Birthday Happy
On this journey into the unknown, I'm taking my 47th rotation around the sun a little more slowly than in previous years.
Reversing the words “Happy Birthday” feels uncomfortable, like a frilly dress worn inside out. A “Birthday Happy” suit doesn’t fit, it’s unpleasant to sit in. The “happy” part makes me feel itchy and restless. When I wore it all day Monday, I wanted to get out of it. My birthday was the first significant grief date that I felt unable to tolerate. For the first time ever I longed for my birthday to end.
I received over 50 messages, many lovely presents, and some cards. Each contained its own words, doing their best to convey care. Some avoided the problematic “happy” designation, by “sending birthday love and hugs”, “good wishes,” or, most accurately, “hopes for pleasantness.” I appreciate the awkwardness; I wouldn’t know what to say either.
I’ve put off writing this post because I didn’t want to label my birthday as unhappy. My day was more happy than most. I was as happy as I can be, which is not very. My heart was heavy with sadness all day. I’d felt sorrowful for days before. The thought of growing old without Mark haunted me. I cried almost hourly on what should have been my happy day, because the loss of his love felt intolerably real.
I didn’t want to write about it, as I assumed nobody wanted to read about unhappiness. Then, I was comforted and inspired to write today by C.S. Lewis. In his non-fiction book following the loss of his wife, the Narnia author makes powerfully acute observations about grief:
“Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery’s shadow or reflection: the fact that you don’t merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief. Do these notes merely aggravate that side of it? Merely confirm the monotonous tread-mill march of the mind round one subject? But what am I to do?” ~ C.S. Lewis in ‘A Grief Observed’
In his more famous Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis writes about the purpose and value which can be found in being part of a bigger story. Orientated by love and loyalty a family of children follow Aslan, to help good conquer evil. He uses his fictional wardrobe fantasy to highlight the uniquely human nature of being both flawed and capable, to remind us that we are remarkably great when we want to be.
I appreciated his note from grief to remind me that I started writing to give a voice to my unique experience. It didn’t need to be pretty, just true. I too suffer from the monotonous treadmill of my mind, which travels continuously around the one subject which pains me. I have found that grief can be so very boring. Too boring to write about, unless I find a way to dig into the curiosities which interest me within it.
Happiest
I’ve talked about happiness with many people, over many years - friends, clients, colleagues, professional experts. Most recognise that happiness is not a constant state of joy. Although as children we adopt a simplified association between pleasure and contentment, as adults we know that real happiness is actually more complex. I could feel this weightier understanding trouble my children this week. “Why are you not happy Mummy?” asked my curious eight year old.
The first happy birthday I can remember is when I turned 7. I was celebrated with a homemade Care Bear cake, a love heart pillow, many cards, and all the presents I had cautiously dared to ask for. Funshine Bear was that little girl’s favourite - a yellow friend who spread fun to help others enjoy life. Known for being a playful, optimistic character, she was seen as a leader among the other bears. And so it would be for 40 more trips around the sun, living happily in Care-A-Lot, the magical Kingdom of Caring, tripping around the light fantastic. That girl was dancing on clouds.
I memorably celebrated my 31st birthday in Peru, on our honeymoon. Although to be honest many birthday memories are sketchy, since I love to party. That year was no exception, since we discovered cheap Pisco Sours and many international friends around a pool table. I can also never remember how old I am, even when sober. Although I know that my best birthday was my 40th. My sisters shocked me by flying from London to Seattle to join us at a surprise party, on a rooftop bar, which Mark had secretly planned with all our friends. It was a hedonistic weekend filled with all of my favourite things. Cocktails and dreams. I was in a state of euphoric contentment for days, matched only by my wedding.
On the evening before both that birthday and our wedding day, I remember feeling tormented by the unknown. Knowing that I didn’t know what was going to happen next felt torturously difficult. Now I’ve lived in that state for a year, I have more compassion for my 39-year-old self. Her struggle to enjoy her dinner the night before she turned 40, was reasonable although disproportionate. If I could, I would not choose to spoil her funshine; I would not tell her that one day there will be a ‘last’ birthday.
My 46th birthday was intentionally utterly forgettable. Last year I knew that it would be my last with Mark. Unlike other gifts, this was one which neither of us could bring ourselves to properly unwrap. We wanted everything to be normal; we went to watch our son play football, ordered a take away, and ate cake made by our daughter. Both this year and last, the singing made me feel uncomfortable. In response to the repeated lines, “Happy Birthday to you”, my perverse heart insisted on replying, “But it’s not, is it.”
Happiness
What then does it mean to be happy? I think the answer involves a dynamic balance of feeling loved, being supported, doing something useful, and retaining connection to the things which matter most. Mark and I discussed happiness endlessly in our marriage, for over a decade and especially during his illness. Cancer taught us that a crucial requirement is to be physically safe, healthy and well. When the going is good it’s too easy to forget that happiness is generated from a state of unharm. Most of us do not live on a cloud in Care-A-Lot.
Happy people need stability. I will never take the grounded belief that I am safe for granted again. Happiness wants movement through life, but requires it a pace that’s manageable, without suffering, and with healthy levels of fear for the future. Most of us overlook these fundamentals; instead we strive for a material, external solution to the everyday unhappiness we feel. Perhaps it’s these efforts which actually make life unhappy inside.
