As we approach Yom Kippur I have been dreading lighting my first yahrzeit candle for Jaidon. For the last nine years I have cried my way through this tradition for my dad, but this year doing it for Jaidon was a whole new level of holy-fucking-shit for me.
Tonight the five of us stood around the table surrounding this soul sucking candle. We lit it together and recited the mourners Kaddish together. Usually it is just me saying it, which I do nightly without fail in a desperate attempt to find solace, occasionally joined by a daughter who happens to be in the room with me while I am doing so and will join.
I don’t actually find peace in saying this nightly prayer. In fact I find it incredibly heart wrenching. I don’t find peace in hearing his name spoken weekly at services. It brings me to my knees every time. I don’t find peace in visiting the cemetery, it makes me feel empty and hollow and hopeless. All of which I do regularly. I can’t seem to find peace anywhere, no matter how hard I search. My soul just feels lost.
Yom Kippur reminds me to try and focus on all of the amazing people in my life who have stepped up to help us to get through this horrifically awful year. Complete with house disasters, sickness, covid quarantines, ER visits, hospitalizations, treatments, and the unexpected death of a child. I try hard to be thankful for all of the amazing support we have received through all of this because it has been crucial to our survival, however I find myself unable to pull my head past the reasons behind requiring such intense levels of support long enough to actually express that thankfulness. Just know if you have reached out to support us in any way I am forever grateful.
For the next 24 hours I will sit in services, cry endlessly, evaluate every aspect of what my life has become and endure memorial services while watching this devastating candle evaporate just like Jaidon did 14 weeks ago today.