I wonder if this is how veterans feel on Veteran’s Day or those who lost loved ones to war feel on Memorial Day? I don’t know how to put this any other way: It feels like a holiday.
Which does not mean it’s fun. Which does not mean we’re celebrating. But nor does it mean that we’re any gloomier than usual. It’s like we’ve taken a day where we can think about him a little more intensely, because, in a normal world, we’d be having a birthday party today.
My employer is generally pretty good about making sure I don’t work on days like this (I make up for it on the weekends). Christina took the day off. We’re in the middle of the winter break, though, given that we’re all home full time, it’s not really that much of a difference from the new norm in that respect. In some ways, it’s another day during the coronavirus crisis.
Like so many other things since his death, I’m not at all sure how I should be behaving. It’s not going to be a yippee-skippee day, but I’m also not wracked with mourning. Last night, Christina went to bed on the early side, so I got the TV to myself and watched an episode of “Game of Thrones” and, honestly, I’m spending far too much time today obsessing what happens next. I’m wondering why I biked downtown twice this week and my body hasn’t realized that this is it’s cue to spontaneously lose five pounds. I’m wondering if the fact that we’re not at our usual vacation retreat in Bavaria – where we spend most of our time grazing at a buffet – means I’m on a technical diet this week, at least in comparison to the last 10 years we’ve headed down there.
As is so often the case, it doesn’t feel quite right. There is this urge to be more sad, but I’m not going to force it either – God knows, it sneaks up on me enough that I don’t have to go looking for it. We’re getting our usual flurry of concerned emails and text messages – and they’re all appreciated, but it’s weird to answer the “How are you doing today?” question with “We’re thinking about watching the final installment of Star Wars later.”
I think of the one guy in the support group – which I haven’t been to since May – who said he hasn’t gone in his daughter’s room once in the years since her death. And there’s a part of me that thinks this guy has to come to grips with his grief. But I realize it’s not my place to tell anyone how to do this. Maybe I take the edge off of my problems because I have my writing. Maybe – and this wasn’t really a conscious decision – but I don’t tiptoe around Colin’s death with friends. People ask me how I’m doing and I’ll say if his absence is weighing me down or if I’ve just found a keepsake ant it’s gotten me thinking or if the reason I’m not working today is because I told the guy who does the schedules that it’s Colin’s birthday and I’d rather not spend the day worrying about Covid-19 and Myanmar’s coup, if it’s OK with everyone. I sometimes worry that it makes me, at the very least, a bit of a bummer to be around. Then I realize that I’ll go nuts if I try to censor every bummer of a thought I have and, honestly, I think by this point I’ve weeded out the people who can’t bear the weight.
So, how are we doing? We had a nice breakfast. We sent the kids upstairs to finish up some school projects. We’re getting ready to go to the cemetery, to see if the mystery person left Colin another birthday candle. I’m sending emails to handymen (you haven’t lived until you’ve seen me trying to communicate in German about house repairs … and by “lived” I mean “enjoyed tragicomedy”). I’ve heard there might be chocolate chip cookies later. And then we’re going to either watch Star Wars or play a new game (or do both). Maybe I’ll get everyone off to bed and figure out what happens on the next GoT episode.
Happy Birthday, buddy. We’re living as normally as we can.
❤️