I wrote an article on letting grief make you stronger and talked about a trip to the grocery store where I was not as strong as I hoped. I walked by the Cream Puffs and broke into tears. My husband passed away almost four months ago, and he always used to ask me to get cream puffs when I went to the store. I didn’t even think about it until I walked by them. Memories are very powerful emotions. I vowed to stay away from the bakery aisle until I was a little more positive that I could walk by without crying. I’ve done pretty well with that strategy and haven’t cried in the grocery store again. I have not walked by the Cream Puffs either.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. As you can guess and may have experienced, it can be a very sad time if you have lost a loved one, no matter who it is. I’ve had a couple of very tearful days, knowing I will be alone for the day and the weekend that follows. I suspect Christmas may even be a little tougher, but I’ll wait until then to decide.

I have nicknamed these hard, tearful days Cream Puff Days. Crying for what apparently is no reason to someone else, but a very emotional day for myself when I feel just like the days I walked by the Cream Puffs in the grocery store. I’ve done pretty well at not crying in public, but sometimes I manage to walk to the corner of the store and hide my tears until they subside, if necessary.

Yesterday seemed to be a day all about Bill. Phone calls and mail were all related to him. I said to myself, “This must be a Bill day.” I can’t stop the bombardment of things that remind me of him or the decisions I need to make regarding his death. Giving them a new name, like Cream Puff Days, helps me get through the day and make each decision as unemotionally as possible.

As an example, I was at the bank. A nurse walked in and stood behind me, and I asked, “Are you working for the holiday?” She was wearing her hospital identification tag, so I knew where she worked. She nicely answered, “No, I’m a hospice nurse; we tend to get the holidays off.” She worked for the same hospice group my husband’s nurses worked for. I looked away, and when I glanced back at her, “I asked if she knew our hospice nurse?” Not sure why I did that. She said she did and liked her too. She then asked me, “How long has it been? Maybe I was one of your nurses?” I looked down, so the emotion on my face hopefully wasn’t showing, and said, “He passed away in August.” “Oh!” She said, and I could tell she was sorry she asked. The bank teller called me up to the counter, and our conversation ended. She did not intentionally try and hurt me; she had no idea. We were both being friendly. Some days, I wish I could be quiet and not be so talkative.

The day continued on in this manner, everything about Bill, and finally, someone asked me what I was doing for Thanksgiving, which made me tear up. Actually, no, I cried. No other way to describe it. I barely knew this person, she was a clerk in a store, and I answered, “I have a pumpkin pie and whipped cream; that’s enough for my day.” I didn’t want to answer to a stranger that  I would be alone for the day.

I’m trying to work through my emotions today, instead of letting them pile on top of me tomorrow. I think I have a plan; that’s always a good way to handle grief. I’ll walk the dog as usual, watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, cook my pumpkin pie and then go to the cemetery to visit Bill. I have new flowers to place on his niche for the holidays.

When I go to the cemetery, I’ll take the dog and get a coffee from McDonald’s, Bill’s favorite breakfast place. I always watch holiday movies on Thanksgiving, so I will continue that tradition. For me, the third and most glorious part of the day is planting tulips and daffodil bulbs, which have to get planted in the garden after the first frost. We’ve had frost for several days now, so I know they will be very happy in the ground waiting for spring. I’ve done this for years on Thanksgiving, and I look forward to working in the dirt; maybe some of my grief will be buried with them.

I know there will be sadness, but maybe planting something that grows and thrives on the cold earth will help me know that I will be stronger by the Spring as well. When the flowers show their beautiful colors coming out of the earth, I’ll hope to be less sad and sorrowful. Spring is all about growth and renewal. After the winter darkness or the grayness of grief, the bright colors of flowers, and the new leaves, I hope will lift my spirits and soul out of the darkness it is in now. I also hope that I’ll be able to walk by the Cream Puffs again at the grocery store without crying.

Hope keeps us alive. Without hope, we may not survive tomorrow because it seems too bleak. When there is nothing to look forward to except the everyday happenings of life, hope is all that is left. I hope I am not so sad in a few months; I have to believe it will be true because I don’t want to go on living with all the loss and sadness I have in my life now. One day at a time, one foot at a time, hoping every day will get easier and put me on the path to accepting Bill’s death and hopefully help ease me into the new description of myself  as an “I” not a “we.” I have to accept that I am no longer part of a couple.

Nancie Wiseman Attwater is the author of A Caregiver’s Love Story.