Grief anniversaries

This ‘coffee and croissant’ rating is for pieces that are meatier than a nibble, but not as rich as a main. A soup starter perhaps? It’s a piece to prompt some gentle thinking or give a subtle griefy insight. I think this is appropriate reading for any setting (e.g. in your coffee break at work or on the tube back home).

Normally, by about 4pm on the 15^th February, you’ll find me with a tummy full of croissants, a bouncy blow dry and a dewy gua-sha’d face. By 6pm, I’ll be sipping a glass of (Lidl’s finest) champagne, with manicured red nails and a pot of garlic and jalapeño stuffed olives. It’s my most expensive - and most beautiful - day of the year.

Despite the complete lack of language to describe a very momentous day (you’ll notice I call it the 15^th February and not theanniversaryofwhenmymumdied), there has never been any doubt about its significance. Particularly in the early years, when proximity to the day naturally gave it a bit of oomph. But suddenly last year - for the first time ever - I wondered about my oomph allowance. Because seven years sounded big. And that number would only get bigger. What should a 15-year anniversary oomph feel like!? What about a (nauseatingly huge) 50^th anniversary!? (P.s isn’t oomph is a lovely word).

I got into a tangle. Because while anniversaries mark time passing, grief isn’t something for which time can be so easily marked. At least not in the traditional sense.

Sometimes my grief very much feels the age of the time that has passed. Eight years mature. Known and steady. But then something happens (or nothing happens) and I’m transported back to the prickly rawness of the early years. Where the emotion was sticky and the first person I wanted to call was mum. Other times it feels like a dream. Something that could have happened years and years and years ago. This emotional time travel means we can’t just put a number in front of an anniversary and expect it to mean something. Herein lies the source of the tangle!

I have now divorced the number from the anniversary, and it’s been liberating. A relief! Because no matter how much time has passed, and no matter how I’m feeling, a sad thing happened on that day. I’ll forever be sad that a sad thing happened. The day is the day is the day is the day. Its oomph is infinite.

For this years 15^th February, I was in the Yorkshire dales with Henry. With no spas nearby, I wielded my 15^th day powers in other ways. The morning went a bit like ‘green tea please!!’ and then ‘Coffee and toast and jam now thank you!’ and then ‘can you get the papers for me please!!’ and then …'More coffee please!’ All Henry could do was sweetly oblige*.

*I had originally been planning to use my 15^th day powers to go to as many antique shops as I could - an activity that fills Henry with as much dread as it does me joy. Luckily for him, the village steam train was only running that weekend, so we were off to Bolton Abbey instead.

P.s While the day itself is treat filled and mostly wonderful - the days either side of it can be wobbly (and actually my least favourite day is the 16^th February when I have a sort of emotional hangover mixed with a childlike - and definitely misplaced - ‘oh the treat filled day is over for another year…’)