Nine Years Later, The Grief Path is Quiet

The week is dragging on and the ninth anniversary of Kitty's death feels different from past years.  I feel as though I've reached a turning point in my grief journey.  And I don't think it's just me experiencing this change.

On the past eight anniversaries, as a family, we've spent a week in mourning and remembrance, with emphasis on the day of the accident, Kitty's official date of death and the days of her visitation and funeral.  This year, there was the usual focus on the day that the family car went through the ice, but the rest of the week seems to have waned.  Or maybe we're just not talking about it.  I know that I am remembering details from every day that week, but I feel like I'm grieving internally and alone.

It's taken nine years for us to reach this point.  Is this normal?  Is it a longer or shorter amount of time from what others experience?  I don't know.  I believe in the uniqueness of everyone's personal grief, but I don't like this sense of fading ... the feeling that others are forgetting or caring less.  I'm not comfortable with this shift in our normal pattern of memorialization and remembrance.  Although it's not even remotely possible, I think I'm afraid that we're eventually going to stop remembering completely.  

For example:

At the beginning of 'Kitty Week', we all change our Facebook profile and cover photos to pictures of either her or images that remind us of her.  After changing my picture to one of my favorite shots of Kitty, a friend private messaged me, asking who the baby is in my profile picture.  She is very familiar with what happened nine years ago, but she forgot and later apologized for making me re-tell her about the accident.

One of my closest friends calls every year to express her sympathy and to let me know that she's thinking of my family during the week.  This year, she called on Kitty's official date of death.  We chatted for quite some time about many different things and just before hanging up, she quickly commented that she'd been thinking about us - an afterthought?  When I thanked her and mentioned what day it was, she seemed almost surprised.  She had forgotten the day.

Is nine years a magic turning point for everyone?  Every day, I learn more about grief - specifically my own - and how others view my time of mourning.  Am I supposed to be 'over it' by now?  What will be like for me, for my family, a year from now or farther in the future?  I have no idea. 

What is important: that I never forget my granddaughter and my memories of her and that I cherish the time we spent together.  It shouldn't matter whether or not family members talk to me about her or that friends don't remember dates ... or even the entire accident.  I simply need to hold Kitty and our memories together close to my heart.

Year number nine marks a shift - a change in how we memorialize Kitty as a family.  Remembrance is now internal, belonging to each of us alone.  The grief path is quiet this year and I am focused on my own week-long walk.  I'm not used to going it alone, but I'll adjust, I'll welcome a more personal remembrance and I'll learn to appreciate the quiet time.