Birthdays are an interesting thing in my life.
I believe birthdays are significant. As an amateur genealogist, it is important
for me to find out when and where a person was born. This tells me a lot, off the top, about who
they are, how they are related to me, and what their life might have been
like.
As a child, mine was the only September birthday in the
whole family. I have a very large and
continuously expanding family, so that seems a little interesting to me. Thinking about it now, other than the son of
one of my oldest friends, who was thoughtful enough to be born on my birthday,
I can’t think of any other September birthdays.
Even so, I’ve come to dread my own birthday. That feels like a real butthole-ish thing to
say, in my life. I am so fortunate to
have a wonderful family, who wants me to have a nice birthday. Not having a nice birthday just seems like a
crappy thing to do.
As a kid, my birthday often happened on the first, two days
after my birthday, since that’s when my parents got paid. I can remember not really minding, except for
the impatience of waiting for my gift.
When it happened, my family would make a deal out of it, as my parents
tried to do for all of us. That’s a big
thing to do when you have six kids.
The girl’s birthdays were always so much more important than
mine. I always loved making a deal out
of theirs. Hailli and Rebecca had to
share, having birthdays two years and one day apart. Elizabeth’s birthday always meant a trip to
the water park, or the beach. On my
birthday, I could usually expect some construction paper cards, and a lot of hugs
and kisses, which was nice.
Before Storm, I had come to pretty much not care about my
birthday. I don’t think I care so much
about it, even now. It was Storm that
cared about birthdays. Even for people
he barely knew, he would move anything to make their birthday cool. He would borrow money. He would drive them
anywhere. He would shout, “Happy
birthday!” in his amazingly loud voice and get everyone at the bar buying that
person, and himself, a drink.
Every year on my birthday, Storm was gonna make it
special. Even in years when we literally
had nothing. I remember each of the
eight birthdays I spent with him. Some
of the more fun things we did was go camping at Devil’s Lake state park, in
Lincoln City, OR. It was pouring rain
and freezing, but for some reason, he thought it was funny to freeze and camp
for my birthday. One year we drove over
just for the day and bought ourselves some very nice Columbia chairs at the
outlet mall, and ate brats over a driftwood fire, and drank beer, and watched
the sun go down while our dogs slept in the sand.
After we became gardeners, my birthday became the final
harvest of the year. We would go glean
everything we could, pile it on the giant desk by the front window, and take
pictures. Then we would make something
yummy. Enchiladas. One year we canned spaghetti sauce. We did homemade pizza. We would use every single ingredient we
could. Even when we had no money, Storm
would find me pot. He would get me a
bottle of wine.
My 47th birthday is approaching in 26 days. I already don’t wanna get out of bed. I’m going to, though. It will be a Friday, so I am going to want to
get ready for Shabbat. My kids are going
to remember, and say happy birthday, and likely I can look forward to having
dinner provided for me, by some means.
I’m going to smile. I’m going to feel
happy, even. And still, every moment of
it is going to be spent missing that man with all of my heart.
There are times I feel it less acutely these days. In fact, most of the time, I’m pretty
good. There is plenty for me to do. There’s plenty of love surrounding me, and I
am continuously reminded that the Father cares for the widow. Thanksgiving is continually on my lips.
My birthday is also more than just my birthday. All of my difficult days happen within a
four-month period, starting with my birthday September 28th, our
actual anniversary November 24th, our wedding anniversary on
December 31, and then his birthday, which was January 3rd. Finally, his death day is February 13th. Winter was never my favorite season.
I know that the healthiest thing I can do at this point is
try to restructure my birthday in my heart and in my mind. I have tried doing so, in fact. I spent my 45th in Israel, and I
think I might try to do something cool for my 50th, like take a
hike. Yet, even so, that heavy feeling
of dread is creeping up on me. A gathering
gray cloud that just gets bigger and bigger.
At the end of night, it will just be me, and maybe one of my
cats, laying in my bed. It’s the alone-ness
that I am so new to. I feel as if I was
meant to be a good wife, and that I’ve squandered my changes. Now it’s as if I’m just gonna be alone and
that’s the way it will have to be. That
always seems to be the hardest part to get my brain around.
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| Matchey, sleeping on my bed. :) |
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