29. How Do You Survive a Birthday After Loss

How do you survive birthdays?

On a day-to-day level, I really try and live my life the way Paul would want me to.

But there are days when grief wins and I just can't deal with much.

And one of those days was my birthday.

It was my second birthday without Paul, and I had prepared myself for it.

Actually, I was looking forward to it.

My son surprised me by turning up the night before. My daughter got up at 6.30am to make me a morning cuppa and give me some hugely thoughtful presents.

We had planned our day.

An ice cream in a nearby village.

Watching the eclipse at the local park.

Then a meal out.

Just the three of us.

It was going to be a lovely day.

And I was going to be fine.

Except grief doesn't always care what you've planned.

The second birthday was just as hard as the first, except this time people assumed that I was now ‘okay’.

But as we all know, grief does'nt work like that.

It doesn't matter if it's the first birthday, the second, or even the tenth. They can still be tough, and we silently learn to cope.

It's another birthday that your person isn't here for.

Another year where you don't get their card.

Another year where they don't get up early to make you a birthday cuppa, just the way they know you like it.

And birthdays amplify that emptiness.

You can be surrounded by love and still feel desperately sad

One of the things I'm learning about grief is that gratitude and sadness can exist at exactly the same time.

I was incredibly grateful for what my children did for me.

My daughter had gone out of her way to make my birthday special. My son had surprised me by coming home.

I knew I was loved.

I knew I was incredibly lucky to have them.

And I could still feel absolutely heartbroken that Paul wasn't there.

Those things don't cancel each other out.

You can appreciate every effort someone makes for you and still miss the person who isn't there.

You can laugh at lunch and cry an hour later.

You can have a lovely moment and feel blessed for all that you have, and then suddenly be hit by a wave of grief remembering all that you have lost.

That isn't being ungrateful.

It's grief.

My daughter had put so much thought into making sure I had a lovely day.

And she did.

Unfortunately, there were things completely outside of her control that changed the course of the day.

And that's the thing about grief.

Sometimes you can do everything you can to prepare yourself, surround yourself with people you love and make lovely plans, and it can still catch you completely off guard.

Birthdays are just bloody hard

There is something quite poignant about birthdays.

Everyone sees the birthday.

Yet I see another year without him.

Another year older than the person he knew.

Paul knew the 50 year old Caroline.

He never got to know the 52 year old one.

He remains the same age, while I continue to get older.

There are birthday cards arriving through the letterbox. Messages popping up on your phone. People wishing you a happy birthday.

And underneath all of that is the person who isn't there.

The person who would have bought your card.

The person who would have known exactly what you wanted.

The person you would have woken up next to.

The person who should still be part of your birthday.

And however many birthdays you have without them, that doesn't change.

Maybe I thought because I'd already done one birthday without him, I'd know what to expect.

But grief doesn't work like that.

Let the people who love you make an effort

I saw how much effort my daughter had put into my birthday.

She got up at 6.30am to make me a cup of coffee.

She bought me thoughtful presents.

She had planned things for us to do.

My son surprised me by coming home.

They were trying to make the day special.

And it was.

Even though I was struggling.

I think that's something that can be difficult to explain when you're grieving.

You can be incredibly grateful for what people do for you and still be desperately sad.

You can laugh and cry on the same day.

You can appreciate every single effort someone makes and still wish more than anything that the person you lost was there too.

Those things exist together.

Birthdays are now different

I've already decided that next year I'm going to do things differently.

I'm thinking about going away.

And turning my phone off.

Not because I don't love the people in my life.

I do.

But I've become much more protective of myself since Paul died.

I'm more protective of the people who have looked after me.

And I'm more protective of my own peace too.

Maybe that's something that happens when you become a widow.

You start to realise just how precious time and energy are.

I've also learned that the energy needed to ‘survive’ the birthday will leave me drained in the days after.

So next year, perhaps I'll go somewhere beautiful, eat something delicious, switch my phone off and spend the day with loved ones.

And maybe that will be my new birthday tradition.

Who knows?

The person you lost is still part of your birthday

There are particular days in the diary where you know exactly what you were doing this time last year, this time five years ago, this time ten years ago.

And birthdays are one of those days.

Although Paul is no longer here, he is still part of my birthday.

It's not just about turning another year older, it's remembering all the birthdays that came before this one.

And I have no guilt in buying something for myself and declaring, ‘This was from Paul.’

Because, in my head, it was.

Maybe birthdays will always be a little bit different now

I don't know what my birthdays will look like in five or ten years.

Maybe they'll get easier.

Maybe they won't.

Maybe I'll find a way of celebrating that feels completely different.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life dreading my birthday.

I will find a way that works for me. Of that, I'm sure.

And if your birthday is coming up...

If you're reading this because your birthday is coming up and you're dreading it, I just want you to know that I get it.

I really do.

Whether it's your first birthday without them, your second, your tenth or your twentieth, it can still be hard.

You don't need to explain that.

You don't need to justify it.

And you certainly don't need to pretend that everything is fine just because another year has passed.

Make whatever plans you want.

Let the people who love you spoil you.

Go away if you want to.

Stay home if you want to.

Turn your phone off if you want to.

Eat cake.

Don't eat cake.

Cry.

Laugh.

Do whatever gets you through the day.

I know how much you miss them.

This is actually one of the reasons I created Letters After Loss.

Because I wanted to know that I wasn't the only woman who felt like this.

I wanted someone who understood that a birthday could be lovely and painful at exactly the same time.

Someone who didn't need me to explain why.

Someone who just got it.

And if you're a widow reading this on your birthday, then let me be one of those people today.

Happy birthday.

I hope there is at least one little moment today that makes you smile.

And I hope you know that somewhere, another widow understands exactly why you're finding it hard.