Coping with Trauma Anniversary Reaction

These days, I know to expect it.

As the end of August nears, the panic rises, the night sweats begin. I wake up in the darkness to the cries of my daughter, and discover I am soaked, my chest slick with sweat.

The days bring a heavy melancholy, a sadness I can’t quite place, and the tears, always on the precipice, come easily.

As September arrives and the promise of autumn beckons, my world is filled with the reminders of this approaching season. Pumpkins pop up in familiar places, cosy knits fill the racks and the scent of fallen leaves and cinnamon fills the air. My social media fills with cosy images of home comforts – the warm throws, spiced lattes and burning candles. 

Each picture acts as a trigger, the panic rising in my chest, my mind says, ‘no.’ I don’t want summer to be over. 

Those things that are comforting and cosy to others are objects of my discomfort. Because for me, the turn of the season brings anxiety.

Those nights that begin earlier bring with them a darkness that descends like a veil and settles on me heavily. This feeling is an aching, a void I can physically feel on my chest. A deep sadness I could drown in, a constant and inexplicable feeling of being on the verge of weeping.

It took me some time before i knew what it was, this darkness that I felt. I knew it was associated with the season, and for some time I believed it to be Seasonal Affective Disorder. My mood has always been so very dependent on the weather, mirroring the darkness or the light. But we live in the USA now. I can no longer place my feelings on the grey, dreary days that are so familiar in England. Here, the sun lights up the land far more often than not. 

I still felt it. Even in the light, I felt the darkness. It was more than lack of sunlight.

And then it just clicked. I don’t know why it took me so long.

I realized what my body had known before my brain did. It was the seasonal anniversary leading up to our sons’ deaths.

Autumn was the season where we learned that one or both of our twins would die. A horrendous waiting game of three months, filled with hospital stays and worry and so many tears. A period of time when we experienced the worst pain and trauma of our lives. A period of utter devastation and despair, where the lives of our children hung in the balance. 

Trauma Anniversary Reaction

And then I discovered that what I’ve been experiencing had a name. Anniversary reaction. A re-triggering or re-experiencing of a traumatic event that occurs because of a time cue associated with when the trauma occurred. Even if a person is not consciously aware of the current date or season, often the mind remembers subconsciously—by the weather, the light, or other seasonal reminders – resulting in several days or weeks of anxiety, fear, nightmares, depression or flashbacks. 

Symptoms & Flashbacks

The turn of the season from summer to autumn takes me back four years ago, when a week before our first wedding anniversary, a routine pregnancy scan revealed that one of our twins – who had been perfect and happily bouncing around just a week earlier – no longer had any amniotic fluid. I recall the moment we were led to a private room and told to wait for the doctor to come and tears pricked in my eyes because I knew that meant it was bad.

These dark nights remind me of those cold, lonely nights – always the night – waking up at 2am to discover I was bleeding. A crimson river pouring from my body. The eerily quiet drives to the hospital, hoping to still feel my babies turn, hoping to still hear their heartbeat. And eventually, my waters breaking around our second twin, and with it, the loss of any hope. 

These dark nights remind me of all the nights spent in the labour suite, hearing the cries of healthy newborn babies all around me, whilst I lay wondering if this was the day our babies would die, until one day, it was.

This season reminds me of the phone call I made to Matt at work, on Halloween, to let him know I was having contractions, and we knew it was the end. The end of the trauma, the end of the pregnancy, the end of their lives, and the end of our life as we knew it.

This season takes me back to the silent drive to the hospital, that final time, with the unspoken weight of what was about to happen sitting heavily between us. Lying in that hospital room, knowing that our twins were soon about to die. Being told that our first born was stillborn, and that he was a boy. Noah. Holding William in our arms as he died. What should have been a lifetime together, reduced to mere hours.

This season’s stormy skies remind me of Matt and I clutching each other as we walked through baby cemetaries – the places of lost dreams and endings that came before beginnings. The cold wind fast on our faces, the rain soaking us along with our tears. How do you pick a perfect spot to bury your children? 

This season reminds me of the moment I stood at our window, the day of their funeral, staring out and waiting for the hearse to arrive, a hearse carrying a tiny white coffin that held our children.

These are the events that happened in Autumn. This is why the turn of the season brings me so much anxiety and panic.

Coping with Anniversary Reaction

And with the discovery of this condition, I found with it coping strategies, to help me through the pain. For anyone else experiencing an anniversary reaction, here are some ways to navigate the difficulties…

• Go easy on yourself. Recognise that you may be more vulnerable during this time and that you can get through by being good to yourself in a healthy way. Respect your needs.

• Actively minimize stress and take good care of yourself. Get a sufficient amount of restful sleep, take your normal medications. Meditate, exercise, practice yoga. Spend time with loved ones.

• Build new memories and meanings for the time frame. Although it takes time to heal, you will eventually get to choose which memories you wish to savour and those you wish to “not constantly remember.”

• Talk to others and seek support to help ease the emotional burden. Don’t allow yourself to experience internalized grief without mentioning it or even discussing it, which many people tend to do.

I find it hard, so hard, the approach of this season. I hope over the years it will get easier. That the painful memories of my babies dying will diminish, and I can fill up my heart with joyful memories of apple picking in mountain orchards, visiting pumpkin patches and looking forward to the birthdays of our two precious living children.

But I now know that it is the transition into this season that is the hardest. And then it settles with me and the busyness of the season sweeps me along on a fast tide, and before I know it I have made it to the other side, once again.