My first not-a-birthday

My birthday has always been a Big Deal. Not necessarily in terms of having a big party, or getting extravagant gifts, but it's always an occasion: maybe a party, maybe going out for a fabulous dinner, but it's one of the few days each year designated as a "Kathleen doesn't have to lift a finger" day.

The year I turned 50, I decided to play on American tropes about aging by creating a 30-day countdown to my fiftieth birthday on Facebook: each day was a new stereotypical "to-do" item related to aging, complete with such gems as "trade all jeans for pastel polyester slacks" and "begin referring to all technology with the prefix "the;" e.g., The Facebook, The Google, etc. I did this because I was filled with optimism for the future, and had fun with the notion that 50 was "old." It was so well-received that I made it an annual tradition for the past four years. Each year's list contained items progressively more outlandish than the previous one; it was great fun.

I'll turn 55 one month from today; there will be no countdown this year. There will be no birthday celebration this year, because there's quite literally nothing to celebrate. There will be only me, alone, wishing I were with Doug. I'll get no birthday card from my husband; I will never get a birthday card from my husband Doug (I got three of them from my boyfriend Doug, and one from my fiance Doug, but I'll never get one from my husband Doug). I'm no longer filled with optimism for the future; to the contrary, I'm filled with nothing but the desire to have no future at all, because I sure AF don't want the one to which I've been sentenced.

As of my birthday, I'll have been a widow for 132 days - six days longer than I was Doug's wife. 

I HATE - with the white-hot nuclear fire of a thousand suns - HATE that truth. I hate the truth that we'll never celebrate his birthday together as a married couple either. I am FILLED with rage that we'll never celebrate a single anniversary. I am jealous beyond reason of widow/ers who had 20, 30, 40+ years together. I know their pain is just as valid as mine. I also know that they have DECADES of memories from which to draw comfort, whereas all I have is the bitter pill that our marriage was over before it even really had the chance to begin. And I'm BEYOND jealous of happily married couples. I don't begrudge them their happiness, of course; it's simply that their happiness is a brutal, viscerally painful reminder of who and what I don't have and will never have again. How am I supposed to NOT be bitter and resentful about that?

So, no: there will be no birthday celebration. I can't imagine that there will ever be anything to celebrate again.

Which brings me to my point, which is to give you information you can use in your own life when supporting someone who's grieving: what in the actual fuck do you do to acknowledge the birthday of someone who's drowning in grief? I can only speak for myself, so I'll do that; for anybody else, I suggest you ASK what they want and then do that.

Let's start with what NOT to do: For the love of Cthulu, DO NOT WISH ME A HAPPY BIRTHDAY. If you've been paying attention AT ALL, you know that my birthday will not - CANNOT - be happy. A cheery "Happy Birthday" is going to do nothing other than make me wonder if you have always been emotionally tone deaf or if it's a new development. Seriously, people: don't do it. 

"But, Kathleen," I hear you cry, "I can't just ignore your 55th birthday! So what SHOULD I do?" 

I'm so glad you asked. Honestly, you really CAN just ignore it. As far as I'm concerned, July 1 is just another day of the life sentence I'm serving, and there's no need to do anything differently than you would on any other day. That said, if you feel as though tradition dictates that you MUST do something, do something to honor Doug: 

• Drink an Irish Car Bomb or a shot of Jack Daniels Honey in Doug's honor.
• Donate $5 (or more - more is always welcome, too) to the GoFundMe for the scholarship I plan to create in Doug's name. 
• Plant some orange marigolds in your garden (he loved those).

Every day sucks; some days suck more than others. Without a doubt, my birthday is going to suck far more than I probably even expect (and I'm expecting MAJOR suckage). Please don't make it suck even more than that by trying to cheer me up or by insisting that I celebrate a personal milestone that, quite frankly, I've been hoping since February 20 that I won't even be here to see.