Seven Days of Giving Grief Its Own Hour

Missing someone doesn't arrive on a schedule. The hour in this piece doesn't force it to.

Wednesday afternoon, twenty past four, the intersection near the market, seventy seconds left on the red. I was in the car, phone clipped to the mount, the app had just flashed a new fare. A woman had climbed into the back seat, a faint trace of medicated oil on her. That smell, I hadn't chosen it. It came straight up.

— Sir, the light's green.

— Yes, I'm sorry.

— Are you all right? I can walk from here, it's fine.

— No, I'm fine. Just let me stop for a moment.

I pulled over to the curb, switched on the hazard lights, and stared at the license plate crawling along in front of me. The passenger paid for half the ride and said, "Take a rest, sir." I thanked her, then sat there a long while longer with both hands still around the steering wheel.

My mother died in July. Since then the longing has picked exactly the moments when I have nowhere to set it down: in the car, in the middle of a fare, behind a red light. If you are also being caught off guard in places that are never convenient, this is about seven days of trying the opposite: give it an hour of its own, a seat of its own, and see what happens.

This hour isn't a box for locking the longing away until evening. It isn't a way to miss someone less, or to never cry on the road again. It is only an appointment: the longing knows there is a place waiting for it, and I know I will show up.

Why does the longing keep choosing the moments I'm busy?

That night I got home, showered, ate a bowl of instant noodles standing at the stove, and lay down. I told myself: think about Mom tonight. By eleven, worn flat, I had fallen asleep before I'd thought about anything.

I used to think it arrived in the middle of the day because I was busy every day, and my mind left a gap and it slipped in. That sounds reasonable, and people around me said so too: "Driving alone all day, of course you miss her."

But counting back I saw something else, and I'm only talking about myself here. I kept promising it "tonight," day after day. Night came and I was too tired, so it got pushed again. Something that keeps getting pushed back knocks harder each time, and always at the least convenient place, right in the car, right when there is a passenger. It didn't come in the middle of the day because I had spare time. It came because my evenings never had room for it.

The easiest place to slip is turning the hour into a deadline. That's exactly what I did at first: no remembering before half past eight, only when the time comes. It sounded disciplined, but longing can't read a clock. If it showed up early even once I felt I had failed. Instead, the hour is only the place where it is certain to be welcomed. In the middle of the day, when it comes, I nod and say quietly: "Tonight," and keep doing what I'm doing.

Seven days, fifteen minutes a day

The first day is easy and the fourth is gentle. If you miss a day, come back, and don't make it up. And one thing that isn't up for debate: don't do this while driving, standing at a machine or holding a knife. Sit down only when you are somewhere quiet.

Day 1: Choose the hour and the chair

The exercise. Pick a time in the evening, not when you're most worn out. For me it was half past eight, after the dishes, before picking up my phone. Pick a seat. I chose the plastic chair on our small porch. Then say one line to the longing, as an appointment: "Tonight at half past eight, Mom."

Time. Ten minutes to choose, no need to sit yet. Note. The easiest day. You only choose. You don't have to do anything.

Day 2: Sit for fifteen minutes and do nothing at all

The exercise. When the hour comes, sit in the chair, set a timer for fifteen minutes, and turn the phone face down. Let the longing come if it wants to. If it doesn't come, that's fine too. Sitting there is enough.

Time. Fifteen minutes. Note. Don't measure it by how sad you get. Measure it by the fact that you sat down.

The first time I sat, I felt awkward, like someone waiting for a person who isn't coming. The first ten minutes were empty, and I looked at the timer more than at the longing. Around minute twelve, there was no medicated oil, only my mother's voice in memory: "Khải, hand me my cup." I sat quietly and heard the whole sentence out.

Day 3: A small object in your hands

The exercise. Sit as you did yesterday, but hold one small thing that brings them back. For me it was the plastic cup my mother used to drink water from. Just hold it, no need to say anything.

Time. Fifteen minutes. Note. I almost quit on this day. The cup was lighter than I remembered, and that lightness bothered me. I stayed seated, and the next day it was easier.

Day 4: A light day

The exercise. Sit in the chair for only five minutes, or sit without trying to remember anything. Finish a warm cup of tea.

Time. Five minutes. Note. One day in the middle of the week is allowed to ask for less.

Day 5: Tell one small thing

The exercise. Sit down and say out loud one small thing from today you'd like to tell the person. That day I said: "Today I drove a passenger with the same name as Dad, and he talked a lot, Mom." Quietly is fine, one or two sentences is fine.

Time. Fifteen minutes. Note. The smaller the story the better. Save the big ones for someone who can listen.

Day 6: When it arrives before the appointment

The exercise. Today, when the longing comes in the middle of the day, say softly: "I hear you. Tonight," and if it's practical, write one line on a scrap of paper or in your phone notes: what time it came and what set it off. In the evening, sit and read that scrap.

Time. Fifteen minutes in the evening, a few seconds during the day. Note. Today is the day you find out whether the appointment holds.

My sixth day was the one when it hit me in the car harder than any other day. I pulled over, said the line, wrote "ten past five, music from a drink stall," and sat another minute before driving on. That evening I read the line and felt I had answered it more properly than any of the times before.

Day 7: Sit down again and ask

The exercise. Sit in your usual place and look back at the seven days. Answer the two questions in the box below, then decide: keep this hour as it is, change the time, or stop.

Time. Fifteen minutes. Note. Stopping is also a valid answer.

After a week, some people say the longing in the middle of the day knocks less urgently, because it now knows there is a place for it in the evening. Others find it's the same as before, only with a chair added. I'm both: two days in the middle of the week were easier, and on the sixth it came back harder. There is no straight line.

There is one more place to slip: using the hour to "get it all out." I wanted that too, because everyone wants to be done, to see the bottom. But longing has no bottom to touch, and setting a quota turns fifteen minutes into an exam: did I cry enough today. Let it be a seat, not a quota.

If you tried it and it didn't work

First common reason: the longing won't wait. Even with an hour set aside, it still hits in the middle of the day, and some days it hits much harder. Then the hour hasn't failed, it just isn't enough for it alone. Keep the line "I hear you, tonight," let it come, and if you are driving or doing something that needs full attention, pull over somewhere safe first. If you'd rather write than sit, the method of writing it down and scheduling time for it later is told with worries instead, but it is the same idea and you can borrow it.

Second common reason: when the hour comes, the longing doesn't, and you only sit there for fifteen minutes feeling empty. That is ordinary too. Some people need to be doing something with their hands before the longing can come: wiping down the car, folding clothes, cooking a small pot. Try swapping the fifteen minutes of sitting for fifteen minutes of one slow task, no phone. Or if neither fits yet, the piece on living with the pain of losing a loved one may say what you need more directly. And if your pain simply won't leave no matter what you try, the piece on pain that refuses to leave is about exactly that feeling.

Tonight at half past eight, the plastic chair is still out on the porch. Gently, no rush. It can wait.

When to seek professional support

This article is one way to try when you miss someone who has died. It cannot replace treatment, and I am not promising the longing will ease after seven days.

But here are a few signs you should bring to a professional, rather than carrying them alone:

• The longing or the pain hits many times a day, for weeks, and never drops back even a little
• It hits while you are driving or doing something that needs full attention, so often that you no longer feel safe
• Eating and sleeping have been upended for many days in a row, or working has become much harder than before
• You think about hurting yourself, even if it is just a passing thought

The last point cannot wait. Speak with someone you trust, today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

Seeing a professional doesn't mean you are weak. It only means this longing is big, and you don't have to hold it alone.