Birthdays

I turned 35 this week, on Wednesday, and I had a lovely birthday party for myself this weekend.  I feel like I should say something important and profound about turning 35, about how this year has changed me, and I will try, but not tonight.

This weekend brought another anniversary of sorts, and if this post is not very eloquent, it's probably because I'm crying a little while I type.

Yesterday, August 20, was my father-in-law's birthday.  Last year the Professor's family came to Chicago to spend the event with us here, the first after his death.  It was a strange and confusing time for me, and for the Professor and his family as well, I am sure.  Although, to be honest, I don't really know how it felt for them, because it's not the kind of thing they ever discussed.

This year I was preparing for my party.  The morning was gray and stormy, and I was in the kitchen up to my elbows in black beans and corn.  I turned on the television for background noise.  A few hours into my work in the kitchen, I realized the background noise I'd been listening to was a Dr. Who marathon on the BBC.  

It was fitting.  It was Dr. B's birthday, and he was an avid Dr. Who fan.  I admit that I never really got the show, and I never cared much for British television, but I decided to let it play while I worked.  And so I chopped onions, minced garlic, washed cilantro, and listened to Dr. Who and thought about Dr. B.  

It felt right to be thinking of him on his birthday, to listen to his favorite show.  It was sad, but good, to think of him and my own sadness at his death, a sadness I could never experience with anyone else, because he was not my husband, not my father, and so my own loss and sorrow were effectively meaningless - trite, next to the pain of those around me.  At the time, it seemed like it was not 'my' loss, but a much bigger loss belonging to others.  My own sadness seemed selfish.

Dr. B was jovial.  He could be hard to get at on an emotional level.  But I believed that, not having had any daughters, he had a special place in his heart for me.  And I did in mine, for him.  He teased me mercilessly, with what I thought or hoped was affection, and I teased back.  

The night before Dr. B died, I flew to Augusta and went straight to the hospital.  He was waiting to go home.  He could not speak, could barely write, but he was his jovial self.  He insisted that he be allowed to go home; he did not want to die in the hospital.  He wanted Yoohoo and cream soda.  When the Professor insisted I make my monkey face, Dr. B gave me a thumbs up.  He was brave.  Scared and sad, I am sure, but strong for those who loved him, for those whose devastation played out before him.  If you can face sudden and certain death with character, he did.

Dr. B was cremated, but there was a viewing, and the family had some quiet time alone with him.  I wanted to wrap my husband inside myself.  I wanted to kiss Dr. B and hold his face.  To grab his hands in mine, to see him laugh one more time.  I wanted to make it better.  Instead, I sat alone on a chair in the corner, watching my husband struggle not to cry.  I was helpless to make anything happen.

I never did figure out what to do.

Dr. B was a lovely man.  Someone impossible not to admire, not to fall a little bit in love with.  I had my own quiet time to remember him this weekend, to honor him in my own little way with my Dr. Who marathon.  So, while I prepared to celebrate my birthday yesterday, I celebrated his, as well.