We celebrate the anniversaries of milestones in our lives.
Personal. Relational. Professional.
They are markers in time meant for honoring, reflecting, and commemorating what mattered—what still matters.
If you Google the word anniversary, you’ll find page after page devoted to wedding anniversaries. Lists. Traditions. Gifts assigned to each year of marriage.
And that makes sense. When we marry, that’s where our hearts and minds go.
What we don’t think about—what no one prepares us for—is how to commemorate the anniversary of the passing of our spouse.
For weddings, there are guidelines.
For death, there are none.
Instead, we are left with memories.
Some are tender.
Some are joyful.
And some are sharp with sorrow—especially the memory of the moment when the breathing stopped.
Each year, we feel it approach.
We hope that with time, the devastation will lessen. And in some ways it does. But the absence never fully leaves. It simply changes shape.
January 20, 2022.
The evening of my sweet Fred’s homegoing.
I remember my oldest granddaughter returning from a quick dinner out so she could sit with him and give me a break.
In the days leading up to his passing, I had asked him—more than once—not to wait until I was out of the room to leave me.
That evening, I went downstairs because my youngest granddaughter was calling for me. We were playing when a friend came down the stairs and casually said I was needed upstairs.
Halfway up the steps, I knew.
Fred had left while I was gone.
I know him. He wanted to spare me the final breath.
I held his hand.
I gazed at him.
And I kissed him goodbye.
There was no Hollywood ending—no soft smiles, whispered words, or shared tears in that moment. Dementia had stolen those long before.
The first two years after his passing, I didn’t even realize the anniversary was approaching. But my behavior did. My withdrawal spoke volumes to my family.
They moved gently around me. Spoke softer than usual. Tried to gently draw me into normal life.
It wasn’t until afterward that we talked about how the entire month leading up to the day carried its own weight, palpable to all those around me.
Last year, I was more aware—and I had to fight the temptation to break over three decades of sobriety.
This year, the thought crossed my mind again—just briefly—when I noticed a bottle of vodka. My drink of choice, once upon a time.
It passed.
I had goals for the weekend. Organize parts of my room. Start a project.
Instead, I slept more than usual.
Scrolled more than usual.
Blamed chronic fatigue.
And then I realized the truth.
This writing had been forming quietly in the background for days.
Now it has come to fruition.
And with it, a release.
I want to honor the love of my life in the way I know best—with words.
Fred loved my writing. He wanted to see me published. That never happened while he was alive.
I was busy living. Carrying out responsibilities. Cherishing our life together.
Now, I have the time—and the tools—to make my musings public.
It only took his death to unlock that door.
And I would give it all up to have him back.
Unfair to him, given his suffering.
Unfair to the diminishment he endured.
When I daydream about him being here, it is not the version shaped by dementia.
It is Fred before.
Fred whole.
It’s us in our little cottage in Belmont—winter fires burning, books in hand, wrapped in quiet.
It’s walking the snow-covered grounds in winter.
Celebrating town festivals in summer.
Holding hands.
Laughing.
Speaking our own language of love.
It may be selfish to wish him back from heaven—where he is pain-free and his mind restored beyond anything it knew on earth.
But I’m allowing myself some selfishness.
Because that’s what I have left.
I am deeply grateful for the decades of love, trouble, tragedy, and miracles that live in my memories.
And still—my heart is heavy with missing him.
So today, I’ll smile through tears made of both grief and gratitude.
I’ll say his name out loud.
I’ll look at photos of him—and of us.
Until the day I draw my last breath.
And until then,
I will lean on my family,
get my grit on,
and live in the here and now.
If you’ve lost someone you love, how do you honor their memory on anniversaries?
Light a candle. Look at photos. Write their name below if you’d like. 🤍
Let’s walk this together.
"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." - Psalm 34:18 (NIV)
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