Anniversaries, Birthdays, deathaversaries. When it comes to grief they suck; they just do. Seven years out from my daughter’s death here is what I have learned. They still suck and always will. But I don’t dread them as much as I used to. In fact, there is a part of me that appreciates the grief release I experience around these days. It reminds me that the grief is still there. It’s still a part of me.
This past Monday marked seven years without Adelaide. Seven is the age Jackson was when his sister died, and how old Anessa is currently. Adelaide was born on the SEVENteenth and this year her birthday falls on Saturday, the seventh day of the week. Across many religious traditions, seven is an important number and can symbolize growth, introspection, and completion. While in no way do I feel like my healing journey is complete, I do feel it perhaps moving into a new phase.
This time of year is an emotional crapshoot. At any given moment on any given day, I might cry or feel completely content, or need a nap. Add in my depleted estrogen from the breast cancer medication, and lemme tell ya, it is an adventure for me and everyone within earshot. Lately, as anniversaries are apt to do, I have found myself reflecting on these two distinct losses, and especially how my grief has changed over the years. Actually, I’ve been thinking about my grief A LOT.
It has been nearly 10 years since #MeToo dominated the news cycle. A decade since we addressed the role of power dynamics in SA. Serial assaulters were named and punished, major shifts occurred in workplace culture, and I know I felt like progress was being made. And it was. I’m just not sure we understood how much more work there was to do. As our social media feeds are once again filled with stories of sexual abuse here is what I hope we take away from it this time:
I am not typically one to engage in hypotheticals. What if Adelaide were still alive? What if Miguel had never been Hamilton? What if I had chosen X instead of Y? At best, they are a time suck, and at worst, they can launch me into a negative headspace.
We’re officially several weeks into the school year over here. The sweet porch photos with the chalkboard signs and uniform captions about how we can’t believe our kids are going into X grade are but a memory. Also a memory is my plan to set a workout schedule for myself and to do better about reading the two dozen emails coming from their schools each day.
I bring you the celebration of my boobaversary - or the one-year anniversary of my final breast reconstruction surgery post cancer. One year with these new boobs. And while I’m very thankful the cancer was evicted from my body, I hate that not a day goes by when I’m not reminded it was ever there. You would think I would have learned by now that grief can never be put behind us - and experiencing cancer, losing my breasts, feeling as if my body had betrayed me, is all a form of grief.
I first heard the ticking of the clock at Jackson’s 8th grade graduation. It was faint but noticeable. “Four. More. Years”, it whispered.The buzz of summer activities drowned out the ticking until two-weeks before school started when I took Jackson to freshman orientation. While we entered the cafeteria together, Jackson was quick to part from me and find his friends. I too found friends, though kept stealing looks behind me to where Jackson was bouncing around with a group of boys I knew well.
Allison Lefrak and I connected through Substack several months ago and after reading a few of her posts I knew I needed to share her words over here on Inchstones. I was thrilled when Allison agreed. Today I am honored to share her heartbreakingly beautiful essay about parenting a teen with epilepsy, the impossible questions that arise, and finding new sources of hope when the old ones fail us.
Over the years, I have learned that my post-vacation blues are inevitable, and it is better to plan for and accommodate them than feign surprise at my inability to be productive the day after we come home. I’ve also learned that it helps to make at least one fun plan the week we return. Specifically, something I don’t get to do often and that doesn’t include my family with whom I’ve just spent a week solid.
I find few regular days in life more stressful than the 24 hours before leaving for a trip. The day of hosting a party at our home used to come close, but at this point, if I am inviting you to a party at my house then you know we are a come-as-you-are family. Meaning you will come, and we will be as we are… but with more food and better drinks.
I was sitting down for dinner at a restaurant with a friend when a young family caught my eye. They were sitting to my left and a little behind me, so it was difficult to take them in without being too obvious. But I was pretty sure the child, which the mom was holding like an infant, was a little large to be typically held that way.
