The 4th of July is almost upon us. A US holiday, and the first 4th that I will see alone. Luckily, I haven’t held much affection for Independence Day since I was a kid, when I used to go to a local carnival, and I have no problems with those memories. My wife and I had no traditions for the 4th and formed no great memories connected to it. For the last ten years, its been that day that the skunks were frightened. It has the same emotional resonance with me as the 3rd of July or the 13th of June. It is an oddity of life that I appreciate days that mean nothing to me. So this is my first 4th, but not my First, with a capital “F.”
Firsts are the closest thing to a universal I’ve found among mourners. I have heard about Firsts in every grief group, and from everyone grieving I’ve spoken to, or those who had been grieving but seem to no longer be. They speak of Firsts. The first time something happens since the death. The first birthday, the first Christmas. The first anniversary. Every holiday is a First to survive. The often unspoken, but occasionally stated concept under this is that once you get through a First, it won’t be as bad. You’ve survived it, and now can move on.
Survivors, in the non-literal sense, has become very popular. I’m unimpressed. I’m a survivor in the literal sense, in that I survived, and she did not. I’ve no interest in playing with the term in other ways.
I’ve also no interest in Firsts.
I’ve had them. My first Christmas without her, which I got through by ignoring its existence. Her birthday–the same. There’s been many days that held some importance to us, that held special memories, and all have been little horror shows. But I take them as firsts, not Firsts. Next year I expect to have seconds, and then thirds. So far, nothing has given me any expectation that a second or third or forth will be any better than a first, and the idea is a bit insulting. As if her importance can just fade with time. It’s been nine months, and the wound is as fresh and open as it was the second week. Will it be in two years? I don’t know. I’m not that good a psychologist. That was Eugie’s area. I think it will be, and I have seldom been wrong about my own reactions, but time will supply the data.
At least there will be little new data from this holiday, and for that, I am grateful.