I will be, they would have been, it will be

The ever-changing calculations of grief math.

As a lover of words, I never liked math that much. It didn’t come as naturally to me.

It’s surprising, then, that I spend so much time thinking about my relationship to different numbers and dates, and how those equations change over time.

At some point this year, I will have known my childhood best friend for longer than the time I had with my dad. My dad died in late 2013, when I was 28. My friend and I met 29 years ago, as fifth-grade classmates. Grief math tells me that, on some day this year, my friend will have been part of my life for longer than my dad was.

A grieving mother can tell you how old her child would be. A widow knows what wedding anniversary should have been celebrated this year. A bereft sibling warily eyes the date he will be older than his brother ever was.

I don’t know exactly why we make these kinds of calculations, but we do. I figure it’s a way to try to make sense of the impossible. If we don’t have words to explain the heaviness of what we’re feeling, perhaps numbers will suffice. By identifying significant dates, years, and ages, we create new touchstones — another way to connect with the people we miss.

Left: 2009, Right: 2016. We changed, but not nearly as much as I imagined we would.

Grief math can be terrible.

On February 4, 2024 — five days from today — it will have been seven years since Jamie died. 

We were married for 8 years and 4 months. Grief math tells me that, on June 14, 2025, I will have been widowed for longer than I was married.

Of all the mental calculations I make, I crunch dates and numbers most often with Jamie in mind. We got married in 2008, during a time when social media was just beginning and personal blogs and photo sites like Flickr reigned supreme. As such, we started a few annual photo projects we envisioned carrying on for years to come. Every September, we’d revisit the place we got married and recreate a wedding photo. Every December, we’d pose for a family portrait in front of our Christmas tree with our dog. We’d talk about how those photos would change over time; how sad it would be when our pup Henry was no longer with us, how sweet it would be as our children and grandchildren filled the frame, how funny it would be to look back at the younger versions of ourselves when we were old and gray.

Sometimes, as a death anniversary or other significant date looms, I’ll revisit those photos. My mind tries to fill in the blanks of all the things we didn’t get to experience. Would Jamie’s hair be turning gray? Would we have adopted a new dog? What would our child — or children — be like?

Grief math gives me something to wrap my head around. I don’t know the answers to all those questions, but I do know that Jamie would be turning 40 this year. I do know that, if we became parents in 2017 like we hoped to, our child would be 7. I do know that we’d have many more photos to add to our growing collection.

Grief math can be neutral.

At least, that’s what my partner Billy tells me. He does grief math, too. Just the other day, he told me about “a weirdly specific time threshold” — that, at some point in 2023, the time since his dad’s death was equal to the duration between Billy’s current age and the age his dad was when he died.

Is this confusing to you? It was to me, too. But I was touched, knowing that Billy makes the same kind of twisty-turny mental calculations that I do. Grief math is universal. And, as Billy tried to convince me, it’s neutral.

Grief math is a tool. It’s a different way for us to make sense of something that’s incredibly hard to process.

And, just as grief is ever-changing, grief math changes, too. Billy is now past that point in 2023. Before long, he’ll identify another upcoming date that brings him a little closer to his dad.

If grief was less taboo, this would be a question I’d love to ask people at parties. What mental calculations have you made lately?

Grief math can be comforting.

I recently read an interview with the duo behind

___LESS

. There was one line that jumped out at me. Mar spoke about the yearly ritual she does on the day her mom died. “At first it gave me somewhere to go and something to do,” she said. “Later it added something to a day of subtraction.”

Addition on a day of subtraction! This is grief math, too. And this I love.

February 4 is my day of subtraction. It’s the day that Jamie died. The day that I became a 31-year-old widow. The day that our photo traditions and hopes and dreams froze in place.

I’m still figuring out exactly what I want to do this Sunday, but I’m considering plans that might add a bit of joy to a day of sadness. If the weather cooperates, I’ll go for a hike. I’ll play silly games with my daughter. I’ll hold Billy’s hand, with the hard-earned knowledge that nothing is guaranteed. I’ll take some time to remember all that I lost and reflect on everything I’ve gained. I’ll miss Jamie and let my mind imagine the person he’d be today.

Me and my dad. We did change a lot! Still, I wish we had more time.

It wasn’t long after my dad died that I made that calculation about my childhood friend. My father’s death had shifted things between us. I was searching for comfort as she was searching for the right words; for months, we both searched for something we couldn’t yet offer each other. 

And so, we began to drift apart. It felt terrible. In an attempt to remedy things, we took a trip together. On our first night of vacation, I told her how much I missed and needed her.

“In ten years, you will have been part of my life for longer than my dad was,” I told her. “I don’t want to lose you, too.”

She sat next to me, stunned, taking in that information. “Oh, my god,” she said. “How is that possible?”

She gave me a giant hug. It was a moment we’d both been waiting for. As we cried — over the loss of my dad and the gift of our friendship — any awkwardness between us melted away.

It’s now ten years later. My dad is still gone, and we are still friends.

I’m not entirely sure how I feel about grief math. It can be terrible. It can be neutral. It can even be a source of comfort and connection. Like all things related to grief, it’s entirely yours. You can use it and view it as you wish. You can talk about it or not.

Those twisty-turny calculations? They belong to you.

xoxo
KHG

p.s. Grief math isn’t taboo here! What mental calculations have you made lately? If you’re comfortable sharing, I’d love to hear your recent connections in the comments.