Someone told me recently that the anticipation of the anniversary is worse than the day itself when it arrives. This may be true; I won't know until Thursday which will be the first anniversary of Hugh's death but these days leading up to it certainly bring their own difficulty. I often tell my clients about the recognised stages of grief and explain that we don't tend to experience them in a neat order, rather we 'take the scenic route' and move back and forth between them and so recently, I have been a times consumed with guilt as I think back to August 19th last year.
The guilt is for not being there for him when it mattered, for not realising how much he was suffering, for not being able to make things right as I could have done when he was a small child. It makes no difference that I know I couldn't know what was going on in his mind and that, in the end, he didn't allow anyone to help him on that final night.
I guess what really hurts is that he didn't turn to me when it really mattered.