Anniversaries still hit hard

It was recently my birthday; my fourth since Tommy died. It hit me like a tonne of bricks. Maybe I should have expected it, but I didn’t. For some reason, I thought this year might land differently. Perhaps I’d be able to enjoy brunch with my family and get through the day without crying. Neither of those things happened.

The year Tommy died, every day was a struggle. My birthday was subsumed into that dark hole, along with every other waking moment. The year after, we had started fertility treatment, and I turned 35. It didn’t feel like something to celebrate; I was suddenly facing IVF as my odds entered a geriatric age bracket. The years since have been a blur. For some reason, I expected my grief to have relinquished its grip on my birthday by now. Maybe it will, one day. But this year was not the day.

There are some anniversaries we might expect to sting. Maybe our social network will understand if we find the first Christmas hard. They might reach out to us on Mother’s or Father’s Day. But once the firsts are done, it is as though the orbit of our world is expected to rotate again. But it doesn’t. There will always be an empty high chair. And our heartbreak is not limited to those obvious hallmark occasions.

We each carry the weight of different anniversaries. Perhaps it is a particular month, a change of season, or a due date. Maybe it is a day we would usually celebrate as a family, or one on which we might be expected to celebrate ourselves.

There are days I have learned are predictably hard for me. The weeks before Tommy’s birthday are usually heavier than the day itself. I pause when I hear a particular song, when I notice we have entered the month of May, or when I see the first blooms of a jacaranda. My grief usually joins us on holiday, like an old friend who has sneaked into my suitcase. And sometimes, in the quiet mundanity of life, there are unexpected moments when grief hits me hardest.

Anniversaries and milestones still sting, and probably always will.

So, what will I do next year? In some ways, probably the same as I have always done. Allow my grief to come and go, let my tears flow freely, and acknowledge my sadness. I will lean into the rituals we have created as a family: burning his candle, sitting with him in our garden, and holding him in mind as the stars come out.

Will I be more prepared for my birthday next year? Maybe. Will it still sting? Probably. And would I want it to be any different?

Not at all.

For the sting is part of my love, and I will cherish him forever.

Tommy's Mum x