Today is my oldest son’s 7th birthday. He was born on January 23, 2002. The following day, January 24, 2002, was the ten year anniversary of my bus accident.

January 24th is - to quote Franklin D. Roosevelt - a day that will live in infamy. At least in the hearts of the lives affected. None of us on the bus that night will let this Saturday pass without thinking about that night, our teammates lost, and each other.

January 24th has meant different things to me over the years. The first year - the first anniversary - brought a dichotomy of sadness and joy. I was sad that there was an anniversary at all; I still wished the accident had not happened. But I was also joyful and celebrating the year that was ending: a year of five surgeries and a tremendous amount of pain. I had survived the worst year of my life; and I celebrated its end.

Over the following 9 or ten years, January 24th - and the week leading up to it - brought different emotions at different times. And I never knew what was coming. There were some years when this week was consumed with sadness and tears. And some years the 24th would come and go with honoring thoughts and memories, but with a more distant sadness. But then the tears would return the following year. I never knew what to expect. I only knew to be open to whatever I needed to feel that day, to heal.

Then, seven years ago this week, I was awaiting the birth of my first child. A child that was not known to be in my future. He was born not on the 24th, when he was due, but on the 23rd, thankfully. Finally.  Now the week leading up to the anniversary of our bus accident is filled with plans for a birthday party, deciding where to go for a birthday dinner, and what kind of cake to have. It is a happy time in our house. Something to look forward to, something to celebrate at the end of January.

What does that mean for tomorrow? I still don’t know. I never do. But I’ll let you know.