Dead Easter Bunny

My earliest memory of how addiction impacted my life happened to be on Easter morning.  My mom was typically great with holidays.  She played along with the Santa thing, but Easter was my favorite.  We would wake up with evidence of the Easter Bunny all over the house: jelly bean trails, colorful eggs, and sweet chocolate surprises.  My sister and I would race to find the eggs, often getting very competitive.  We always had new beautiful Easter dresses to wear and our hair would be in curls.  I can remember the beautiful bright sunlight on these mornings, a sign that spring was in the air.

Then it all changed one Easter morning.  My sister and I, as usual, woke up bright-eyed and bushy tailed ready to find some eggs.  We quietly walked out to the living room to see just what the dear bunny had left behind.  Nothing, absolutely nothing...we were in shock.  Naturally, at that point, we ran into my mom's room screaming "Mom, the Easter Bunny didn't come!"

With groggy eyes, Mom rolled over and mumbled, "The Easter Bunny died."

We couldn't believe our ears.  He died, what?  We were way too young to understand her adult problems and had no clue what drinking could do to a person.  All we knew was that Easter would never be the same.

It took years for us to connect the dots and realize what had really happened.  We knew she had forgotten, but just couldn't understand why, especially because other kids' Easter Bunny hadn't died. That afternoon we went over to our grandparents house where the Easter Bunny had clearly not died.  We were elated, but devastated all in the same moment.  We had no idea of what was to come with our mother's addiction.  We had no way of knowing that one day we would be at her bedside, trying to prepare to let her go.  And for me, it all started with the Easter Bunny.