Your Birthday Without You

On September twenty-ninth, nineteen forty-seven, you were ushered into the world, thrust out onto the planet to embark on your expedition through life...

On September twenty-ninth, nineteen forty-seven, you were ushered into the world, thrust out onto the planet to embark on your expedition through life. I’m convinced the angels in paradise exulted when you gulped your first breath as you surely arrived on the planet kicking and screaming.

Despite the fact you were agonizingly frail and depleted in the days preceding your death, I’m certain that’s how you bid farewell to the earth as your body shut down and the pull to the afterlife grew fiercer. I know you didn’t want to go, Dad. This year, the celebration of your birth arrives yet again, the first one I’ll experience without you. The blissful anticipation I was accustomed to leading up to your birthday is now superseded by excruciating dread, and a stark reminder that you’re no longer here.

Before Nico was born, the entirety of the day was consumed by a novel adventure, journeying to a location we’ve never been to explore regional treasures that we discovered through a little research. Over the years, even when it wasn’t necessarily a special occasion, and we trekked to endless places, it became trickier to discover somewhere fresh to investigate. I remember when I would get frustrated that I couldn’t dig up anywhere new, you’d say, “As long as we’re together, it doesn’t matter.” It was our time together, and making memories, that did.

Sometimes, if we were out of original ideas, we would simply get in the car and drive. “What direction are we going in today, Dan?” you would ask, and we would venture onto the seemingly endless highways, unaware of what quaint town we may stumble upon, or what historic site may reveal itself to us. We discovered some awesome places like that. Those are some of the most cherished memories I have with you, Dad, and I miss them terribly.

After Nico was born, the festivities for your birthday weren’t as elaborate, but just as enjoyable in a unique way. Hours of unceasing exploration was swapped for hours of pure delight playing with your only grandchild. He filled your heart with unadulterated joy and experiencing that was irreplaceable.

While we weren’t exploring new locations any longer, you were indeed experiencing something far greater, the intense love for a grandchild. Observing the joy you received from Nico filled my heart to overflow. I’m sad you only got three and a half years with him. I know with certainty he would’ve benefited greatly from having you in his life much longer than that. Your endless wisdom, kindness, life experience, gentleness, fun-loving spirit and humility were things that would’ve aided him in how own life. Although your memory is still alive in his little brain, it breaks my heart that wasn’t the path your life would have.

This year, no memories were made. Well, no positive ones at least. Instead, upon awaking, I was greeted with a Facebook notification that it was your birthday. I viewed your profile picture, the one I snapped of you on one of our escapades years earlier, and I was reminded of your stark absence. I was tempted to swipe it off my screen into Facebook nothingness, but I didn’t. I left it there, periodically gazing at your infectious smile, reminiscing about what a happy person you always were. No matter what life threw at you, you persevered. Always. Nothing ever got you down, and if it did briefly, you bounced back quickly. That quality was always one of many ways you were a constant inspiration to me.

I went to church the morning of your birthday to honor you, and your well lived life. It was very difficult to be there without you. Attending Catholic grammar school, I spent the first thirteen years of my life in church. Even during school hours, the nuns ushered us to church to visit with God and confess our sins to Him.

Even though I consider myself a very spiritual person, I’m not too religious. After leaving grammar school, I still attended church occasionally, mostly on the holidays, and as I got older, the only times I went were with you. After you were diagnosed with stage four cancer twenty years earlier, you developed a faith in God so robust it rivaled most. That devotion shepherded you through the toughest time in your life. The fact you survived your diagnosis was a miracle that just strengthened your belief even further.

I recall how we would arrive at church early so you could light candles and recite your prayer cards to yourself. I remember how you would joke with me about the collection basket, handing me a dollar since I often forgot to bring a couple bucks, teasing me about still having my Communion money hidden at home. I was always quite thrifty.

Sitting in church today, it felt so odd being there without you. I lit a candle for you, and prayed wherever you were, that you were happy. I clung to the feverish wish that you would enter the doors, and all of this would just be a bad dream. I struggled to convince myself that you were just late, that at any moment you would enter and sit next to me, draping your arm around me and kissing my cheek. I hoped. I prayed with everything inside of me I would see you, but all I saw was an empty seat where you would’ve been.

No one really knows about the afterlife, but if there is one, which I pray there is, it’s probably the greatest adventure you’ve ever had. Wait up for me, Dad. I’ll be there one day, too, and we can renew our explorations together once again.

How do you celebrate your loved ones who have passed on? How do you keep their memory alive in your heart and mind? I would love to hear about it. If you would like to, please post a comment below.

If my writing touched you, please feel free to share it with someone you feel may benefit from it or pass it along to someone so they may not feel so alone in their time of grief. I truly appreciate it, and thanks for accompanying me on my journey.