I don’t mind getting older. (Plus I don’t think 29 is old.) I’m not the type of person who hates birthdays—what a ridiculous notion, to hate birthdays. Yes we’re getting older; but with age comes the potential for the wisdom, compassion, and peace that come through life’s experiences and interactions with others. Still, I experience some grief each year on my own birthday.
I think birthdays are (or should be) more about the mother than the individual. I understand the concept of celebrating one’s birthday—it makes me feel good when my loved ones acknowledge my birthday, telling me that they are glad I was born, that my presence in the world has a positive impact, that my existence matters. I appreciate that and am humbled by the love and well-wishes that are poured onto me on this day. I am overwhelmed with love for the people in my life who mean so much to me, so thankful to have been given the chance to know them. The only sorrow now comes from how deeply I feel the loss of my mother on this day.
Mom died February 6, 2004 at age 53. That still seems unreal sometimes, saying that. Mom died. My mother is no longer alive. It’s still jolting sometimes.
When I left home, or during years I was at my father’s house on my birthday, she always called me as close to 10 or 11 a.m. as she could, saying, “At this moment, X years ago, the doctors were standing by getting ready to meet you” or “At this time, X years ago, you were getting your first bath and you hated it….” There was a running joke about the time; around the time I was in third or fourth grade, my mom got it into her head that I was born at 11:05 a.m., and she would tell me before school in the morning that she would be thinking about me at that moment. However, my dad said she was wrong, I was born at 10:05. She said he wasn’t the one who went through it so he didn’t remember it right; he said she was too drugged up to remember it accurately. I found my birth certificate several years later, and even though it said 10:05 my mom was still convinced it was a mistake. Eventually she admitted she may have been wrong about the time (especially since my hospital bracelet says 10:05), but she still joked about it.
How fortunate I am to have been blessed with a mother who took such joy in the day of my birth, who remembered small details on that day and shared them with me (or if she didn’t remember accurately, at least made them up so that I would feel special). I’ve appreciated it for years—I think I was 10 when I started the tradition of giving her a gift on my birthday, wanting to show her my gratitude for giving birth to me, for making sacrifices for me, for loving me. Even during the years I was struggling with severe depression, and even the year I needed to distance from her as I went through therapy to try to figure out who I was; even then, I left a token for her to find, telling her that I acknowledged her for giving birth to me and most of the time was thankful for it. And even during those years, she never missed a birthday call.
I don’t think I even realized how much it meant to me until my 27th birthday in 2004—two short months after becoming a new mother myself for the first time—and the call didn’t come. Rationally, I knew it wouldn’t (and how shocking it would have been if it had!); but emotionally, I was unable to prepare myself for how much the lack of the sound of her voice would hurt. Last year was better; there was still sorrow, and I missed her, but there was also joy, especially in the enjoyment of my little girl and the anticipation of another wonderful child.
This year has been similar. I had an enjoyable day because how can I not smile and laugh when I get to spend time with my delightful children, and talk throughout the day with the friends and family I so cherish? I looked at my children several times today and thought how grateful I was to my parents for meeting and for having me, because it’s in large part thanks to them that I have Amanda and Alex.
I did cry some today, but was able to let myself grieve without wallowing in it. I showed Amanda and Alex a scrapbook I made for my mom on her birthday in 1997, filled with pictures of her, of her and me, of family and friends, and scraps of memorabilia. The second grade worksheet I wrote on, filling the lines next to “When I grow up I want to be” with “a Social Security Administrator” (both my parents’ occupation). The card I made for Mother’s Day 1988, with a drawing of the water tower with the name of the city in which we were living at the time. Their wedding announcement in 1995, when Mom and Bill married. Tickets to the musical Mom and I went to for my 17th birthday.
I paged through the scrapbook with Amanda, pointing out Grandma Sue, and she recognized my dad (“Gampa Larry!”), my stepdad (“Gampa Bill!”), my sister (“Aunt Merrif!”) and younger pictures of me (pointing to pictures—“Mama!”; turning to point at me, “Mama!”; pointing to the picture and then to me, “One Mama, two Mamas!”). Alex squealed and patted the pages, trying to pull people out of the pictures and seeing what the corners of the book tasted like. I told them, “That’s your Grandma Sue, Mommy’s mommy.” I said to Amanda, “You know how your name is Amanda Sue? See where it says here S-U-E, you have the same name because you were named after her.” I cried while going through the book, laughing at Amanda’s antics through my tears and telling both of them that I was so glad Grandma Sue was my mommy because now I get to be Mommy to Amanda and Alex. Amanda went to my desk and brought me a Kleenex, and there were hugs and laughter and tickles and then we made lunch.
I was pretty sad last night, thinking about my birthday and missing Mom so desperately. It’s all the more vivid since becoming a mother myself; now I have a sense of what she must have been thinking of on my birthday, now I realize what joy a child’s birthday brings. I know that for the rest of my life, on September 17th Amanda will be at the forefront of my mind, whether it’s remembering the events that took place throughout that day in 2004, or just thinking about who she is and how profoundly grateful I am that she was born. On March 1st of each year, Alex will be in my thoughts all day, and prayers of gratitude will be sent to the powers that be for bringing him into my life. I realize how much of an impact an anniversary like this has on a mother, and in knowing it, am reminded of how incredibly lucky I am to have been blessed with such loving, unique, involved parents who not only cared so well for me but are such wonderful individuals themselves. According to karma, I must really have been good in a past life.
