There is a time for everything/a time to be born and a time to die/a time to plant and a time to uproot/a time to mourn and a time to dance/a time to keep and a time to throw away/a time to be silent and a time to speak.
from Ecclesiastes 3
Anniversaries have a way of creeping up on you. Yesterday would have been our 37th anniversary, if my husband hadn't moved out in January. To be honest, I suppose it still is our anniversary, since we aren't technically divorced. However, neither of us remembered it yesterday and it's doubtful that we would have "celebrated" it if we had. My husband came by around noon today to help out with our son, who had surgery on his knee for a torn ACL a week ago. He was wearing a baseball cap and a dark blue-green shirt I like and was so distracted by things at work that he started to take the ice machine our son is using on his knee upstairs, even though our son was downstairs on the couch. Brendan and I both laughed and he came back and set the ice machine down by the couch and left. Altogether, he was here about 15 minutes, about the norm for visits since Brendan's surgery. So, even if I'd remembered the date, I doubt he would have wanted to take time to talk about it.
I hadn't remembered yet what today - or yesterday - was. I had too many things on my mind: my ailing mother, plans for a trip back to Michigan, caring for my recovering son, and a dozen more. I had talked to my therapist yesterday, the day of our anniversary, and didn't think of the date then, either. I did tell her that I'd been feeling like I had an itch under my skin. I attributed the edginess to worries about my trip home. Now, I realize that it was probably about the anniversaries all the time. Anniversaries are potent triggers for PTSD. Sometimes, we're aware of the date and sometimes, like today, feelings ambush us. I still don't know what caused me to remember the significance of today and yesterday's dates. One moment I wasn't consciously thinking about it, the next it hit me what day it was - what day it REALLY was, and a wave of sadness and regret washed over me. And I couldn't think of anything to do to commemorate the sadness of the losses. My husband and I had agreed, as part of the collaborative divorce process we're involved in, about how we would communicate. Emails for "routine" communications, phone calls for emergencies. Grief and loss doesn't seem to fall into either category. I sent an email to my husband because I didn't feel safe enough to phone. That was only a few hours ago and I haven't checked my email because I'm writing this post. I don't have high hopes, however, about a comforting response.
The compression of the two dates - the date of our wedding and the date of my second miscarriage - caused us both anguish at the time. We were living in Ross River, Yukon in those days: a tiny community nestled along the Pelly River. Because we were in the North, the days were long and sunny. In some ways, that made it worse. Grieving people aren't usually cheered up by nice weather, especially not when the grief is fresh and raw.
I was already spotting on the day of our anniversary and I saw the visiting doctor, since Ross River wasn't large enough for a resident doctor. He examined me, which I later learned was a mistake, and then we went out to eat because it was our anniversary at the only restaurant in town. It was a gloomy dinner. All I can remember was that I was determined not to lose the baby on our anniversary. The next morning I got out of bed and had a miscarriage. I was about eight weeks pregnant, but, to me, what I lost was a baby.
I think this year is worse because now there is no wedding anniversary to celebrate to take the edge off the anniversary of the pregnancy loss. Now, both dates are associated with grief. In both cases: the death of my unborn child and the death of my marriage, there isn't a body, nothing to bury, no funeral or other ritual event to commemorate the loss. There should be. Because we humans need rituals to help us heal. It's that old saying: funerals are for the living. And the lack of such rituals means that grieving for a lost marriage and the death of an unborn child are both hard.
Next time, I'll write about possibilities for healing rituals around such ambiguous losses. I hope I find one that fits for me.
Meanwhile, I'll leave you with a sad song.
