On Tuesday, we will mark four years since Charlotte died. For the last three years, I have approached this date with a mixture of dread, anticipation, and honor. It always feels strange to me. For the vast majority of parents, there is one major day that we honor for our child on an annual basis. It is their birthday. I still find it surreal that I honor my child on the day of her death.
We know what to do in honoring a birth. There is a party with food, friends, family, the bestowing of gifts, and celebration. How do we honor a death? To cast a dark shadow over the day seems right at the gut level, but then it immediately feels wrong. When Charlotte died, we didn't mark the day with morbid black. It was a celebration of pink and purple with music, color, and light.
Of course, I remember Charlotte every day. I think of her when I first wake up and she is one of my last thoughts before bed at night. I see things that remind me of her. I hear stories and I wish I could share them with her. I engage in conversation and inevitably a "Charlotte anecdote" comes up. This leads me to wonder why the day of her death carries such particular significance for me and the many who loved her.
Perhaps it is because that is the day time stopped for her. Earthly time, anyway. After January 7, 2010, there were no more pictures; no more stories; no more opportunities to share the world with her. She is frozen in time. I think of this often when I change my profile picture on Facebook. I have favorite pictures and I tend to rotate them based on the seasons. There's nothing unusual about that. We all do it. The difference is that while my friends will always have new photos of holiday celebrations to mark the passing of the years with their children, Charlotte never ages. She is always four and a half (or younger).
Which brings me back to one of the key issues in grief. We can't get stuck. It's easy to find yourself frozen in fear, sadness, and anger. It is harder to move forward. Moving forward means growth but it also means leaving someone or something behind. That is why we honor this day. We give ourselves one day to go back to that moment in time when our world changed forever. It gives us 364 more days to continue our forward journey.
On Tuesday, I will honor Charlotte. I will allow myself to cry. I will wear pink and purple. I will think of her favorite things. I will eat mac n' cheese and drink chocolate milk and maybe watch a favorite movie. I will give myself one day to embrace my grief and remember the moment when she fell asleep forever.
We know what to do in honoring a birth. There is a party with food, friends, family, the bestowing of gifts, and celebration. How do we honor a death? To cast a dark shadow over the day seems right at the gut level, but then it immediately feels wrong. When Charlotte died, we didn't mark the day with morbid black. It was a celebration of pink and purple with music, color, and light. Of course, I remember Charlotte every day. I think of her when I first wake up and she is one of my last thoughts before bed at night. I see things that remind me of her. I hear stories and I wish I could share them with her. I engage in conversation and inevitably a "Charlotte anecdote" comes up. This leads me to wonder why the day of her death carries such particular significance for me and the many who loved her.
 |
| One of the many pictures that captures my heart. |
Which brings me back to one of the key issues in grief. We can't get stuck. It's easy to find yourself frozen in fear, sadness, and anger. It is harder to move forward. Moving forward means growth but it also means leaving someone or something behind. That is why we honor this day. We give ourselves one day to go back to that moment in time when our world changed forever. It gives us 364 more days to continue our forward journey.
On Tuesday, I will honor Charlotte. I will allow myself to cry. I will wear pink and purple. I will think of her favorite things. I will eat mac n' cheese and drink chocolate milk and maybe watch a favorite movie. I will give myself one day to embrace my grief and remember the moment when she fell asleep forever.