Easter Day, No Church, a lot of loss-- and it is hard.

April 12th is here again, and for the first time in 22 years, it is on Easter Sunday. Of all the Easters in the past two decades, I really wish I were spending this one with my siblings. You see, my Mom died on Easter Sunday, April 12, 1998.

Thanks to covid-19, I am not spending this hard Easter day with my sibs, or with the tradition of going to church. This twinge of pain is particularly sharp because the last words my mother spoke to us in person as she was loaded into the ambulance were "Go to church."

And we did. That day, and nearly every Sunday thereafter throughout our school-age years. The wonderful people of Emmanuel Episcopal Church are truly family, and they helped to raise us and give us any of the extra love that might be missing without our Mom there.

My general church attendance dropped off through college-- although I did go every Sunday during the summer when I was home and could go to Emmanuel. In the years since, and moving away from Fauquier, I never found a church that I really wanted to attend regularly; but I always, always went to church on Easter. It is exceptionally hard to not do it today.

But, above all else Kelly, Beau, and I know how to do hard. We've had more than our fair share of hard. This time last year we had spent so much of our year in grief and mourning, that I couldn't imagine anything harder. Within that year we lost 4 important members of our family. When you lose one person, that loss is brought up every time you experience a new loss-- so losing Mom became present repeatedly that year-- and their losses are present today. Loss compounds loss. And we have experienced so much loss.

In that crazy year, first we lost Jim Wiley who, with Lynn, supported my sibs and I in so many ways after my mom died. Jim and Lynn cared for us as an extra set of parents and did things like letting us stay at their house on sick days when no one was at our house. They took us on college visits; and, importantly, Jim got to know my friends as I brought them over to hang out at their house almost like it was my own! I guarantee he could tell you every one of my friend's hometowns. He knew because he asked, and because he cared.

A few weeks later, we lost my godmother Nancy. Nancy and her husband Nick also were an extra set of parents. Nancy took on the mothering role that my Mom had requested she fill with gusto. She took me clothes shopping, and back-to-school shopping, and was the first person I called at every crisis or success. Nancy always had a lot of advice and opinions on what I should do-- she really was a second Mom in that way. Nancy helped me with every important decision in my life, and nagged me (with all kinds of love) about all the small things that I needed to do, too. She taught me how to cook an impressive dinner, and the importance of good cookware. She did such a great job in her role that losing her was, in some ways, like losing my Mom again. It was hard. Again.

But nothing could be harder than what happened next. While we were expecting the joy of a new baby nephew to lift us from the fog of loss; instead, we lost him a few short hours after he was born. We felt loss at an exponential level. There are no words that capture the pain of losing the joy, anticipation, and hope that comes with a new baby. The grief and loss of my nephew Jude, sent us all to new depths. "Hard" barely describes it, but hard it was--and is.

And then, a few months later, we lost my maternal grandfather, Ken Digwood--my Bumpa. Bumpa was 92 and had lived a full life. He was an incredibly loving grandfather. I am so grateful for all of the time that I got to spend with him, much of it was when my Mom was sick or right after she passed away. I am grateful for his patient and quiet demeanor as he walked with me to the library, or we embarked on some kind of DIY project. I am forever grateful that Chris got to meet him in our last trip to Australia. While Bumpa's memory may not have been what it once was, his personality was still there. He still hummed and whistled while we walked. He still made silly comments about his environment, and his wit was fully present. When I asked "Where are we going?" he replied "We are with Jill and Trevor, anything can happen!" and it made me laugh. Chris asked about the ship he was on during the war, and Bumpa described it with delight. That moment of connection will live in my heart forever. I am grateful for our time together, but it is hard that little Kenny never met his namesake.

And then, a few short months later-- I began experiencing a new kind of loss-- the loss of health. This is actually the loss that started it all. My mom had lung cancer (no, she didn't smoke). She was first diagnosed when I was in 6th grade, and she passed away when I was in 7th. I was 12, my sister was 16, and my brother was 10.

She was 39 when she died. I am 34 right now. The parallels creep in to my brain and I try to keep them out. I actively remind myself how different things are now than they were 22 years ago. When I got sick 5 years ago, I worked hard to change the narrative of what happens to young women who get sick. I worked to remember that my body is different from my Mom's body. Things can end well for me. It is just hard to do this cognitive work.

I feel like the two lessons I am learning over and over are: YES, it can get even harder. And, YES, you will be ok.

No one ever needs to tell me that life is unfair. I know. Life is unfair, and it is hard. But, as I have learned over and over and over again. It might be hard-- and it might even get harder, but in the end you will make it through, and you will be ok. You might be bruised, tired, and even a little bitter-- but you will be ok.

So, today, it will be hard. I will miss my Mom-- a lot. And I will miss all the other people who I've lost as well. Many of whom had big roles in my life that were made more important by losing my Mom. I will have this gaping hole in my heart that will never be filled, but I will also have the love of everyone in my life right now-- and that does wonders to ease those sore spots. I am forever lucky to have so many wonderful people work to make this hard life a little easier on me. Thank you for the role you play in that.

Life is hard, but I am lucky to have so much love.


Robin Digwood LeTard, 39, of Marshall died on Easter Sunday, April 12, 1998, after a long illness.

Mrs. LeTard was born in Perth, Western Australia, on June 19, 1958, the daughter of Shirley and Ken Digwood, a doctor and his wife, and the third of their four children. She attended the University of Western Australia and came to the United States in 1979 when she was 21.

She married Brian LeTard of Covington, La., with whom she had three children. The family moved to the Delaplane-Marshall area in 1986. The marriage ended in divorce in 1992.

Mrs. LeTard was active in the community as a member of the board of the Marshall Business and Residents Association, and as a supporter of the preservation of No. 18 Schoolhouse near Marshall, now the site of the Master Gardeners program and constructed wetlands. Most recently she was one of the organizers of the purchase for preservation of the Old Stone Academy, the oldest building in Marshall, built in 1771 as the first Baptist Church in Virginia.

She was active in the parent-teachers association of Wakefield School in The Plains, and she worked as the property manager for George Thompson in Marshall. Mrs. LeTard was a devoted churchwoman and a member of Emmanuel Episcopal Church in Delaplane, where she sang in the choir and served as lector and chalice bearer.

She is survived by two daughters, Kelly and Mandy LeTard, and a son, Beau LeTard; her good friend Jim O'Neill of Warrenton; her parents, Shirley and Ken Digwood of Perth, Western Australia; two sisters, Kathy Digwood and Jill Drinkwater, and a brother, Ian Digwood, all of Western Australia.