Humpty Dumpty is given a cravat by the Queen of Hearts in Wonderland to celebrate his un-birthday. In reality very few of us feel celebrated 364 days of the year. Yet all I needed to survive this one birthday in my 47th year is the same degree of glory I need on any day - a kindness to myself. I chose to fill my day with the activities which always help to heal me. Yoga, friends, some nice food, decent coffee, time alone, time in Nature, a glass of bubbles, and a good book. We can't be harmless on the outside if we harm ourselves on the inside.
I suppose Alice’s adventures could be interpreted as a metaphor for grief. Wonderland is equally disorienting, surreal and nonsensical. “It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then,” said Alice. I too have found that I need a robust sense of self to help me endure the frequent annoyances and derailments on my journey. Rather than avoiding hurt, I have to give effort to recovering from it. I can’t control the path only my response to it.
I’m beginning to learn to reduce life’s harm in me by giving myself the time to recover from it, which requires that I can name it's impact on me. I brush myself off, climb out of each dark hole I fall into, and try again. Even on my birthday, it’s the path which nurtures resilience.
Alice doesn’t feel that she belongs in Wonderland, just like I didn’t want a gym membership for my birthday. But I needed it. So in a twisted game with myself I asked for it, to help me feel strong. I stood up to my own Queen of Hearts to challenge myself out of my ordinary. I didn't do it for myself, it's only a gift to me because it's helping me to carry Mark's legacy while maintaining stability for my children. It's not for me, it's for them, so I'll take it.
Ordinary Miracles
As a child I loved reading, the more believable the fantasy the better. I’ve recently started reading ‘The Covenant of Water’ by Abraham Verghese. It’s a real world story about intergenerational families, the impact of colonialism and medical progress. The book explores life’s legacy, the meaning of love, and the resilience of faith during adversity, including grief. How wonderful it was to end my day travelling to Kerala at bedtime. In those pages I found this birthday offering, “To see the miraculous in the ordinary is a more precious gift than prophecy.” My mind enjoyed the words while my body lay down to rest.
In living with cancer we learned that happiness lives in integrity. By representing our values, we built something bigger than ourselves. Cancerland presented a perpetual riddle, which showed us how to believe in something deeper than simple happiness. This miracle came from a pleasure in doing the ‘right’ thing - which means choosing the ‘right’ thing. I can carry that still, albeit alone. It’s a gift from him, more comforting than loneliness, because it will never be gone.
Like a character in a novel, I'm beginning to realise that I’m the hero in my own story. Some of the identity I’ve acquired since birth, given or chosen, is now changing. Accepting that truth helps me to be more patient with myself. While I battle with the intensity of our routine, the overwhelm of our schedule, and the complexity of our newly formed family dynamic. The little girl who has always loved reading, still loves Funshine Bear, and has an insatiable curiosity in the world, doesn’t want to get stuck in unhappiness. She's quietly building something alone. Instead of fighting myself, who I was must now find comfort in the companionship of who I am. She will also meet companions on that journey - those who travel with her on the way will be Friend Bears, even if they don't easily understand the challenges she feels.
Happy Tune
On the outside my birthday was pleasant, on the inside it was unpleasant. It’s complex to feel unhappiness in happiness. Balloons of pride burst in my chest when I saw how well my children wanted to tend to me. Their sweet loving affection was an incredible presence. A surprise delivery of lovely flowers, notes from people who I thought would forget, little efforts to reach out, all helped to rekindle my belief that I’m not alone. The date was irrelevant. There was awe in my cake, because we got a taste of how far we’ve come this year. With a dash of tenderness in the icing, I realised the effort it takes to be me, in my life, everyday, even on my birthday. What a gift.
When navigating this unwanted path that little girl may have tried to cheer me up by singing a happy tune. The bears have their countdown song, the birthday people have the most famous English language song on the planet. But I don't want it, I enjoy my peace and quiet. My children like to add a second verse to the birthday song. They repeat the line, “How old are you now?” at the end of their rendition. More helpful than counting my years is the mechanism I use to walk myself back to my self-awareness.
Here are the 4 questions which I’ve been asking myself repeatedly, to try to stay true to myself. Birthday or any day, I think I'm going to need these steps for many years to come:
What am I feeling now?
Breathe.
Pause. Listen to my inner self-talk.
What’s true for me now?
Breathe.
Pause. Listen for the basic, simple truth.
What do I need now?
Breathe.
Pause. Listen for my heart’s truth.
What will I choose to do now?
Breathe.
Pause. Decide when.
(Repeat)
Feeling in control of my choices, became my version of happiness with Mark. We felt alive in the darkest of days when the truth was present. No matter how well it had been hiding or how well it was wrapped. The simple felt-truth made everyday better. Birthday or bad day. Unbirthday or unpleasant truth. I find it impossible to ignore our bond now, just because he is gone. It doesn’t make me happy to deny myself his love.
At the end of the day, grief’s blanket is spread over everything. The loss woven into me will always pull me back into pain. I remember that he is gone. Then I try to remind myself that only I can love me as he would have. It's as easy and as difficult as living in Narnia, Care-A-Lot, or Wonderland. And yet somehow I’m going to need to keep resourcing myself to enable perhaps another 40 more trips around the sun.
What am I feeling now?
What’s true for me now?
What do I want now?
What will I choose to do now?
