My grandfather died on Valentine’s Day in 2016. (He’d been diagnosed with cancer a year before, so we knew it was coming. But still.)
My uncle died on Easter in 2017. (This changed the entire dynamic of our family, and we have not celebrated a holiday as a family since. Four years later and this still breaks my heart.)
My father’s eyeball almost exploded about a week before Christmas in 2018. (Blood vessels behind his eye fused together, and his eye was getting too much blood at too much pressure, and it probably wouldn’t have really exploded, but when I asked a doctor they refused to say that was an impossible outcome. He’s fine now. But if he would have waited and gone to a hospital on Christmas Eve, he’d be dead. Because at this point I’m convinced that’s how it works.)
And not that my birthday is a holiday (no worries, I know I’m not that special), but my grandma died on my birthday in 2005. (I felt guilty for celebrating my birthday for years. My mom said I was crazy, but that doesn’t change the fact that my birthday is still remembered as “the day grandma died” for that side of the family. I have no hard feelings about it and the guilt is gone, but I still hate celebrating my birthday. It feels weird when anyone–with the exception of like, five people–acknowledges it at all.)
All this to say:
Today, my aunt experienced some complications from a procedure she had ten days ago. These complications included heavy bleeding, and she was pale and shaky and clammy, but she still had a five hour wait in the ER where the nurses were rude and dismissive. She’s actually still there, and part of me is getting more and more nervous.
Because nothing good happens on holidays. EVER.
Edit:
Aunt is going to be okay, but my original statement stands.
