No Ordinary Birthday(s)

On June’s first birthday after she died, which was her second birthday, a friend texted me and said, “The skies cry for June today.” I looked out the window. I hadn’t noticed that it was raining. In the dense fog of grief, I hadn’t realized the skies were in fact crying.

On March 13th, the day June died, marking one year since her passing, the skies, again, cried. Now, I can only remember the skies crying on days that seem to carry the weight of any significance. Would I remember them if the sun had shone?

Today, on my thirty-eighth birthday, the skies are crying. It makes sense, I thought as I sat in the doctor’s office this morning awaiting my annual physical of which I had neglected to notice I’d scheduled for the morning of my birthday. Most likely a scheduling conflict which occurred when I left the office around this same time last year. Even if I had noticed that the appointment was scheduled on my birthday, as I exited the doctor’s office one year ago, I probably didn’t think that I’d make it another year. How would I survive? I had only just lost June. Did I care if I survived? Not then, no, but I do now. That’s one thing that did change in my thirty-seventh year. 

The forecast for tomorrow, the 13th of September, is rain. Tomorrow marks exactly one-and-a-half years since June died. The exact amount of time that has passed since June died is the exact amount of time that June was alive. She lived one-and-a-half years. It has been one-and-a-half years since she died, tomorrow. Next Friday, her birthday, marks her third year. If she were here, her years on earth would triple. Since she is not here, her life is doubled when she turns three on September 22nd. This equation makes sense to me, but so does the meaning I assign to these dates, a small piece of June’s afterlife. 

“June over the years,” was the first automated video displayed on the photo widget on my phone this morning. Happy birthday mama, I felt like June was saying to me, as I swiped past the video. I can’t right now, I have to get the kids to school and make it to the doctor (on time). A trauma within itself. Wondering, did the phone generate the video because I hadn’t recently taken any photos of June? Not for at least a year-and-a-half. At times since Bella, our beloved dog died, the phone does the very same: creates a beautiful montage of Bella’s life. Thirty-second videos highlighting moments of both June and Bella’s lives grace my phone regularly. My phone must know they’ve died. Since I’ve decided the skies are crying, I’ve also decided June and Bella are sending me a memory of themselves when I need them the most.

The birthday exists as a continuation of life, one that I took for granted every year before June became sick. The day itself comes once a year. My previous relationship with a birthday was ignorantly celebrating the happy moments of which my life consisted mostly of as an adult. Happy moments. Since June died, I have a more realistic approach. In this last year, I have come to terms with life being not only happy moments, but also gruesome and terribly sad ones as well. These moments and memories of moments like I describe, lend to both a more fulfilling and fragile existence. Daily, I perform a tightrope walk. Will I fall into fulfillment today or will fragility take hold and pull me down?

I imagine my birthday in two ways. I imagine what it would look like for fragility to take over today. I’d crawl to the back of a dark cave. A dive bar is close enough. The only energy I’d expend is in hoisting myself up onto a worn bar stool. Subsequent energy will be spent lifting a glass to my mouth and swallowing the liquid inside. A dark and stormy seems fitting, so first I’ll order that, no ice. My hair is greasy. My nails, unmanicured. I’m wearing slippers which I noticed as I was walking out the door, but didn’t care enough to change. I don’t have my contact lenses in, and halfway to the bar, I realized I’d forgotten to put my glasses on. I dropped my kids at school on the way to my final destination, after rushing them out of the house, “Mommy’s got things she needs to do today,” I said as I slung backpacks with yesterday’s water bottles in them over my shoulder. 

The ginger beer in my dark and stormy tastes optimistic. Stupid name, I think as I spit the first sip back into the glass and flag the bartender. “I’ll take a Jim Beam,” I say, “water back.” It’s that kind of day. The bartender says nothing, and dumps the dark and stormy into the sink just behind the bar. It’s that kind of drunk I’d like to be by nine-thirty in the morning on my birthday. Once the buzz starts to kick in, so does the flood of self-pity. This isn’t the way I intended for my life to unfold. This isn’t who I want to be. This isn’t my life. Is this really my life? I asked myself that last question one thousand times in my thirty-seventh year. 

The fulfilling existence I’ve worked so hard to achieve in the last year-and-a-half won’t allow the fragility to take over today. You won’t find me in a cave that is a dive bar wallowing in self-pity. I’m stronger than that version of myself. Drinking would only prolong the inevitable pain which I’ve learned to acknowledge and feel, so that it doesn’t linger. It’s gone with the passing of a day or even a few hours now. 

I survived to see another year and for that I am grateful. I vow to continue to create new meaning in my thirty-eighth year. I will honor June by accepting this year and allow the unfolding of life to occur and maybe, even a little bit, look forward to what I cannot predict because surely, there’s something in it for me. 

The dense fog of grief lowers itself into my life with every passing significant day. I’m walking through it instead of stopping as I once did. I am only steps from the ocean, which I am unable to see, but I know it’s there because I hear it. The fog, once gray, turns bright white stinging the backs of my eyes. I am engulfed in the light. The air is heavy around me. I can feel it weighing on my chest. I walk toward the ocean because I trust it’s there, and as I feel the cool water wash over the tops of my feet, I know I am right where I need to be.

The light is brighter now than before the fog existed.

Did I need the fog to magnify the light?

Fullfillment takes over.

Fragility dissipates.

The sky continues to cry.

It makes so much sense, I think.