Ruby's 15th birthday

It was Ruby's 15th birthday last week. On the last two birthdays that Ruby has not been here Claire and I used our time as constructively as we could by raising money for charity. The first year we cycled around Belfast and the second birthday we hiked across the hills and very muddy fields of Antrim. We have planned a fund-raising hike in a month or two and so decided to keep this birthday for ourselves. 

We had plans for the day, we always do, and I would advise anyone in a similar position to do likewise. Prior to the day we realised how useful it had been for us to be physically active, using our time creatively for the good of others (the genuineness of this "atruism" needs questioning, of course, as we also gained so much from the activities) and being distracted with company from friends or strangers. We never lose the feelings of loss, how can we, but on her birthday we think of her happiness and aliveness.

But grief is predictably unpredictable. This year we had few plans. I managed a short jog in the morning. We went to her favourite park, Crawfordsburn Country Park, and put flowers on "Ruby's Bench" which we had made and placed in a beautiful remote spot of the park a few months after she died. We went out for a quiet lunch at her favourite pizza restaurant and had a glass of wine at home in the evening. We weren't very active, we weren't sociable, we didn't feel like being creative or proactive or supportive of others. We were quiet and barely reflective. We were together though and this was the only thing we knew we definitely needed. 

The most affecting difference this year is the exhaustion. I have not been tired- I have jogged twice, 10km and 20km, I have been for a long cycle ride in the lovely warm sunshine, I have been for a number of walks here and there- but my grief has had a deeper sense of fatigue, dulling my focus, disconnecting me from others. Last week either side of Ruby's birthday, just for a few days, I lived in a cloud of unreality. I could only consider aspects of base survival- eating, exercise, sleep and Ruby- and nothing else mattered. 

This sense of acute and incongruous introversion is not new as I deal with my grief, I have felt it many times before and it has its place in my list of unconscious coping mechanisms. It is a common and very successful method of defence in coping with trauma and grief for many people. The surprise is not that it has happened but that it happened now, after three years and as I was trying to prepare to cope with Ruby's birthday. Grief's predictable lack of prediction. 

This week I am not drained of energy. I am now off work for a day or two because of a bug and high temperature not because of my grief and weariness. Now I am simply tired, achy and sore, a normal and natural physical reaction to a normal physical illness. My treatment is paracetamol, fluids and rest. Visible, conspicuous, empirical, easy. 

I would rather have this physical ill-health with all its treatments and inevitable cessation than the wretched and difficult surprises of never-ending grief.