To be honest, I hadn’t planned on doing anything of significance to mark the four-year anniversary of my dad’s suicide this week. I tend to think it’s better to focus on happier occasions, like his birthday or the holidays we enjoyed together. The craziness of chasing around my 10-month-old, coupled with picking up the house and getting ready for the day certainly served as helpful distractions. However, as the date loomed, I received a couple of thoughtful messages from loved ones who let me know they were thinking of me and I found it so touching. I realized that perhaps I should acknowledge the date in some way.
Wondering if it was a bit abnormal that I didn’t have something more formal in place, I
wrote to my friend and former blog contributor, Lindsay, (who lost her dad four years ago last month) to see what she did. It made me feel better to learn she seemed to be absorbed by the same daily life demands as I have been. But, she and her brother set aside time that night to enjoy one of their dads’ favorite treats. She knew that in past years, I used to honor my dad by enjoying chocolate éclairs – the one baked good everyone associates with him – and suggested maybe that’s something I could do. He used to bring éclairs to work on his birthday and sometimes “just because.”
While out on a stroll with my daughter, we passed a bakery and I was reminded that this of all days would be a good excuse to break my diet and sneak inside for an éclair. I had hoped they would have a small one but, with my luck, they only had enormous ones for sale. It was blazing hot outside, so I decided to just pay for it and eat it right there on a
coffee counter at the window. I picked off a teeny tiny bite for my girl and said, “enjoy – this is for grandpa!” I also noticed that Lee Ann Womack’s song, “I hope you dance,” was playing overhead. He liked country music. Before things turned somber, I was relieved when an older man came up beside me and lightened the mood by commenting on his good fortune of finding a half-eaten pastry left there for the taking. I have to think this is something that would have made my dad chuckle.
On the way home, we passed by a fence that had a chalkboard and a little tray of chalk, so I decided to inscribe his initials before pressing on (pictured above). As we walked, I kept looking for other signs or ideas of ways to memorialize him to come to me, but anything more felt like I was trying too hard to force something. Later in the night, a little bit of my dad came out in me when I picked out a somewhat funny gift for a family party this weekend. He was always a jokester who loved to laugh and make others laugh, too.
As I look back on how I spent this “anniversary,” I realized a few things:
- Sometimes, the best way to honor someone is to simply to continue carrying on small pieces of their personality or memory.
- For me, it feels ok to not have a plan in place for birthdays, holidays, etc. and just let myself do whatever feels natural for the occasion.
- I am so thankful for the friendship of Jessica, Lindsay and other fellow survivors who always understand and know what to say when others may not. So many of you dear readers also bring a smile to my face with your thoughtful sentiments and sharing of your experiences.
- Time has helped lessen the sting and significance of my dad’s death day. This is not the case for everyone, but I am thankful that I don’t seem to be dreading it any more.
- I’ve made a lot of progress as a survivor. On the first occasion of my dad’s birthday following his passing, I went into the same bakery for the same éclair memorial but was audibly sobbing. I cried on the way there, on the way inside, all through my order and on the way home. Today, it just felt like something I do, or need to. (Birthdays have felt a little more difficult than death anniversaries.)
Thank you so much for sharing. I am pleased I subscribed to your blog. I lost my son, Craig, to suicide over 9 years ago. Like you, at first I found the anticipation of those “trigger” days ended up being worse than the actual day. I, too, like to memorialize my son on his birthday. His life was so much more than those final few moments when he made that horrible decision. It is so much more comforting to remember the fun and happy times, the joking times, than those dark moments.
Thank you, Pam! I am so sorry for the loss of your son. I can’t help but think about how there were 64 years of jokes and memories I could choose to focus on but that it can be so easy sometimes to focus on that one last second.