I hate this time of year.
Not because of the basketball, which I used to love. But because of the memories I have associated with the end of March. George Mason was playing Wichita State the Friday night before we found out there was a problem. George Mason was playing UConn the day after we found out something wasn't right. George Mason lost to Florida, the day we said goodbye.
I can't hear them talk about the brackets without a lump coming to my throat. I hate that this time of year has been ruined for me. It should be fun and light-hearted I can't help it.
It has been five years. FIVE years. For the most part it is an old pain, but this time of year the pain becomes raw, almost new again.
I can't remember where I read it, but the pain of losing a child is like a cut. Eventually a scab heals over the cut, but then something happens and the cut re-opens and bleeds like it is a fresh wound. Even if the cut heals you are left with a scar, even if it doesn't hurt, you will never forget that pain.