So I’ve been told that the anniversary of a death approaches slowly and steadily, loud, rumbling to a deafnening roar like a road train.

I can already feel the vibrations of it approaching. Making my stomach tighten further.

I find it strange that people want to mark the anniversary of a loved one’s death. I accept that people can and should do whatever brings them comfort and helps them to grieve, and that is a VERY personal thing. But, “that day”?

Why would I want to remember that day? The frantic dashes in taxis and running through airports. The smell and colour of iodine on skin. Beloved hair, shaved for sensors. Familiar, warm hands that won’t squeeze back. Lips that don’t kiss me back. Removing a wedding band from swollen fingers.

I don’t need anyone or anything to remind me of that day. I don’t think anyone who has expereinced a sudden, traumatic loss does. Images of it flash into my mind at any moment; unpredictable, random, unwanted. Like a flash of lightning. Accompanied by a thunderous punch in the belly and nausea.

Please:

– don’t call me because it’s “that day”

– don’t hug me harder or longer than usual because it’s “that day”

– don’t tell me you’re thinking of me because it’s “that day”

– don’t look at me with a pained expression and squeeze my hand because it’s “that day”.

I don’t need those things from you today.

I need them on every other normal, painful, mundane day when I crave his hugs and his voice and his laugh and his hand holding mine in bed as I fall asleep and, most of all, his energy.

On that day, I just want to be left alone. To get on with it as best I can, however I choose to spend it and however I can block out the thundering roar.

Please, honour him however you wish and in a way that brings you comfort.

I’ll be marking days that mean something to me and meant something to him; his birthday, our wedding  anniversary. His skydiving anniversary. The days that brought him joy.

 

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