A World Without Annie: Year 2

The Gerber Daisies I bought for her last summer are blooming today.

I know. I can’t believe I wrote that either.

Grief is funny in regard to how it messes with time. I’m pretty sure I’ve written about it before, but I can’t recall exactly when because grief messes with memory, too. For instance, I was recently talking with someone on writing about grief, but I can’t remember who it was or in what context. It was something about writing as a way to process grief and that, as a writer, I knew the day I wrote the first essay about Annie’s death, that I would write about it again a year later. In a writer’s brain, a lot of thoughts show up in the form of ideas for something I want to write about. I didn’t know I’d write about this anniversary, though.

Living a grieving life means having to keep track of all kinds of triggers and anniversaries. (Or “Annie-versaries” as my brother calls them.) The day she died was a Tuesday, but the date was April 2^nd. It was two days after Easter, which was March 31^st that year, but Easter is a moveable feast, so it won’t always be two days before she died. The date will always be April 2^nd (4-2-24 for the numerologists) but the day will move around like Easter does. Last year I posted about the “first year anniversary” on a Tuesday, but the date was April 1^st. April Fool’s Day (which would have been too much if that had been the day she died.)

See? Managing all of this is a lot. It’s like Annie once said about cancer, it’s mostly admin. Grief is a lot of admin, too.

I wasn’t sure how I was going to live this day, this 730^th day since Annie was taken from this world. The previous two weeks were busy—spending time with family in an entirely different part of the country, Arizona. Being in a dramatically different environment, especially if you’re with family, can be a natural buffer for grief’s triggers. The weather was hotter, sunnier. The daily routines followed a new pattern of activity and responsibility. When we returned home to Connecticut, I was busy—and distracted—by preparing for a conference and a colonoscopy (but in the reverse order). The annieversary was looming, but only like something you think you see out of the corner of your eye. Nothing blocking my vision.

The conference was great, more than great actually. I presented two writing workshops on how to write hard things and I talked about Annie in both sessions. I felt that she had accompanied me more as a colleague than a lost daughter and I chatted with her frequently about how I always had wanted her to come to this writing conference with me one day. In a way, she did.

Back home again, the once-peripheral trigger slowly showed up right in front of my face. After my brief absences, I got ready to resume classes and pick up where I left off watching Luca when his dad was working out of town. Both are responsibilities I’m grateful for, but they dovetailed with this “day.” And what kind of “day” would it be? The kind where I plaster a smile on my face and keep moving or the kind when talking to another human makes me wish the floor would open up and allow me a getaway. On those days, loss can show up heavy; grief feels like a disease I need to quarantine with and I never know which kind of grief it will be.

On those days, it can be grueling to hear from people who know it’s a “day” and want to offer support and care, but say things that make me fall apart a little inside. Like, “I can’t believe you went to work!” Well, I can’t believe it either, but what else should I have done? Curl up in a ball under the soft blue throw blanket Annie gave me after my lumpectomy and cry all day? It’s an option, sure, but I was dressed so I figured why waste a shower and an outfit? Maybe it’s just me, but some comments make me feel judged about the way I’m dealing with my grief day, as if I’m doing it wrong. Why aren’t I a mess? Shouldn’t I be a little sadder? How come I’m so together when I should be a wreck? There are days when, in addition to the pain and the hole in my heart and the absence of my North star, anger seeps in and I get defensive about having to manage this grief, this process on my own. Like, how long will I grieve? I don’t know—forever? Will I ever take down her shrine? Probably not. Do I sound kind of defensive? Angry? Yeah, what about it?

It’s staying.

I guess what is on my mind, this third fucking 2^nd day of April is that grief is difficult. Forget the actual process of it, but the way it insinuates itself in and out of my brain, peeks out from kitchen drawers or the back of a closet is derailing. Or when it shows up as a beaming smile in a photo or a hummingbird at the feeder, it renders me wobbly.

So, I will continue to write about it, her, me, us because maybe I can keep her memory alive if I couldn’t actually keep her alive. I don’t blame myself, but I had one job. Have a kid, keep her alive. I will write about Annie so people will remember her name, her face—that beautiful, kind face—her good deeds. I will write about her on annieversaries and random Fridays and talk about her kindness and her bravery so people will always remember her.

Because God knows I will.

Buy me a coffee! (I’m okay with a glass of wine, too!)