It was too early to go to bed, and I was bored of TV and movies, and YouTube videos. So, I thought I’d sit down at my computer and write something.
But first – I poured a whiskey, turned on a playlist, and began ghost shopping. This is a term I think I might have coined. It’s when I shop online and put all the goodies in my cart as if I had the disposable income to just click “submit order” without having to calculate whether this will mean I’ll be able to cover rent or not. Alas, I fill up my carts, all over the internet, with fantasies and ideas about what I’m going to wear, how I’m going to redecorate my apartment, and how all the organization implements I’ve thoughtfully picked out will help me finally get my shit together.
And then I abandon them, fully curated carts with things I think will make me feel better, make me a better homemaker, a better stylist, a more attractive woman, more organized, more refined, more accomplished adult, a better person.
Of course, no click of “add to cart” will result in any of those things. It’s a suspension of disbelief I allow myself sometimes. When I’m in a healthy place, it’s harmless, it’s fun, and just something to pass the time. I can close all the browsers and walk away and laugh at myself at the absurdity of it and realize that I’m perfectly whole and good the way things are and the way I am.
But sometimes this harmless pastime ends with me feeling depleted and exhausted, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it. I know that stuff – the clothes, the furniture, the art, the décor – won’t fix or change anything about my life. No matter how great those candles would smell or how much that rug would perfectly match the vibe of my living room.
What surprised me this time was that, when I was done filling up a cart worth a cool $1300 or so at Gap and Old Navy and scrolling through my wish lists (yes, plural) on IKEA.com for the eighteen thousandth time, I got thinking about my birthday. It’s coming up.
My birthday is now forever linked to the day my dad died. He died on a Friday morning. My birthday was the following Monday. Three years ago, I was home, of course, with my family. And I must give credit to them, they all rallied and made sure to celebrate me during what was a strange, sad, and out-of-body experience for all of us. My brother made an amazing meal (steak – I think? I don’t remember with confidence), and my sister made delicious cupcakes, decorated all fancy, as is her specialty. There was a toast to me, a bunch of “happy birthdays” and smiles and attempts at normal conversation. My mom signed my birthday card “with love, Mom and Dad.”
I was sad, to be sure. But I was angry too. I remember, at one point, the conversation turned to what were going to do in lieu of a traditional funeral. This was September 2020, so we had to think outside the box. The thought of not doing anything was unimaginable. We had decided to have a sort of drop-in memorial thing outside, in the front yard of my parent’s house. We were going to set up some tables and display a bunch of his memorabilia – pictures, of course, of him as a young man, with his parents and brother, of when he and my mom met and got married, and a ton of football-related things. We had all kinds of pictures, trophies, and news clippings from his lengthy career as a coach. It was an impressive display. We had all the flowers we’d received in the previous week displayed beautifully, a guest book, and all this stuff that represented him and his life and passions. It’s exactly what he would have wanted – far more than any kind of service in a funeral home. It was a beautiful day, too. Sunny, with a slight breeze, and cool – the first time it really felt like fall. Perfect football weather.
Anyway, I was angry, irrationally, at my uncle. This is my mom’s older brother who loved Dad very much and is an important member of the family.
I ended up sitting on the stairs. Just sitting, crying, missing my dad, angry at my uncle, angry at myself for being angry at my uncle, and cheated out of celebrating my birthday with my dad. Just cheated in general.
We were talking about the logistics of the day, anticipating people wanting to park, stop by, and come over for a bit to give their condolences and talk to us. We imagined it being a sort of constant stream of people in and out for the duration.
Dad was a very prominent figure in the community – it really seemed like he knew everyone. And he was well-liked and respected. I think in a parallel universe without COVID, had we held a more traditional funeral, there would have been hundreds (and hundreds) of people lined up out the door to pay their respects.
Anyway, we were talking about parking and how we were going to manage it. We talked about speaking with the synagogue across the street to see if they could accommodate overflow parking. Someone (maybe it was me, I don’t remember) mentioned the idea of traffic control, because, of course, there would be streams of hundreds of people for the whole afternoon. Perhaps we should look into requesting a couple of officers to manage the crowd.
My uncle chimed in and said that there wouldn’t be a big turnout because of COVID, and we didn’t need to worry about traffic control or parking. Even though it was outdoors, and we would be following all the protocols to a tee, he said that people who would have normally come, under these circumstances, would likely stay home.
This enraged me. I remember sitting at the table, my face getting hot, my adrenaline kicking in, and my brain racing to form the sentences my emotions demanded so that I could be articulate and measured. For maybe one of the handfuls of times in my whole life, I was at a loss for words. I wanted to yell at him, screaming that he didn’t know what he was talking about, that he was wrong, that we knew best.
But what actually happened was that I just stared at him, with a look of pure disdain, anger, and indignation I’m not sure I’d ever felt. I don’t think I actually said anything. If I did, it got drowned out by siblings or kids or general chatter or whatever (story of my life).
A short time after that conversation, after my family sang me “Happy Birthday,” I excused myself from the table. I walked through the kitchen where my sweet niece was starting to clean up. I’m not sure where I was going. The bathroom, maybe? I ended up sitting on the stairs. Just sitting, crying, missing my dad, angry at my uncle, angry at myself for being angry at my uncle, and cheated out of celebrating my birthday with my dad. Just cheated in general.
My mom eventually noticed I’d been gone for a while and came looking for me. She found me on the stairs, and she asked me what was going on, and all I could say was “he should be here.” She started crying and said that yes, he should be, but he wasn’t. But he’s here – putting her hand on her heart. I started to cry really hard, and she just leaned forward and held me, comforting me. We stayed like that, crying and hugging on the stairs for a while.
I’ll never forget that. Because it was a beautiful moment of vulnerability and tenderness with my mom, but also because it was honest – one of those things in life that just is, and even though, to me, it changed everything about my birthday and that span of three days in September forever and ever, it just is.
And now my task is to bend my life and my heart around it.
My uncle, by the way, was right. The turnout was far less impressive than I thought it would be. He was just trying to help and offer good information. I told you my anger was irrational.
So, in a few weeks, we’ll mark three years since Dad left us. Also, my birthday will come and go. I used to love my birthday. I’m the obnoxious person who told everyone when it was my birthday. I’d have a month-long countdown (sometimes longer), I used to actually update my voicemail at work to say “Hi, you’ve reached Angela…blah, blah, today is September 14, my birthday.” Insufferable, right? Give me all the attention, all the balloons, the cake, the cards, and the fanfare. I loved it all.
Hopefully one day I’ll get back to that level. But I’m not there yet. I know my dad wouldn’t like this – he would tell me I’m being silly and that I should get all dolled up and go out for a fabulous dinner and night on the town with my friends and just have the best time ever. I’m working on it.
Hopefully one day I’ll get to the point where I’ll feel it’s a kismet thing and it was meant to be this way so, creating the perfect moment to celebrate my birthday and my dad. We’ll all raise a glass of red for Big Jer and cheers to the best guy ever and celebrate that he existed and that he was my dad, and that he instilled in me a sense that birthdays and occasions and holidays and milestones are for celebrating.
Dad loved telling the story of the day I was born. It’s a pretty funny story. Perhaps that could be a new tradition on my birthday. I’ll toast to my incredible friends and family and all the people I love that make my life worth living, and I’ll tell my dad’s story of the day I was born. A happy birthday, indeed.
angeinthecity 