Ah yes, another birthday celebration has come and gone. It began with dinner and a loaded birthday card from my parents on the 19th…a steady and continuous flow of phone calls, emails, and text messages on the 21st and a fancy schmanzy little get together on the 25th. It was a bittersweet celebration for several reasons.
For one, it represented both the quiet serenity that comes with getting older, which I do in fact enjoy (found with my parents) and the mix of warmth and laughter and slight chaos which I also greatly enjoy (found with my friends).
On the other hand, it reminds me of a difficult time, one which isn’t spoken of often and one in which I feel immense guilt. I can still remember coming home from class on my birthday, my uncle was in town, and we went with my mom to see my grandmother in the hospital. It was the last time I would see her, my last opportunity to say good-bye although I had so many opportunities to see her before that night. I don’t know if fear kept me away or denial or maybe some combination of both. I know it looked like another person was keeping me but the reality was that I had the choice and I chose to stay away. I remember holding her hand and telling her things I should have said when she was still aware. I remember telling her how jealous I was that she got to see my cousin get married and that she would never be there when I did. I remember telling her that she was the most beautiful woman I ever had the privilege of knowing and that if I could only be half of who she was, I would know that I was at least good. I remember wanting to believe in miracles and wanting to fully reinstate my faith in something bigger than myself. And I remember how I felt knowing she wasn’t coming home again. Like a lost child, I clung to all that I could for as long as I could but to this day have yet to acknowledge the headstone in which her name has been inscribed.
Two sides battle as I reconcile feelings. One part of me feels as though I have a duty to visit once before I leave, since there is no set time for my return. But part of me knows that it’s ridiculous to think that the only way I can continue remembering and loving her is to visit a headstone. She isn’t there after all, and the tradition of speaking her name hasn’t been lost so why does that urge to return persist? Is it guilt alone, for not visiting when I should have? Or is it bigger than that? Bigger than me? Maybe this isn’t about something I owe to her; maybe somehow, this is about what I owe to myself.
Additionally, I owe it to myself to take control and regain some aspect of my life, while celebrating with my friends was fantastic this past weekend; somewhere things went from great to just below great with no space in between. My necessary and functioning upchuck reflexes left little to be desired by the end of the night and this after promising myself those days were behind me. What I can’t seem to wrap my mind around is: why? I still don’t know why I did it and why I couldn’t stop. Maybe it served as a masque for everything but that is exactly what I want to avoid. Finding the strength in not letting it happen again; this will be my greatest test. But I’ve fought it once before, so I know I can fight it again.
So one final toast (luckily imaginary this time) to turning another year older bringing me closer to 30, which I’m strangely excited for and to the possibility of making me another year wiser, this of course is still to be determined. As my birthday marks a new year -> I can’t wait to see what’s in store!
Until next time,
Courtney Chivon
1 comment:
Last week I watched a documentary about Gary Cooper and was suddenly inundated with memories of Grandpa: took me right back to zero.
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