I don’t think I’ll ever “get over” the loss of my mother. Even though I believe in life after death (in whatever form, be it Heaven or reincarnation or Spirit or something else)—I usually don’t think of her as “gone” so much as on another plane of existence, still here but outside of her physical body. I know she’s still here, I’ve felt her presence too often and too acutely to accept that she no longer exists (especially during the births of my children). But still, the pain is almost overwhelming when I think of never hearing her voice again, or feeling the cool skin of her hand on my face or arm, or smelling her unique earthy-sweet-powdery scent, some combination of Boston Store beauty products, Opium perfume, clean clothes and Her.
I guess this is just a really, really long way of saying I miss her. I miss her more on certain days of the year–on her birthday in January; on the day she died; on Mother’s Day and Christmas; but I think I miss her most on my birthday.
But at the same time, I feel peace because I believe she is at peace and happy wherever she is. I am comforted by the thought that she would be proud of me for where I am in my life; she would be happy for me for being surrounded by such a caring community; she would delight in her grandchildren and love them almost as much as I do. I have changed dramatically since her death, but in a positive way, I believe. I’ve become aware of what an impact her actions made on the world—influencing more people than she ever met or would even have dreamed possible—and try to keep that in mind when choosing my own actions. I’ve fulfilled my destiny of motherhood—I always knew I wanted to be a mother, but I never realized how perfectly it would fit me, like I’m finally who I’m supposed to be. I feel more compassionate toward others because my suffering recognizes their own, and more willing to seek out kindred spirits and nourish loving relationships because I realize how precious and fleeting time is and how important it is to appreciate every single moment. I continue to be grateful to her for giving birth to me, and thankful for the memories of her in my life.
In another scrapbook filled with cards and letters from people I love—my parents, my sister, my grandma—is a card with a picture of an ethereal-looking woman sitting on a crescent moon. Inside it says, “May all your dreams come true…Happy 22nd Birthday”. Tucked into a pocket taped onto the card is a four-page letter written on the narrow lines of the “Notes” section of a Franklin Covey Day Planner. It says:
Gisela,
Every year on your birthday the events of that day in 1977 come back to me with vivid clarity. Some years I swear I feel labor pains. You were due on Friday November 18, & we expected you would come much later since Meredith was 10 days late. I’d worked through that Friday & expected to go back in on Monday. The labor pains seemed light when they started, but they were pretty regular so we called “The Babysitters”—the clerical, Debbie who worked for me & her boyfriend came to stay with Merit. Your dad videotaped them as I was walking out the door. When we got to the hospital they used a fetal monitor, which measured the strength of contractions. I hadn’t had one with Merit, though I guess they’re pretty common now. It was next to me & I couldn’t see it well, but your dad watched it constantly. As the labor became more intense I automatically started doing the breathing for hard labor. That was when I became most irritated with him, as he’d explain after a contraction that “it wasn’t that bad” & said I was doing the breathing wrong. Seems like he’d become much more proficient in the birthing process in the 14 months since Merit was born!
There’s a period right before delivery they used to say was the biggest clue that delivery was close, as the mom would get irritable with the dad & even those who didn’t normally swear, would do so. When I snapped at your dad about his comment about my breathing wrong, the nurse called for the doctor & immediately took me into the delivery room, where you were born within a couple of minutes (and not at the time on your birth certificate!).
You were beautiful, even right after you were born. Your dad & Merit came to see you that night in the nursery & you were sleeping, as you did the whole time we were in the hospital, except when you ate. On Tuesday you were the “bath model” & the nurse had the other new moms in my room, using you for a demonstration on how to bathe an infant. That you did not like & cried till it was over.
We went home Wednesday, & Thursday was Thanksgiving, so Mom & Dad, Dad’s brother and his wife, & their daughter all came to see you.
During the next several weeks while I was off work Merit continued going to the babysitter because she missed the kids. She couldn’t quite conceive of you being more than a doll, & would jump when she touched you & you’d move. Some women at the office had a baby shower when you were about a month old, & I took you with. You pretty much slept through it, & didn’t mind when they passed you around to admire.
You were such an easy-going baby, especially compared to what Merit had been like. I’d learned on Merit to let you eat when you wanted, & was amazed at how much you grew. The doctor said it meant you’d be tall.
I remember the first few months you were always happy & an easy baby, began sleeping through the night fairly early, smiled often & were definitely a “morning person” as you’d wake up early then coo & play & look around iggn your room. You were outgoing & not afraid of others, & especially liked seeing children. You were fascinated by Merit & by watching yourself in the mirror. I made all your food & you’d eat the most disgusting though healthy foods, without a problem. You had little use for a bottle & stopped taking it when you were less than a year old. But your pacifier & blankie were precious to you.
That was 22 years ago & I was 26 years old at the time. Seems like a lifetime in some ways, & like yesterday in others.
I love you very much & I hope you have a wonderful birthday.
Mom
Three Dots at the End.... 
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