A New Kind of Birthday

“You were the first baby I saw being born,” my mom would tell me when she would wish me a happy birthday every year. I was the second of five children. The window was at an angle that allowed her to see my entrance into the world. “You were always in a hurry, ready to walk off my lap when you were a baby.” Every year she would tell me those stories.  

Last year was my first birthday since my mom died, but I was in Syracuse to celebrate it with my dad. Both Mom and Dad are gone this year, leaving an enormous hole in my heart. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss their stories and voices until death silenced them.

The grief that lives just beneath the surface has cascaded over the last two days in anticipation of and on my birthday. Yesterday, I woke up with the memory of Mom’s calls in the past on the 21^st, asking how being whatever age I was for the last time felt. Sometimes it would be annoying when I was younger. As her memory faded, so did that question.

I’m also living in the duality of first-year grief with my dad. As I reflected on my mom, I also thought that last year at this time, I was with my dad in Syracuse. I could picture our time together in the living room and helping him with his needs. I got to spend my birthday with him, something that hadn’t happened in years because of how far apart we lived from each other.

One of the big things I’ve learned about grief, thanks to groups I’m in, webinars, and books, is that I can live with both heartbreak and joy. They are not mutually exclusive. Although I spent most of the morning yesterday in tears, I went to lunch with my friend for an early birthday celebration and had a good time. The sadness is willing to wait for another time to express itself. I woke up sad this morning, seeing photos of my husband, mom, and dad across the bedroom, knowing they were gone and couldn’t be with me to celebrate. I had a massage scheduled as a gift for myself. My dad would always send me a card with a check, saying treat yourself to something nice. Although the massage was great, I ended up with vertigo as I sat up from the table, something I hadn’t had in three years. Feeling physically ill was a distraction from my grief.

I was grateful for all the well wishes that I received from family and friends today. It’s a lovely reminder that I’m not alone in the world and that I am loved. However, being without the people who knew and loved me from the start can never be replaced.