Facing anniversaries: a bereaved sibling’s story

I clicked on the comments and my sister’s voice echoed back through the years, thanking me for bringing lunch to a play date with our two small children.

8 years ago, there were suddenly no more memories. For this reason, the ones that pop up on social media periodically are all the more precious, bringing me reminders of the oh-so ordinary days out, lunches and conversations that weren’t, as it turned out, going to continue forever.

Later this month I will be 8 years, or 416 weeks or 2,920 days (give or take a couple for a leap year) into a world without her.

On some days her absence is a dull ache – something I am conscious of but doesn’t stop me in my tracks. On other days, even this far into my walk with grief, it still makes me inhale sharply, shocked that such pain can still come with full force in certain moments. Some of these moments are predictable, but some arrive with no warning at all.

Here are some of the ways my sister has come up in my life this week, even though she is long gone:

• I took part in some arts and crafts at work this week. She was the arty one. I was not. I imagined her laughing as I sent her a photo of my creation, knowing that with her sarcastic sense of humour, she would mock me mercilessly.
• I had an embarrassing moment in Sainsburys, muddling the basket section with the checkout section on a self-service till, garnering a condescending huff from the store worker I called 3 times to ask why it wasn’t working before I realised my error. I imagined recounting the story to her, watching her shake with laughter. She found stories of mishaps very funny.
• A picture of her appeared on Facebook head to toe in pink running gear, taking part in a local Cancer Research Race for Life. I like to hope that someone, somewhere, had a chance to survive through the money she raised that final year. It was wonderful and heartbreaking to read comments from others about how hard it was and how much they missed her.

People further on in their grief journeys talk about how it does change with time and that’s true. It doesn’t get ‘easier’ or ‘better’, it just gets different. I don’t ‘move on’, but I do move forward, better equipped with an understanding of my own and others’ responses to my grief. This way, I can better prepare myself for the hurdles and recover more easily from the tripwires.

So as Bec’s 8th anniversary approaches, I will do the things I have learnt will help me at this time. I will probably learn still other things that will continue to help me for the anniversaries that will come after, as this journey is for life.

• I will let people know when the anniversary is approaching, as knowing that they are aware of my need for support at this time is helpful.
• I will cancel some plans to give myself space. I have discovered that exhaustion and burnout make grief anniversaries far worse.
• I will acknowledge that I will probably feel worse in the run up to it than on the day itself. The anticipation of an anniversary can still be crippling and exhausting.
• I will try to lower my expectations of myself for that week and take things a bit more slowly.
• I will have a long bath and raise a glass of something to Bec, reminding myself of the happy memories and allowing myself to cry, grieving the fact that there won’t be any more.
• I might be insular and grumpy and that’s OK.

Bec’ s anniversary certainly isn’t the only day of the year I think of her. But I have learnt to give myself grace that, whatever the anniversary number, it is still allowed to hurt and I am still allowed to let myself be however I need to be. It will remain a tricky day to face, and it will always be that way, because I loved her and I wish she was still here. That is, and will always be, perfectly understandable and very much OK. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise!