In August, I celebrated my 62nd birthday. I have never considered birthdays any different than any other day, but Amy was the exact opposite. She always celebrated birthdays for me and others with special meals, family gatherings, or fun adventures. Her propensity for fun on birthdays led to her infamous organization of Operation Brassiere for her sister’s 40th birthday and Mary’s subsequent revenge three years later. Her birthday was one of the four holidays that I was required to appropriately celebrate with her each year.
For my last birthday, as her health began to falter, she still made the effort to give me a nice card, and a birthday treat as we gathered in our bedroom where she felt the most comfortable. The card had a rocket ship on the cover and inside it simply stated, “I love you to the moon and back!”
Inside it read “In other words, a lot! Happy Birthday” Below the printed words she wrote with a bold black sharpie “to the love of my life! xoxo Amy” This birthday card has been on my nightstand for the past four years. I could not bear to part with it and reread it from time to time. I often would stare at her handwriting, wishing I could hear her say those magic words and feel that little peck she gave me when she handed me the card.
In July of this year, I decided I should stow the card away. Although I loved the card dearly, I felt parting with the card was somehow another step forward toward healing. Its’ absence from my nightstand did not enter my mind until the echo of birthday wishes slammed into me on my birthday.
As the echoes reverberated inside my head, I felt guilt. Guilt that Amy’s life was cut short and mine persists. Guilt that everyone’s life continues unabashed. Anger that the world doesn’t stop from time to time to remember her life. The world continues to churn on as if our family’s pain for her absence is irrelevant.
I am sure most widows and widowers struggle with the desire to trade places with their departed spouse at some point in their grief journey. This birthday, those thoughts resurfaced and came crashing down on me. It triggered a bout of grief that has grown less frequent in recent months. I gladly would have traded places with Amy. Her life impacted so many more lives than my own. She was a light to so many.
I rummaged through my drawer in hopes that I had not thrown the card out and was relieved when I discovered it in the drawer of my nightstand.
Unfortunately, Amy’s birthday wish will always be just an echo in my mind now. I suspect that no matter how distant the memory becomes, each year I will listen for that echo and envision the moment again. It exists only in my memory now.
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Thank you for sharing that story. I feel the same way you do about birthdays. Just another day. No big deal. Veronica relates to birthdays the way Amy did. She has a twin sister, which makes her day that much more special. BTW, her birthday is this Friday the 9th. I try to give her a unique card for that occasion. I tend to hold on to certain cards I get from her for sentimental reasons. Sometimes, I just can’t let go. Memories can be great therapy.