October 27 was the seventh anniversary of my husband, Harvey’s death. This time of year is tough for me. Besides his passing, Harvey was placed in the first dementia care unit and was transferred to geriatric psychiatry in the autumn. Add that to the lengthening days, and I don’t much care for the fall season beyond cooler temperatures and the ubiquitous pumpkin spice.
However, our oldest daughter, Elena, has declared October 27 as Grandpa Harvey day. She has been diligent about telling stories and sharing photographs of her dad with her two young children. And they have latched on, especially the four year old. She tells me regularly, “I love Grandpa Harvey. I wish he didn’t die.” She writes to him and draws him pictures. There is a connection there that astounds me.
Our younger daughter, Christina, was always told that she looked like her father with her large grey-blue eyes, thin face, and slender frame. It was hard for me to see it; they both just looked like themselves to me. This four-year-old granddaughter of mine, though, on seeing a photograph of Christina at about age nine, declared it was Grandpa Harvey. I was blown away, as were we all. Christina then compiled three photos of her dad and added this one of her into a collage, and it was stunningly obvious how much alike they looked.
I have tried to honor Harvey with various traditions, old and new, and I think my daughters appreciate that. It is still too difficult to talk about the hard times, but we try to keep his memory alive with stories of vacations, playing basketball and soccer, and reading aloud. We talk about how our lives might be different had he not had this diagnosis.
On Harvey’s birthday, six months prior to his passing away, we celebrated at his memory care unit with pizza and beer. A year later, then six months after he had died, Elena, Christina, and I celebrated his birthday with pizza and beer again. We added Bruce Springsteen to the festivities—Harvey was a huge fan.
I like that we are celebrating Harvey on the anniversary of his death, turning a sad day into a day of remembrance and honoring his legacy. So on October 27 the three of us went to a movie theater and watched “Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere,” the new biopic.
Harvey may be gone, but he lives on in our memories and in the genetic material of our daughters and grandchildren. For all of that, I am full of gratitude.