I’m not someone who clings onto the past. Not someone who wistfully recalls first dates or even knows exactly what time each of her children arrived. Earlier this year my husband and I were bemused to be presented with a gift from his mother – we had both forgotten our wedding anniversary.
My son died on December 10th and the date is indelibly etched on my heart. I can’t forget it, I can’t get over it, I can’t change it. Each year I have to take the day out from work commitments or meetings with friends because I don’t function until the calendar flips round to the next day. I don’t know how many years will need to slip by before I can wake up on December 10th with any kind of normality.
When my father died I didn’t note the date, in fact I tried my utmost to forget it, to rid myself of the ability to count the days, the weeks, the months since he died. I couldn’t bear to lose another day of the year to grief. But it’s today. July 20th. I know this not only from the beautiful messages I’ve received this week from friends and family, but because I woke this morning with a leaden pain in my chest and a cloud which won’t leave me, no matter how fast I run.
So today is about my father, the most amazing man I’ve ever known. A brilliant doctor, a clever, funny, talented man who never failed to give the right advice at the right time. I miss him every single day, but today – perhaps today I miss him just a little bit more.