Tomorrow is October 31.
For most people, that means Halloween. Costumes, candy, and a last-minute calculation about whether the bowl by the door contains enough for the neighborhood.
For me, it is also the anniversary of the day my husband, Jay, died.
I know what date is coming.
I do not always know how I am going to feel when it arrives.
And today, the day before, has a weight of its own.
The Calendar Does Not Have to Announce It
Sometimes I notice the approach in my thoughts.
Other times, I notice that concentrating takes more effort. My patience is shorter. Something ordinary feels unexpectedly heavy.
Then I look at the date.
Oh. Right.
There are still emails to answer, groceries to consider, and responsibilities that have apparently received no instructions to pause.
I can handle those things while part of my attention stays somewhere else.
From the outside, it may look like an ordinary day.
Inside, I know what tomorrow means.
Today, He Was Still Here
That thought can catch me.
The day before the anniversary belongs to a time when Jay was still alive.
He had lived for 26 months after his diagnosis with Stage 4 stomach cancer. There had already been so much illness, caregiving, worry, and effort.
When I look back now, I know how those days ended.
The woman living through them did not have the same view.
She was inside the experience, making decisions, trying to understand what was happening, and doing what needed to be done.
I try to be gentle with her.
It is easy to examine the past using information that arrived later. It is harder to remember how much uncertainty existed in the moment.
She loved her husband.
She was trying.
I wish I could sit beside her for a while.
Some Memories Arrive Without an Appointment
I do not always choose which memory comes forward.
It may be something from the illness.
It may be an ordinary moment from years earlier.
A phrase, a photograph, or something funny can bring him close to mind while I am doing something completely unrelated.
Sometimes I smile.
Sometimes I need a minute.
Sometimes both happen before I have finished the same thought.
I miss Jay as a whole person. My husband, whose presence was woven into the everyday parts of my life.
The person I could tell everything to.
The person whose reaction I could often anticipate.
The person who belonged in plans I never expected to make alone.
I May Be Quieter Today
If I take longer to answer a message, it may have nothing to do with the person who sent it.
If I leave something until tomorrow, I may simply have reached my capacity for today.
I do not expect everyone to remember the date.
I also may not want to explain it repeatedly.
Sometimes I would appreciate company. Sometimes I would rather have a little quiet. A gentle check-in gives me room to decide.
“Thinking of you and Jay” is enough.
There is no perfect sentence required.
And if you have a memory of him, I may be glad to hear it. The funny ones are welcome, too. His life contained far more than the circumstances of his death.
Tomorrow Can Hold More Than One Thing
I want to dress up for Halloween and hand out candy.
I want to enjoy the costumes and the little conversations at the door.
I also want to remember my husband.
I can do those things on the same evening.
A laugh will be real. So will any sadness that comes afterward.
I do not have to decide today how every hour of tomorrow should feel. I can make a plan and leave room to change it.
If I need a break, I can take one.
If I enjoy myself, I can let that happen.
There is no anniversary inspection team arriving to evaluate whether I have demonstrated the appropriate amount of grief.
I would have concerns about their qualifications.
Today Does Not Need to Produce a Lesson
Much of my work involves finding something useful to do with difficult experiences.
I research. I write. I ask questions. I look for ways to make a process clearer or prevent another family from encountering the same problem.
That work matters to me.
Today, I can put some of it down.
I do not have to turn every feeling into advice. I do not need to explain what loss has taught me before I am allowed to acknowledge that it hurts.
I can simply miss Jay.
I can look at a photograph because I want to see his face.
I can remember something that makes me laugh and keep that moment to myself.
A Little Room Before Tomorrow
Perhaps dinner can be simple.
Perhaps a few messages can wait.
Perhaps I can give myself the same consideration I would offer someone else approaching a difficult date.
I am trying.
Tomorrow, the porch light will be on. There will be candy, costumes, and whatever feelings arrive with the evening.
Today, I am taking things a little more quietly.
Remembering the life we shared.
Grateful that he was my husband.
Wishing, as I always will, that we had more time.
