Grieving on Valentine’s Day hurts. How to shake the holiday sadness
When a person is mourning a deep loss, as in the death of a spouse, child or parent, Valentine’s Day is not only a bummer, it can be really hard.
I’m facing my first Valentine’s holiday without my son Brian, who died in bed at our home seven months ago, and my husband Richard, who died five years ago at home.
The experts call that compound grieving.
It’s a potentially devastating duo, especially when Valentine’s Day is a Saturday, a traditional date night and prime time for romance.
So many hearts! So many expressions of undying love and passion. So many happy couples and families.
No, I’m not wallowing in the reality, but I accept that I cannot avoid it.
Functional grief is part of my life now. How big a part can depend on the time, day, if it’s a significant occasion or date and what else is happening in my life.
But in one form or another, it’s probably here to stay. It’s the Groundhog Day of emotions.
The traditional 2025 holiday season was hard enough
Last year, I found myself avoiding most happy-happy/merry-merry gatherings.
I was unable and unwilling to subject myself to all that jolly celebrating with people who were apparently having a gleeful time, thank you.
Gleeful was not a word I could adopt yet.
Absolutely, I was grateful, charmed and blessed to share the pre-Christmas week with Brian’s younger brother Sean and his wife Jenny.
It also is wonderful spending any time with my delightful “fr-amily” members, among them Tina and Jesse, the Greeks, the Knoxes, the Wests, the Prices, Zola, Gloria, Consuelo, Selene, the Marys, Jenn, Nancy and others.
Something that really helps me stay happier and connected, especially now that I live alone, is my habit of sending 8 a.m. texts every morning to several of those lovely people.
It’s lovely to have so many in my tribe who understand. No explanations needed.
Others have similar but different grief over the death of other family members and friends, or divorce, or the loss of a job or even a suddenly empty nest. They know, too.
Grief is not something you get over.
You learn to live with it, for the rest of your life. Grief manifestations change and diffuse a bit over time but never leave.
You adapt over time. You change.
In that process, each of us who are bereaved must figure it out, over and over, in part determining how many cheerful high spirits we can tolerate at any given time.
But immersing myself in a packed houseful of gaiety (some of it forced, perhaps?), a couple hours of holiday celebration, romantic music in a concert or, heaven help me, a group watching a Hallmark movie?
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
If so, I’m now convinced that’s fine.
Some methods that could cheer me up, but don’t
I’ve tried writing to Richard and Brian before, thanking them for so many wonderful memories. But, somehow, that doesn’t help.
Talk to them? That’s nothing new or holiday oriented. I do it all the time. I just wish they could answer me in person.
Thank heavens, I don’t drink alcohol, indulge in street drugs or smoke anything but food. So, I won’t fall into those traps, which can make grieving much worse.
I do try hard to not pig out on salty chips or goodies from Mama Ganache, See’s or the wonderful fudge from Cambria’s Sweet Offerings. One is fine, Kathe, not the whole box or bag!
Some suggestions that have helped
How will I handle (read, endure) this Valentine’s Day without sinking into a pit of self pity?
When I’m feeling nostalgic but not yet blue, I’ll look at and talk to pictures of Richard and Brian that are scattered throughout the house.
I remind myself how lucky I was to have had and basked in their love for so long, and recall happy times we shared.
What else?
I talk to, call, email or text friends and family members about things other than their celebrations. Especially bubbly folks who are fun to chat with and can make me laugh.
Maybe I go out to lunch with a happy person. Bring home a luxury take-out meal of something I wouldn’t cook at home, especially just for me. Or order something yummy delivered (however, Cambria’s in-town options for that are limited).
Feeling ambitious? Cook something I want. I know I’m a good cook, which makes it a double mood lifter. (But oh, those dishes!)
I could go for a drive or just sit at the beach or on my sun-drenched deck watching the critters in and above our meadow. Or buy myself some flowers, especially on a gray or stormy day.
Play upbeat music. Loud is good. Some dance steps can be helpful, but only the ones I can do safely while using my walker.
With music or TV playing, climb on the exercise bike an extra time or two a day? Umm, maybe.
Or do my stretching exercises again, which would make my therapist very happy.
Curl up and read a good book. Or two. Not a romance, please!
Make lists of my recent successes, things I’m grateful for, or even for things I’d like to or need to get.
I make so many lists already, though.
There’s a flip side to that habit, though: Putting a chore on a to-do list is a guaranteed way to make stubborn me try to find a way to wiggle out of doing it that day. “Don’t tell me what to do, you **&^@%$# list!”
When all else fails, I can go into my at-home office and work.
I’m really fortunate to have that option, which I can take in my fuzzy slippers and robe. Amazing how restorative it can be to lose myself in writing about splendid people, someone’s new business, someone else’s longtime successful one or an uplifting newsflash (no politics, meanness or violence, please).
That’s what I’m doing right now, by the way.
Maybe, after dreading “the day” for weeks, I may discover it’s not as bad as I feared it would be. That would be grand.
I’m planning ahead this year, though, having made a date to have lunch and afternoon fun with a friend who’s figured out how to still be happy while she’s mourning.
But sometimes, grieving can sap all your energy to just get up and do something, anything.
If Valentine’s Day turns into one of those, I’ll do a lot of reading, meditating and napping, waiting for the arrival of Feb. 15.
And yes, I tell myself, that would be OK, too.
