Not today, not tomorrow
The quiet way grief returns in the middle of joy.
My mum passed away just before my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. And I know this crushed her. It was to become just one more memory that she—and us—would miss out on.
When people talk about grief, often we think of the acute shock of it all. The pain and loss and despair we feel as we attempt to rebuild our lives around the gaping wound we’re left with is very real. But what is often forgotten in the moment are the future celebrations, milestones and memories that we are robbed of over and over and over again as our lives continue to unfold. We think we’re ‘fine’ and then something happens that throws us off course. Often it’s the big milestones: the golden wedding anniversaries, the birthdays, graduations and family holidays that had become rituals. But in my experience, it’s often the smaller, unseen moments that hurt the most: when your kid starts school, when the iPhone memory surprises you out of nowhere, when you hear a song on the radio that reminds you of them, or when you pick up your phone to call them before remembering they’re not on the other end to receive.
Today is my 10th wedding anniversary and while I’m filled with joy—and relief, let’s be honest—that my husband and I have made it this far, it’s my mum that I miss today. And every day.
Our wedding was beautiful and unlike many millennials, I’m sure, there are very few details I’d change if I were to have the opportunity to relive it all again. But every year when this day comes around, my husband and I are reminded of the many people who celebrated with us who are no longer in our lives. In 10 years, we’ve lost parents, grandparents, aunties and dear friends—and if I step back in time, I can’t quite believe that in a blink, so many of our loved ones have been lost.
The beautiful mystery of life and the one universal truth is that none of us knows how long we have. And while confronting this truth can be scary, it should also push us to live more, love more.
While I’m sure that I will forever hold the sadness that my mum will never see her grandchildren grow up, that she will never see me grow old, and that the memories we share are now finite—as she neared the end of her life, her insistence that I live became the salve I needed to stay strong in the face of my grief.
In her final months, when we really had no idea how long we had left, our goodbyes were always painful. But we had a secret mantra that we’d whisper to each other whenever it got too much to carry: not today, not tomorrow. We trusted that we’d see each other again and by saying it out loud, we reminded each other that to live is to love.
This is so true Ashley. So true. Sunshine and shadows, right? Contrast. Uplifting and aching. Sending love xx