More loss and grief on my third deathiversary

It’s been a week. That it would hammer at my heart, I expected. That there’d be love and random acts of kindness, that I expected as well. I have some of the most beautiful people in my life. But I didn’t expect the lessons I learned and, for me, the toughest act of kindness I’d be performing on one of the hardest days of my life.

I don’t purposefully make Aug. 10 sad. A deathiversary will do that on its own. I imagine it’s different for everyone and I also suspect that it’s different every year that passes. My Dad passed away 22 years ago and I no longer consciously mark the day but I feel something is off around the time he died. If that’s the case with My Favourite Husband (MFH), only time will tell. Right now, though, it’s recent past and I’m still navigating through it all.

I didn’t stop smiling or laughing this week but all of it was tempered. Muted. I didn’t recall the hard memories; they simply drifted in and out. Moments. This, being Year 3, meant some things hit differently. Coming across the last picture he sent me, from his dialysis unit; a blurred reflection of him in his TV set which he was grumpy about because it didn’t work. Receiving that picture and calling him — I rarely called him at dialysis — to ask about the picture and chat briefly. That I got to say “I love you” a last time. I found I was grateful for that opportunity this year. That a blurry picture instigated a phone call and a last “I love you.” Gratitude. The memory of going to the emergency department in the middle of the night, after the phone call that changed my life, and being surrounded by care and compassion. Gratitude. The outpouring of love and support from family and friends. So much gratitude. 

That he’s no longer here? Pain but more like a throbbing ache.

I try and believe that every tough, challenging situation has elements of good if you are willing to look for them, see them. Sometimes it takes time for those moments to shine but, when they do, it can help ease some of the pain. The love and kindness of friends and strangers, all the love I receive, is what I hope to return back. And so, in addition to the random acts of kindness I put out into the world, I try and put extra love out during times that are harder in memory of MFH. This is a example I’ve learned from two former work colleagues. Grieving loved ones doesn’t have to be silent or quiet. It can be remembering out loud. It can be inspiring a legacy of love to honour a life. This speaks to me. And, with that in mind, I asked for people to consider performing random acts of kindness in honour of MFH. The acts should be something meaningful to them and can be done at any time. Whatever love they wanted to put out into the world. 

In the days leading up to MFH's deathaversary, I put my own love out. Donated blood, bought coffees, contributed to charities. Some things hit differently than I thought. Donating blood around this time hits a sad note because I think of all of the blood transfusions — more than 100 — MFH received. This year, though, it wasn’t as hard as I focused on what giving blood means to someone in need. Dairy Queen's Miracle Treat Day, when the proceeds of every Blizzard ice cream treat are donated to local children’s hospitals, is a happy day but it hit the sad button hard. MFH and I always bought a treat to support and, this year, as I stood in line to order, I asked the elderly couple in front of me if I could  pay for them. Tears started streaming and, at first, they weren’t quite sure what to make of this woman in her ratty cutoffs, baggy tank top and dirty sneakers who was asking to pay. But a kind and gentle conversation later, they graciously agreed and, as I was walking out the door, “may God bless you” was a simple yet poignant benediction. 

Aug. 10 — the actual day — I was at work. I could have had the day off work but, since I didn’t ask for it, I was scheduled. You know how some things are meant to be? I was meant to be at work that day. 

The number of perennials in the greenhouse I work at are dwindling and so I was the only person scheduled to water. Watering is done before store opening and it’s the perfect time to ease into the day. Keenly aware of the date, I was also aware my sadness held a great amount of peace and strength. An odd combination, for sure, but one that I happily welcomed and feelings I’d need to draw on shortly. 

About two hours into my shift, as I worked beside one of my closest friends deadheading silene, one of the managers came up to us, eyes dripping tears. “He’s gone” were the words she uttered. And with those words, my own grief, my own processing of this day needed to be put to the side to help my friend and the rest of my work colleagues navigate fresh grief. As I navigated fresh grief. 

The gentleman in question was the manager of the annuals and tropicals department. He’d been fighting a battle with cancer and, yesterday, that battle was lost. He was respected by all of us for his knowledge of plants, pests and many other aspects of gardening. By for a few of us, myself included, he was respected for his sharp wit and dry sense of humour. Although he had recently been moved to hospice care and it was acknowledged that his passing would be soon, there is no preparation that can brace us for when the last line is written. 

The friend I was working with had known this man for almost 20 years. They had a special friendship and it was this bond that drew people to her to talk about what his life meant and the disbelief that it was over. As my beautiful friend supported others, I instinctively did my hardest random act of kindness — setting aside my grief, past and now present — to support her in hers. I buried my emotions deeply, pushed a lid on top and then a stone on top of that lid. The grief for MFH had settled, this new grief is fresh. I, too, would grieve this man but not for many hours. I needed to be strong for others as they were and are strong for me. 

Grief, though, wasn’t done knocking on the door for the day. About an hour after the news of the gentleman’s death, a member of our team called in distraught. He would not be coming to work.  His aunt was killed in a car accident, his cousin in critical care at the hospital. He was at a loss but would reach out if he needed anything. 

I would normally say it’s a lot to handle but those buried feelings remained buried. I did a lot of listening, a lot of hugging. What else can you do with grief so fresh, so raw? You let the words flow, the memories come. You just love.

The end of my work day was not the end of my day. I wanted to visit with MFH at his final resting place: his home at the top of a hill in a beautiful country cemetery. I stopped first for a black tea lemonade and made the drive. It was a beautiful day to ground myself by sitting on the earth, sip a beverage and say out loud words to him about things he already knows. I used to hate visiting cemeteries until a heart sister suggested visiting with a coffee and having a conversation instead of reflecting on memories. It works really well for me and yesterday it was exactly what I needed. 

After my visit I made my way home and sat. I was — and still am — exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally. I tried to pick one grief to focus on and so I picked MFH. I had received so many messages and texts from my friends, messages filled with things they did in MFH memory. So much love they put out into the world. So many lives they touched. I’m humbled by their generosity. It was the best way to end my day, knowing that his life mattered.

This morning I’m working through my fresh grief, the grief for a respected man, a friend. I’m letting memories gently wash over me, letting them make me smile and make me cry. And checking in on my beautiful friend and my wonderful boss, both of whom were very close to him. Ensuring they are supported.

 

This week has not been easy but as hard as it’s been, I wouldn’t trade a moment of it. Everything that’s happened has been surrounded by love: the love you give and the love you receive.