When I was less than a teen, I looked forward, like mad, to turning sixteen. My sisters (twins) had had a spectacular sixteenth birthday celebration..not sure of the restaurant, but it might have been the Waldorf. There were white tablecloths and candlelight...music and gorgeous dresses, high heels, gloves (!!)...gosh, it was nearly magical...I couldn't wait to turn sixteen. I used to look through the newspapers and I remember seeing an ad by Lord and Taylor for a dress...it was a drawing...but it was so beautiful to my childish eyes. THAT'S what I want to wear when I turn sixteen!!!
My actual sixteenth was spent alone. No party, no nothing. Much like my graduation from high school, met with a whole lot of nothing, while my sisters had fancy white dresses and bouquets of roses.
My grandfather (maternal) was, according to me, a wonderful guy. I know my father didn't like him, because he even, stupidly and cruelly, really...an example of the WORST parenting...made a cutting comment to me when he was getting me out of the lake to dry off because "big mouth" had shown up. I was five. His comment stung and stuck, along with others.
I loved Grandpa and have many fond memories with him. I wish I had more. I wish I had sought more and insisted upon more. At any rate, he had the audacity to die on Christmas Eve. I don't mention it, I don't make it topic of conversation because it is not relevant to anyone but myself and might be considered inappropriate or rude, but I remember it each year. Oh, damn it, Grandpa...you had to go and die on Christmas Eve??!!!
My work life in the US healthcare system lasted forty-four years. At one point, I became a "unit clerk" so I could work nights and weekends and be home with my child more in the daytime, during the week. I did that until she was in school. They were some of the most demanding years of my life.
Not only because my child had autism, not only because my husband, going through law school and the first stages of bipolar disorder (unbeknownst to anyone), but because the job of a unit clerk is not an easy one. They are, in fact, grossly underrated and underpaid. They work shifts, they have tremendous responsibilities and they are perceived as "peons." All that being beside the point, when I was training, I trained on various hospital floors and one was the children's ward. It nearly broke me.
Michigan is not known for its glorious weather. One absolutely perfect and spectacular day in May, during my shift, which began at 4 in the afternoon, a family gathered at the bedside of a twelve year old girl. She died before my "lunch" break. The sun was still shining, the birds were singing, flowers were blooming and I walked through the halls of the hospital until I came to a spot by a courtyard and there was no one around. I sat and cried.
It was then I realized that bad things happen every day. Good things, probably, too. I sat there, in the late afternoon sun, on a splendid day, and tried to understand how a young girl could die on such a spectacular spring afternoon. We don't get to choose our birthdays...or the day that we die. We don't get to choose when a serial killer will attack, or when a car accident will happen (every day, somewhere) or when a virus strikes a population or a volcano erupts. Bad things happen...on someone's birthday, on someone's anniversary, on a holiday. We don't get to choose.
What we do get to choose is to recognize that and pay homage, in our way. We don't get to burden other people with our loss or our sorrow that they may not understand or share. Not that they shouldn't know....at all.....I told my husband about my Grandpa, once. I've never told anyone about the little girl in the hospital.
I could walk around carrying my weight of sorrow all the time....I remember when a certain person died, when a certain beloved pet died, when a past tragedy happened, old anniversaries and endings. But, I cannot continue to live in constant, crippling pain. I nod my head to it and I raise my head and move on. The burden is heavy and gets heavier with passing time, but I cannot foist it on someone else. It isn't theirs to bear. They will know their own.
We can tick off the days in sorrow or choose to meet them with, I suppose a degree of courage...and stamina....rather than with debilitating grief.
We don't "do" holidays much anymore. We don't live in the US, so those don't make much of a blip here and with time we tend to forget, but they were losing their meaning for us anyway. We don't make much of other "fake" holidays either...Valentine's, for instance....we acknowledge our birthdays and anniversary....and do a "Festivus" dinner every December. And I remember Grandpa...silently.
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