The three-year anniversary of my husband’s death was what I expected it to be—very sad for a couple of days before and the day of the anniversary and then a feeling of relief when the anniversary had passed. I’ve noticed myself feeling relief whenever a milestone passes—anniversaries, his birthday, the holidays that meant a lot to him—as if it’s an accomplishment to have survived it.
The three-year anniversary was sad, but not intense and I wondered if maybe my grief was becoming more quiet, like something that might always rumble beneath the surface but only make itself known from time to time and then in subtle ways.
A month later, my reaction to the 37-month anniversary shook that wondering out of me. For four days, I had the weight in my chest that I felt regularly during the first year, the feeling that I couldn’t take a deep breath. The weight sat there, constricting my lungs and pressing on my throat, sapping my energy.
For the first two of those four days, I was right back in the “I can’t believe he’s dead” mindset I felt during the first year. My first thought of each day was “Tom is dead,” and everything after that thought felt like a heroic effort. I spent much of those two days on the couch, sleeping or crying, in disbelief that my husband was gone.
The next two days were a little easier but I still felt the heavy fog in my brain that I had lived with during the first year. The weight moved out of my chest and concentrated itself in my throat, where it made my voice feel wavery every time I spoke.
I figured out what was going on midway through the second day. I was experiencing cumulative grief—when each new loss compounds the grief from a previous loss. A few days before this episode began, I had learned that a friend Tom and I had spent a lot of time with early in our relationship had died.
Learning of her death spurred me to look at photos from that era of my life with Tom. There were so many pictures of the three of us together—on raft trips, at a wine festival, taking a break during a motorcycle adventure. Over and over I was struck by the thought, “I’m the only person in this photo who is still alive.”
The new grief for our friend stirred up my grief for my husband.
I didn’t fight it. I gave myself grace. I canceled everything that wasn’t necessary and let myself hole up on the couch for a couple of days. I scrolled through photos of my husband, I cried, I listened to music that reminded me of times together.
He loved the singers Carsie Blanton and David Bromberg, so I listened to a lot of their music. We had seen both together and listening to their music brought back a flood of memories. Tom was an effusive audience member at concerts, yelling his appreciation for a good lyric or a cheeky band interaction. Both are clever songwriters and he found much to whoop for.
With each memory, I was torn between the warm fuzzy feeling of reminiscence and the heartbreak of knowing those reminiscences are all I have left now.
The weight gradually lifted, at least for now. I know I will never again hear Carsie Blanton or David Bromberg without the absence of my husband weighing on me.