Birthdays can suck. But not as much as Deathdays.
by ggPuppetLady
It was Dad’s birthday ten days ago, April 24. He would have been 78. As usual, his far-flung family and friends toasted him with a good wine (or organic lemonade at my house), and ate Indian, his favourite food. It’s become a bit of a ritual every year now, as the time passes without him.
This year my son was with me on his school holidays (hence the lemonade), so we went to visit Dad in the Adelaide Japanese Gardens where we had (sneakily) scattered some of his ashes into the lily pond in 2009.
I enjoy going there very much, ‘to sit with Dad’, along with the sadness that that inevitably brings. He and I had gone there together several times when he was visiting Adelaide the week before he died in 2008; we both enjoyed the peace, and the ordered beauty of the greenery.
Sometimes when I visit, I see couples lying on the grass, snatching a quiet intimacy in the middle of the city. I see new brides, posing in their big dresses, standing on the clichéd bridge across the pond between their old life and the new one they’re beginning- honestly, sometimes there is a queue of brides waiting to be photographed- my highest tally so far is four.
Occasionally there is a small picnic, with the glitter of birthday food being shared. I smile, but I’m envious too. For the rest of my life now, and my son’s life, there will be a Dad-shaped hollow. No phone call, no silly card, no even sillier gift. And his family all feels sad on his birthday, but enact our comforting rituals to honour him.
So birthdays can suck. We all know that. We’ve all had one that fell flat, whether we were 6 or 36. Hell, once I even missed one all together: camping for a week in a National Park on an island near Townsville, roughing it in tents, with no time-keepers or contact with the outside world… We just sort of missed my birthday Wednesday. Not a bad place to lose one though:
But Deathdays? They’re harder. I don’t know what else to call it: the anniversary of the day you lost your loved one. Is there another word for that day in our culture that I don’t know?
In Mexico (and other countries) there is The Day of the Dead, usually November 1 & 2, a National holiday, when “… families and friends gather building private altars to honor the deceased using marigolds and skulls, and the favorite foods and drinks of the departed, visiting graves with these as gifts.” (Wikepedia)
I would find great comfort in a day like that.
I could dress up and walk the streets with all the other people who are permanently mourning, yet also celebrating the loss of a loved one, while embodying the knowledge that we too will one day be celebrated in our turn by those we’ve left behind. I feel a lack of openness in my Western culture, where to refer to dying or death is almost taboo; corpses are hidden away, cremated behind curtains, buried in closed coffins. Grief is too much of a challenge if you feel it for too long; echoes of the British ‘stiff upper lip’ still permeate our social norms.
Even more poignant for me in terms of honouring the departed are the Japanese Jizo shrines, dedicated to lost, miscarried or aborted children.
Many women I know, myself included, have had miscarriages or abortions, and even, most terribly, lost a child at birth or soon afterwards. Yet it remains so often an unspoken loss, or covered over quickly by well-meaning neighbours: ‘Oh you’ll be fine as soon as you have another baby, just try again’. If only it were as simple as that.
I have a friend whose daughter’s birthday and deathday is the same day. I can’t imagine the profound sadness of that date. And I wish we had more meaningful public acknowledgement of the personal tragedies that can forever mark a person.
Perhaps if we all gathered, united in our physical experience of the ceaseless cycle of birth, life, and death, there would be greater social cohesion and empathy?
After all, everyone’s tears taste the same when we weep.
Still, I’m grateful that I enjoyed my Dad for over 42 years of my birthdays before I had to learn a new way to acknowledge loss on his deathday of October 30.
Thus even though April 24 is now forever bittersweet, it is still a day of celebration for many of us who knew and loved Lawrence…
Happy Birthday Dad xx
Beautiful, Gabrielle. I’m sure he hears you.
This is a beautiful, beautiful post, Gabrielle. I agree wholeheartedly. When you lose someone you love, people seem to think you will be sad for a week or a month or a year. Instead there is a hole in your heart that’s always there. Nobody speaks of him/her. Nobody seems to remember him/her.
My family members have a nasty habit of dying on holidays (http://fiftyfourandahalf.com/2011/12/02/both-sides-now/) which sucks. Of course it has the added benefit that I can never forget an anniversary.
One thing I have found that makes me feel better. Harry Potter. In the Potter books, people continue to talk about Harry’s parents, and the other folks who die along the way. They occasionally get to come back. I swear, when I get very sad for someone, I read portions of the books and feel my dad or mom or sisters come back to me for a moment. It is incredibly comforting. But not something I tell everybody because they think I’m nuts (or roll their eyes that I haven’t ‘gotten over it.’)
Happy Mother’s Day to you (US, anyway).
Thanks Elyse- I love the Harry Potter suggestion! Perhaps that’s one reason the entire series was so successful- because there’s more fluidity of time, & parallel worlds, and magic? Plus Maggie Smith 🙂
Thanks for your lovely long thoughtful comment, & I actually spent Mother’s Day alone writing, so it was pretty good! I’m going to go read your link now 🙂
I find death days are easy! Such a bold statement.
My Dad died on August 2nd 2002. I went to Manchester to watch the Commonwealth Games and as soon as I arrived I had to come back. Someone attempted to mug me, a martial artist in a grim mood, whilst I was changing trains in Birmingham, I almost felt sorry for the mugger. I sat with my unconscious Dad for day’s in the hospice just waiting and he died when I went to the loo! Apparently this happens quite often. Freaky.
So the day means nothing at all to me, I’m fully aware of the day but never raise a glass or do anything for my Dad on that day – the significance of the day fades quickly. I celebrate my Dad on his birthday, the day of his wonderful life 🙂 I recommend it. It’s very healing.
[…] written before here about my belief we need to have a day to honour our dead that’s socially-condoned; perhaps we all […]
I don’t know where exactly I started crying while reading this post, but it was early on. I’m sitting here now, still crying, profoundly grateful to have found this post and to share for a moment its author’s feelings and thoughts.
There is another little bit of light in it, too. I lost my mom in early 2010. She and I shared a birthday. That birthday? October 30.
Here is to the cycle of all things.
Thankyou for reading and responding so viscerally! It’s lovely to share similar deep emotions and experiences, albeit across the globe.
That’s a big coincidence re Oct 30 isn’t it? [cue Twilight Zone music].
Here indeed to the cycle of life, and thankyou for dipping your toe into mine 🙂 cheers gabrielle
Thank you for sharing this. I lost my father six years ago this November, right before Thanksgiving Day. I often feel like no one ever prepared me for handling the grief of losing a close loved one, not even taking a Death and Dying class in college. It really threw me for a loop. And I can still cry at almost a moment’s notice on any given day if I think of him and feel the loss. Others that haven’t lost someone close to them typically don’t understand, so I feel there are few I can talk to about it. It’s a quiet sadness that will never leave me. And then I lost my mother last year somewhat suddenly. I do my best when I’m feeling strong to think of the good times, fond memories, and be glad for the time that I was blessed with having with both of them. Sending good thoughts your way.
I absolutely agree, and I hear your loss. Yes, it IS important to focus on the good memories, but sometimes that makes it even worse! Thankyou for reading & commenting, and good thoughts your way too :-), gabrielle in Oz