From this day forward...

Death doesn’t part us.

Yesterday Mike and I should have been celebrating our four-year wedding anniversary. Instead, I’ll soon be counting down to the four-year anniversary of his death. It’s always hard to know what to do on days like this, but I have found it’s good to have something planned.

My plan was to spend some time at the spot where we got married. A beautiful beach on amazing lands. On the way I planned to pick up sustenance from our favourite bakery. It was near our apartment and was our favourite spot for coffee and croissants. We would split one or get different flavours and share them. Always sharing.  

The last two croissants

I got there at about 11am and was shocked to find all the croissants were sold out except for two. There were two classic butter croissants in the display case that’s usually overflowing with pastries. Just two. For two people to enjoy together. One for him and one for me.

Two croissants. Sitting there, quietly mocking me from behind their glass cage. It’s hard not to take it personally tbh. I’ve never felt so mocked by a pastry. As my anxiety increased I got tunnel vision for these two and was really thrown. My plan had been to get a chocolate croissant and a plain croissant and eat half of each (my half). And then maybe eat a little bit more later or the next day (who am I kidding they wouldn’t have lasted the day). But, as I know too well, things don’t always go according to plan.

The very helpful server was eagerly awaiting my order so I just blurted it out as quickly as I could manage despite this curve ball. I didn’t want to take all the croissants so just ordered one and some bread and a coffee. Then the small bakery was suddenly filled with customers and noise. As soon as my order was ready, I grabbed my stuff and was on my way.

It wasn’t till I got back into my car that I realised I missed an opportunity. I could have paid for the other croissant and gifted it to whoever was next in line. For Mike. But I was anxious and panicked and didn’t think of it until it was too late. I’ll remember that for next time though. I could have shared it with a stranger on Mike’s behalf. Mike would have liked that. I mean he would have preferred being alive and eating the croissant himself, but given the situation, he would have approved.

I’ve never said the word croissant so much. It sounds stupid when you say it over and over again. Croissant. You know I’m pronouncing it wrong too. Even though I’m just typing. I promise I’ll stop saying it wrong soon. (Croissant.)

The importance of words

Words are important. As I sat on the beach where we got married, eating my singular croissant, I was thinking about the wedding vows we made to each other here four years ago in this very spot. I’ve often thought a cruel part of being a widow is that one of you kept up their end of the bargain. If one of the partners fulfils their “till death do us part” vow, where does that leave whoever is left over? I was thinking about this and my own wedding vows and didn’t remember saying those words. It prompted me to search through my emails to find the wedding celebrants ceremony document.

My suspicions were correct. We never said the words “till death do us part”. Our vows included things like “from this day forward”, “offering you all that I am” and “with this ring I marry you and join my life to yours.”

I’m not sure if I noticed it at the time, or if the thought crossed my mind. But I was pleased to see there was no mention of death ending the relationship at our ceremony. And I love that because it feels so true for me.

Death hasn’t ended the relationship. Mike is still a part of my life and someone I have a relationship with. And things undoubtably look completely different to how they should have, would have, could have been. And they can feel a little one sided (although not completely – more on that later). And there is still a life joined forever. From this day forward.

I think this is a good explanation of grief too. Grief doesn’t have an end date, just “from this day forward”. We move forward with our grief, as opposed to on from it. It’s a semantic difference but it’s a big one.

I still grieve him and the life that will never be AND I’m grateful for the life I’m living now. Just because I’m here and doing one thing, panicking in a bakery and over-ordering pastries, doesn’t mean I’m not also still loving and missing mike.

A life joined. Whether he gets to physically eat the croissant or not, we’re connected from that day forward. Always.

Update: The croissant follow-up you’ve desperately been waiting for!

I’m adding to this post one year later, on what would have been our fifth wedding anniversary. Once again, I stopped by our same favourite bakery only this time, I WAS READY!

I asked the server if I could shout some croissants for the next customers and she was glad to do this. She followed up with “Just cause, or?” which was a wonderful invitation for me to share.

“For Mike, he loved them”. She smiled kindly and I felt witnessed and connected. Her offering gave me the chance to say Mike’s name and share a tiny croissant-loving piece of him. It was a simple moment with a stranger that held power on a hard day.

And I imagine this act sparked some small joys in other people’s life too.

Mike would have liked that.

And it meant something for me too. It was another way to connect with Mike and integrate his presence into the day-to-day. And simultaneously covertly forcing strangers to eat their Sunday treats in his honour too. Win-win!