The day she died, the day she was born, Father's Day, my birthday, Christmas. It was the date of Ruby's birthday recently, traditionally the second most difficult day of the year for me, a grieving parent. Most people would imagine each passing year should dull the pain, that life should run smoother especially at those difficult dates but those same people are happily unaware the true path of grief is straggled with twists and bends and the occasional impasse that identifies itself at inopportune times. The road of grief is not linear, of course it isn't, but there are times when even the most experienced griever is thrown into seemingly spontaneous discomfort. Ruby's recent birthday- she should have become 23 but died at 11- was such a day.
As with every death day, birthday, Father's Day and Christmas I prepared myself as best I could in the weeks leading up to it. In truth, when one date has passed (in my case, my birthday in July) I begin to consider the next one, I think how to best manage it and prepare myself for the path leading up to that day. I remind myself that the previous weeks and days are worse than the actual day itself, I remind myself to be as kind to myself as I would be to a loved one in similar circumstances, I remind myself that everything passes, that time does not change its pace and that, before I know it, the day is over and all will be well.
Except this year was different. The path I had created for myself leading up to Ruby's birthday felt different, I was wading through treacle every day and it felt a great effort to keep my head upright. I couldn't straighten my back, I couldn't lift my limbs high, I couldn't focus. On her birthday I barely had enough energy to get out of bed or complete the mindless chores I had prepared for myself. Only one person- an old friend- contacted me, no family or other friends were in touch and that lack of connection amplified my loneliness. It affected me deeply and it took weeks to recover.
In those weeks of recovery this year I lived with almost constant thoughts of loss, of not being whole or even wholly present- one day a cat ran across the pavement in front of me and I half turned to smile at Ruby but, of course, just turned back again. Another day I swear I heard her voice or maybe something like her voice and I started saying "huh?" but just slowly exhaled instead. On many days I thought I could feel the wiry brush of her thick hair under my chin, her shoulder in my arm pit and her hand on my back (she was never taller than my chin). One day, just after this recent birthday, I think I felt her balled-up fist in my palm- her hands were never large enough to comfortably interlace our fingers and I would cradle her entire hand in mine. Then I suddenly knew it wasn't her and my breath was taken from me and my legs lost all power and I had to sit down for fear of collapse. These were almost hallucinations, felt sensory experiences rooted in such profound deprivation as to be willed into being. I had never experienced this extraordinary physical manifestation of Ruby's wake before and was affected it by it for many weeks.
Grief doesn't make sense, it follows no logical or expected path. Even now, 11 years after Ruby died, there are days, weeks, months, years and specific anniversary days that are utterly different to all the others, that have power to surprise and move me in new ways. Some are easier than others- mostly I live as well as I can and at peace- but there still exists the spontaneous power of grief to take my breath and my strength, that makes me feel things that aren't there, that reminds me I have missing parts where I look and see nothing.
