The anniversary of Pete’s death was like this big ‘thing’ we all had in our head with no idea how to tackle.
I mean, what do you do?
It’s hardly a celebration that you’ve been without someone you love for a year, is it?
It’s not really a “woo hoo, go us, we’ve done a year …” type of thing.
It’s just … weird.
The whole day was just weird.
So many people said I’d know what the right thing to do was. That I would just intrinsically know what I should do. And I’d do that.
Except I didn’t. I honestly had no idea.
And so I started panicking a bit about the fact I didn’t know what to do – shouldn’t I plan something; not plan something; be flexible; anticipate all the worst bits; just go with whatever happens; plan some things but not others; have some idea of what we are doing so the kids knew what to expect … It was exhausting thinking about all of the things.
And I was definitely thinking about all of the things!
On second thoughts ... I write that I had no idea, but I had decided some things.
I knew I wanted the kids to wake up at home on the day. For us all to be together.
The day Pete died, we hadn’t been been. We’d dropped the kids to the airport to go on holiday with my parents and my brother and his family and I was alone when Pete died. And then we had the longest day in history as I waited until they arrived home at 9pm the day after it all happened to tell them what had happened. I didn’t want to be separated from the anniversary.
Also, I had chosen to soften the blow of the day by getting a new puppy. When we put our old dog down before New Year’s it just reopened the grief wound in our house.
Seeing as we have always had at least 2 dogs, and – in theory – this one would become more toilet trained as time went on, not more incontinent like Hugo had, it would become less work for me. Plus Murphy would have a play mate.
The sheer joy on the kids faces (coupled with some tears) was absolutely worth it when I surprised them with the arrival of a teeny tiny little girl Jack Russell puppy called: Rocket.
It meant the kids would wake up on the anniversary day with warm wet puppy kisses and my cuddles.
Then we did stuff that I thought might be considered the ‘right’ thing to do – but I really didn’t know.
I figured I needed to do stuff that included food, friends and family … that seemed like a Pete thing to do.
We went and had coffee and breakfast at Pete’s favourite coffee shop. The one he had a coffee at before starting his work day almost every single day for the 2 years before he died. We had been having coffee there together each morning for over a year before he died. It had become a routine and we had met friends from that routine along the way and it kind of felt like maybe we should do that. Because we should be doing something …
Then we went out for lunch, and had good food. Pete loved good food. So that felt like something we should be doing.
And then there was more weird time where it was around the time when he actually died.
I didn’t know what to do – would it be like New Year’s Eve where everyone hangs around until 12pm and then says ‘cheers’ … it felt really odd and wrong to be sitting around the house just waiting for the clock to tick over 4.26pm.
So I took myself away from the house and the kids with a bottle of champagne and sat outside and toasted Pete and his life.
Ironically, I had to sit in the boot of my car because it was raining and miserable and wet. Despite it being January 20 and the middle of Summer. It was kind of fitting really. He spent a fair bit of time whingeing about how summer in Hamilton is a day of the week, not a season; I could just hear him repeating his oft used line of Hamilton being “a cold miserable bastard of a place …” I smirked as I took a drink at 4.26pm and looked at the scotch mist present.
Then I went home and found some friends and family. Just a couple. I thought I wanted more, none, all of them … it changed through the week and day. But in the end it was just a couple of them. And we all toasted Pete and thanked him for being in our lives and loving us all. And again, it was weird. Because it’s just really hard to explain what sort of a day the anniversary of your husband’s and the father of your children’s death is like.
It was also weird because while I did shed a tear, It was not nearly as many as I expected I would.
I have wondered if that was because there was such anticipation about the day leading up to the day that we had all steeled ourselves for the day and so we had prepared ourselves.
I really have no idea.
The next day we had anticipated the emotional hangover from the day before. And it happened.
It was also the day where everyone had gone home. Which made it that much harder.
My brother had left the day of the anniversary having had the youngest two children for a week on holidays.
Then my parents left the day after the anniversary having had the oldest two children for a week on holidays.
Our house was empty and back to the five of us again. And that was a bit sad. There were a few watery eyes.
But it was the day after that – two days after the anniversary and when I went back to work – when I found myself ugly crying into my steering wheel, sobbing uncontrollably, after receiving a text message from Pete’s work.
His boss had let me know that the company he worked for had renamed their National Livestock High Achievers award, a coveted prize for the animal health sales reps presented at their annual conference gala dinner, as the Peter Mecham High Achiever Award. Duly noting he was the holder of that title when he died. Except he never made it to last year’s conference to receive it.
That accolade just reiterated once again that he was more than just a good employee, he was a good bloke who made such an impact on the Australian arm of a multi-national company, he was worth recognising.
It just really hit home what we’d lost and it totally caught me off guard.
Because on the Monday I was expecting it, even on the Tuesday, but out of the blue on the Wednesday morning – BAM!
He was just such a good bloke. And oh my gosh, we just miss him and his presence in our
lives so bloody much.
But I love that we aren’t the only ones. I love that so many other people thought so highly of him, that they loved him so much, that we can all share in our grief of losing him.
I take so much comfort in that.
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