The year of Firsts

The first year after a loved one’s death is always a “year of firsts”. This week, for me, is one of a couple of firsts which I have been dreading for many months. Tomorrow is my 50th birthday, one which, were Charlie still here, I would have enjoyed very much. As it is, just eight months after her death, my birthday is just a depressing reminder of what we’re missing. Nothing this year feels like a celebration. It’s a day to survive. We’re making the best of it. That’s all we can do.

Even more difficult than my birthday is what would have been Charlie’s 17th birthday on Wednesday. Ever since she was born, the end of July and beginning of August, with the long weekend and our birthdays either side, has been filled with fun and festivities. This time last year we were away with extended family, hanging birthday garlands, eating steaks for dinner (her favourite) and cupcakes for dessert. We were celebrating Charlie’s sweet sixteen - and her first since coming out. One of my gifts to her was a bracelet that says “Charlie”. It turned out to be too big for her delicate wrists. A year later, I find myself wondering whether that was meant to be because now I wear it on her behalf.

The stress I have been under in the days and weeks leading up to Charlie and my birthdays has manifested itself in my body, as stress can, leaving me with twisted up innards, headaches, muscle spasms, and severe pain in my right arm and shoulder. The last time I felt this unwell was in the 48 hours after Charlie’s death. It’s remarkable how our bodies both absorb and remind us of our stress. Birthdays shouldn’t be stressful. But this year is nothing that “should” be. Every “first” post-tragedy hurts. The days that should otherwise have been joyful just hurt a bit more than most. There’s no need to wish me a happy birthday this year. It’s not.