Today is October 31.
It is Halloween.
It is also the anniversary of the day my husband, Jay, died.
There is room in this day for remembering him, missing him, celebrating his life, and answering the door for children who would like to know whether I have the good candy.
These things can coexist.
So today, I am making room for them.
I Want to Remember His Life
Jay died on October 31, 2018, after living for 26 months with Stage 4 stomach cancer.
That is an important part of our story. It changed my life and continues to shape much of the advocacy I do.
But today, I want to remember more than the illness and the ending.
I want to remember my husband.
Sgt. Jeremy “Jay” Seals served in the Army, including with the 101st Airborne. His military service mattered, and I am proud of it.
Our life together also held things that never appeared in a service record.
The conversations. The familiar routines. The things that made us laugh. All those small details that become part of a marriage without anyone stopping to document them.
When someone dies, the date and circumstances can become the quickest way to explain their absence.
Living with that absence means remembering so much more.
There Was a Whole Person Here
Jay had a personality, opinions, habits, and a life beyond the titles people use when they talk about him.
He was a soldier. He was my husband.
He was also the person I could turn to when something happened and I wanted to tell him about it.
That is one of the things I miss: the ordinary opportunity to share a moment.
Something funny. Something irritating. Something so ridiculous that it required immediate commentary from the other person in the household.
Marriage contains a remarkable amount of commentary.
Some of it is useful. Some of it is simply knowing exactly who needs to hear about the nonsense you just encountered.
I miss that familiarity.
Today, I want to leave room for the memories that make me smile as well as the ones that hurt.
And Yes, It Is Still Halloween
There will be costumes.
There will be candy.
There will be children who have devoted considerable thought to their appearance and children whose primary concern is the efficient acquisition of sugar.
I respect a clear mission.
I want to dress up and hand out candy. I want to see the costumes, admire the effort, and enjoy the little exchanges at the door.
For a few moments at a time, I get to be the person participating in the neighborhood tradition.
I can tell someone their costume is wonderful. I can try to identify a character I am apparently supposed to recognize. I can watch a very small person attempt to remember whether “thank you” comes before or after checking what landed in the bucket.
There is something comforting about that ordinary participation.
I am still here. There are people at the door. I have something cheerful to offer them.
A Costume Does Not Tell You Everything
If you see me dressed up, laughing, or handing out candy, you are seeing a real part of my day.
I am allowed to enjoy it.
You may also be seeing me on a day when I miss Jay deeply.
A photograph cannot tell you everything someone is carrying. Neither can a smile.
I do not need to spend every hour looking sad to demonstrate that this anniversary matters. I also do not need to stay cheerful all evening because I decided to participate in Halloween.
I might laugh at something and cry later.
I might have a quiet moment before answering the next knock.
The feelings can change while the love remains.
Celebrating His Life Can Be Ordinary
“Celebration of life” sometimes sounds as though it requires an organized gathering, a carefully chosen playlist, and enough emotional preparation to fill a binder.
Those things can be meaningful.
Today, celebration can also be smaller.
Remembering something funny.
Looking at a photograph because I want to see his face.
Saying his name.
Letting myself enjoy an evening without treating that enjoyment as something I have to explain.
I do not have to turn every memory into a tribute suitable for public presentation.
Some can simply belong to me.
And some can make me laugh.
I Do Not Need to Guess What He Would Say
People sometimes offer comfort by saying that the person who died would want us to be happy.
I understand the kindness behind that.
But I do not need to build a case about what Jay would want before I can have a decent evening.
I know I love him.
I know I miss him.
I also know I want to dress up and give candy to the neighborhood children.
That is enough.
There is no committee overseeing the emotional consistency of my Halloween. If there is, I have several concerns about its jurisdiction.
The Doorbell Gives the Evening a Rhythm
An anniversary can leave a lot of space for thinking.
Halloween brings little interruptions.
A knock. A costume. A brief conversation. A handful of candy.
Then the door closes, and there is a moment before the next group arrives.
I can remember Jay in those quiet spaces. I can enjoy the activity when it comes.
There is no requirement to choose between sitting with my memories and participating in the world outside my door.
Tonight, I can do both.
And if I need a break, I can take one.
Even Halloween does not require continuous operational readiness.
If You Remember Him, You Can Say His Name
If you knew Jay and have a memory to share, I would welcome it.
A funny story. An ordinary moment. Something he said or did that stayed with you.
It does not have to be profound.
Sometimes a detail from another person’s memory lets you see a familiar part of someone you love. Sometimes it gives you a story you never knew.
And if you did not know him, a simple “Thinking of you and Jay today” is kind.
You do not need to solve the anniversary.
Remembering him with me means something.
Tonight, There Will Be Candy
Today, I will remember my husband.
I will miss the life we had and the years we did not get.
I will also make room for laughter, costumes, and children arriving with bags held hopefully open.
That is how I want to spend this October 31.
Remembering Jay. Celebrating the person he was. Participating in a little neighborhood happiness.
And attempting to save enough candy for the actual trick-or-treaters.
Jay, you are loved. You are missed.
Tonight, the porch light will be on.
