6 months today
It's 6 months today since Joe died and I've been thinking about the passing of time quite a lot in these last few days It seems to be a given that those 'first anniversaries': the first week, the first month, the first birthday, the first Christmas and so on are going to be particularly difficult. For me, that isn't the case. That it is 6 months today since Joe died doesn't mean I feel any worse today than I did yesterday. Or that our family miss him more than we did last week. That's not to say I don't realise and acknowledge that for others dates are important and they do create anxiety and more outpourings of grief, it's just that the date itself isn't significant for me.
Whilst I don't normally speak for Anna when I am writing this I am aware that for her it is the passing of time itself that focusses her grief and creates what she calls 'grief attacks'. By that she means those moments when the numbness seems to lift for a short time and overwhelming grief washes over her. For both of us each day brings its own challenges. Some days we feel anaesthetised and get through reasonably well. Other days it feels like a tidal wave of emotion threatens to break through at any time. There isn't a linear progression to feeling better it has its ebbs and flows. For Anna these grief attacks are more likely to occur at the beginning of every month. Because this is the time that reminds her that it's one more month without him.
I have often thought that it is the small things that trigger outbreaks of grief. When my grandfather died I was distraught at seeing his pyjamas hanging on the washing line; I recall sitting down abruptly and being gripped by great heaving snotty sobs at the thought that he wouldn't ever wear them again. When my brother's friend died in a motorcycle accident what upset me the most was being told that the two pork pies his mum had given him were squashed in his pocket. It sounds ridiculous to say that but all I could think was that this was a son who would never eat his mum's food again and she would never be able to feed him again. There is something visceral about the need to feed your children and that he never got the chance to eat his mum's gift was an unbearable thought.
Anna will tell you that it is often the small things we don't do or experience anymore that trigger her grief attacks.When we go shopping now there is a list of things we rarely buy because Joe isn't here. The big white loaf for the stacks of toast he used to make, the staple diet of teenagers; the foul smelling barbecue sauce that he would put on everything, barring cereal; We now rarely buy bagels, bread buns, croissants, great big pepperoni pizzas - Joe was a bread fan. We used to say that if you cut him he would bleed carbs.
We don't hear the nightly twitter talk and the loud guffaws of laughter as he spent the evening on various social media sites. He doesn't come swinging down the stairs shouting 'hi guys' as they all turn up for the weekly meal or the birthday get-togethers. We don't hear the foul and incredibly rude language that was a daily feature of the banter between Robbie and Joe. He isn't running around the house in his underwear to the tune of me shouting 'will you put something on' or spending half an hour in the shower every morning whilst we all shout that we are going to be late for work. There is no smell of Joe about the house. It is this lack, this absence, this 'not doing' that punctuates our daily life. Anniversaries don't make our grief different but the passing of time reminds us sharply of his absence.
Whilst I don't normally speak for Anna when I am writing this I am aware that for her it is the passing of time itself that focusses her grief and creates what she calls 'grief attacks'. By that she means those moments when the numbness seems to lift for a short time and overwhelming grief washes over her. For both of us each day brings its own challenges. Some days we feel anaesthetised and get through reasonably well. Other days it feels like a tidal wave of emotion threatens to break through at any time. There isn't a linear progression to feeling better it has its ebbs and flows. For Anna these grief attacks are more likely to occur at the beginning of every month. Because this is the time that reminds her that it's one more month without him.
I have often thought that it is the small things that trigger outbreaks of grief. When my grandfather died I was distraught at seeing his pyjamas hanging on the washing line; I recall sitting down abruptly and being gripped by great heaving snotty sobs at the thought that he wouldn't ever wear them again. When my brother's friend died in a motorcycle accident what upset me the most was being told that the two pork pies his mum had given him were squashed in his pocket. It sounds ridiculous to say that but all I could think was that this was a son who would never eat his mum's food again and she would never be able to feed him again. There is something visceral about the need to feed your children and that he never got the chance to eat his mum's gift was an unbearable thought.
Anna will tell you that it is often the small things we don't do or experience anymore that trigger her grief attacks.When we go shopping now there is a list of things we rarely buy because Joe isn't here. The big white loaf for the stacks of toast he used to make, the staple diet of teenagers; the foul smelling barbecue sauce that he would put on everything, barring cereal; We now rarely buy bagels, bread buns, croissants, great big pepperoni pizzas - Joe was a bread fan. We used to say that if you cut him he would bleed carbs.
We don't hear the nightly twitter talk and the loud guffaws of laughter as he spent the evening on various social media sites. He doesn't come swinging down the stairs shouting 'hi guys' as they all turn up for the weekly meal or the birthday get-togethers. We don't hear the foul and incredibly rude language that was a daily feature of the banter between Robbie and Joe. He isn't running around the house in his underwear to the tune of me shouting 'will you put something on' or spending half an hour in the shower every morning whilst we all shout that we are going to be late for work. There is no smell of Joe about the house. It is this lack, this absence, this 'not doing' that punctuates our daily life. Anniversaries don't make our grief different but the passing of time reminds us sharply of his absence.
Comments
Post a Comment