Saturday past was the first of September. The first day of Spring, the turn of the season, and the preamble to Summer. The days start of get longer and lighter, and there seems to be a lightening of moods as well.

But on Saturday I felt heaviness and a despondency that I had not in a long time. It persisted into the second of September and as much as I tried to put my finger on what the issue was I could not. It was not work anxiety; my daughter was doing fine and was settling after a period of her own anxieties; I was eating well and getting exercise. Nor was it due to the ending of a long-time relationship.

I have suffered from depression, anxiety and panic attacks for longer than I have not. I have been on chronic medication for these since the age of 20. Generally I am fine. I manage my mental health. But occasionally the “black dog”, as Churchill put it, overwhelms me, leaving me gasping for breath, alone, desperate and very scared. Each time I have an episode I know how bad it could become and how long it could linger. The anticipation is often worse that the actual event.

So this past weekend when the heaviness came over me I went through the list of the normal suspects of causes. But none of them resonated.

And then this morning, walking across a parking lot I smelt it. Jasmine. That pungent, sweet smell of jasmine. My childhood smell of Spring.

Outside of my childhood bedroom was a very large jasmine bush. As soon as it flowered my mom would place a large posy of the blooms in my room. It didn’t seem to strike her that the bush was right at my bedroom window, and even if the window was closed the aroma would flood my bedroom. The smell of jasmine is the smell of my childhood, and the smell of my mother. The smell of jasmine this morning reminded me of the death of my mother. The smell reminded me why I was so sad.

The smell of the season of Spring has become the smell of the season of sadness. You see, for me, between September and March there are too many anniversaries, birthdays and days of loss.

On 23 September this year Eric and I have been married 16 years. Before we got married we had been together for almost four years. Twenty years is a long time. I still think of myself as married to Eric. It’s a very strange thing. Obviously I know he is never coming back. This is not a divorce or separation where a couple can decide to try again. With death there is no second try. I think until I meet someone who will be my next life partner (and I hope he comes along sooner rather than later!), I will continue to think of Eric as my husband.

On 25 October I was diagnosed with cancer and I had my mastectomy on 28 October. I can’t believe that it was five years ago next month. For those who have survived cancer reaching the 5-year mark is a biggie. It is the sign that things are looking good, a sign that says you are on the road to recovery. It does not mean that there cannot be a reoccurrence, but it is a good indicator that you are in the road to survival. But even though it is five years on, the memories of the diagnosis and the mastectomy are unshakeable.

In November I get a break – because come December and January it is horrendous.

December starts with my birthday, which I have had no inclination to celebrate since Eric died, and even though this year is supposed to be a big one, I shall again choose to ignore it. Then it is the anniversary of the accident which killed my mom and Eric, my mom’s birthday, Christmas and New Year’s Eve.

January brings the New Year, It is also the anniversary of my father’s death, my daughter’s birthday and my father’s birthday.

The season of sadness ends in March. Eric’s birthday is on the third.

All of these days are acute reminders of Eric’s absence, of loss and of sadness.

The past four years I had been very aware in the days leading up to September of what was to come. This year I was less aware. But my soul knew what was coming. And on 1 September it reminded me. Because even if my mind is not focused on it, my being will never forget.

Anniversaries or milestones related to grief, trauma and loss are powerful- whether one remembers them or not. In past years for the six months from September to March I have experienced everything from headaches or migraines, flu-like symptoms, anxiety, depression or just a feeling of unease or a lack of well-being. Sometimes days would pass without me remembering, and then I would wake up feeling anxious; or hear some music or smell something; there would be a trigger. Then I remember – and feel shocked saddened or guilty that I allowed it to slip my mind, even for a day.

Anniversaries trigger a range of responses in us: gratitude, pain, happiness (at the memories), relief or fear. Over the past four years I have recognized and acknowledged them in a variety of ways. For me it helps deal with the emotions that are evoked.

For the first anniversary of the death of Eric and my mom, I had planned the day well in advance in detail. Until I realized that the planning was a mask to the grief and I was focusing on the event rather than the reason for it. I immediately cancelled all plans and rather had no plan (most unusual for me). In the week leading up to the day I started to feel guilty that I was not acknowledging and remembering. Until I realized that every single day for the rest of my life I would remember.

The actual day broke and it was a beautiful sunny day. I was staying with my brother and his family, and we spent a quiet morning together. And then on the spur of the moment decided to invite our closest friends to go to lunch with us. And what a wonderful, joyous, laughter-filled celebration of my mom and husband it was. No amount of meticulous planning or detailed organization could have had the same outcome. Eric would have been very pleased.

When I have been asked about how to commemorate a death or trauma I always respond that we each celebrate in our own way: take time to reflect; plan a special occasion; do something unexpected, such as run a marathon; treat yourself (on Eric and my anniversary I buy a posy of the flowers what was in my wedding bouquet and have my hair done); or do what my brother did for us: in a park near our family home he planted an Ironwood for Eric and installed a bench for my mom and dad.

On the first anniversary of the death of Eric and my mom, my brother had the Ironwood in the foreground and the bench installed in their and my dad’s memory.

Or just do nothing, because that is also ok.