Anticipatory grief, and firsts

Anyone who has been through infertility and/or pregnancy loss will recognise the pain that anticipatory grief can bring. Often it centres around anniversaries. The anniversary of a pregnancy loss, the due date/birthday they should have had, the first time seeing a new baby, or a whole raft of firsts when you know for sure that children are not going to come, and we begin living a No Kidding life without children. How often I've said to people "it's only a day" and "it passes," as I have gradually recognised for myself. But how hard it is to live those words, those ideas, certainly in that first year. I've always been an expert at anticipating the worst. And over the years, I have become much better at managing not to do it. Until this year.

But last month, I had a birthday. My first without my husband of over 40 years. I was dreading it. Dear friends asking me in late September if I had thought what I wanted to do. They were determined to fit in whatever I wished, even the one who lives in another province. At times it was too soon. I did not want to think about it yet. I couldn't! Anticipatory grief of the first of many of the big "firsts" was in full swing.

But eventually, I came up with a plan. My sister, who also has an October birthday, was going to come and visit during a long weekend, a few days after my birthday. So I was relying on friends, and two of us who had known each other since the 1980s, when we were working at our first full-time jobs, enjoyed a lovely long lunch on the edge of a harbour, after a walk through an art installation. The weather - always unpredictable in my city - cooperated, and it was a lovely day. Later, my friend from out of town visited, and we went for a drink and a chat and a lazy antipasto at my favourite local place. The place where my husband and I had celebrated many birthdays and wedding anniversaries, where we'd taken visiting family and friends, and where we'd met others, over the last ten years. There were lots of good memories there. But because we had gone earlier, sat in the bar rather than the restaurant, and only ordered snacks, it felt comforting, but not as a replacement from the dinner I might have otherwise had with my husband. I had asked my friend not to stay the night, as she often does, simply because I did not know how I would feel over what was a stressful day, and I needed the space to grieve. It was a request I felt was difficult to make, but one I'm glad I did. It is so hard to ask for what we need. Multiply that by ten when I know I need to keep my friends close. But it was necessary that day. And she understood, which was a gift in itself.

The following weekend, with my sister and brother-in-law, was lovely, but hard too. I'm used to being a co-host. This time I did it on my own. And then, at a special dinner at a lovely restaurant, I had a moment, and fought back the tears, thinking how much my husband would have enjoyed it, and how wrong it felt being there without him. I am very grateful that they visited. A long weekend would have been very difficult for me, with all my friends out of town that particular weekend, and nothing but memories. But I did not have to face it alone.

Social media was interesting. Some people clearly remembered and understood it was hard for me. Others were blindly oblivious. "Have a great day!" is not something that's that helpful or cheering. But the "thinking of you" messages or "I hope you can have a nice day" were acknowledgements that I valued, and treasured.  

Writing this is hard. Distressing. I'm reliving his absence again. Writing used to bring me comfort, a way to sort through emotions. But right now, it also brings pain. But I'm writing it for several reasons. The record is important to me. Because I know I'm not alone. And because I know people reading this will have experienced something similar, whether it is infertility, childlessness, or another loss.