’t want one.  He did not want a party.  He didn’t want his picture taken for the yearbook and he did not want to be a yellow duck in the third grade. That was him!” 

Through the tears I realized that he was right, forcing any of those three things would have been for everyone’s benefit except Bill’s.

I continued to stand and rid the kitchen of the hours of baking and mess-making.  We needed to deliver this cake and attend the party as well.  Even before that, our daughter would be stopping by to see it finished.  I had to shape up.  I changed clothes and stretched out on my bed to regroup.  Just then the doorbell rang; Teresa was right on time.  I must open the front door and hope for the best.  Being her usual perceptive self, she said, “You look really tired, Mom.”  Yeah, that’s it—she gave me an out.  “I am tired, Honey—I’ve been working on this cake for hours.”

Lilly Kauffman is a non-fiction writer who was privileged to work as both librarian and teacher.  Her essays, whether serious or humorous, capture the experiences that allow us to laugh and grieve. Family and faith inform her writings. She is currently working on several book projects: A Mother Grieves in Ink, Ampersand, and Lil Letters.