Today would have been Charlie’s 18th birthday.
18 is a big deal in American culture. You’re legally considered an adult. You can vote, buy a house, join the military (but not drink). You become master of your own destiny. It’s a time for parents to celebrate how far your child has come, what an amazing adult they are turning out to be. How much they have grown into who they are.
I think about Charlie every single day, but there are two where his presence looms larger than usual – his birthday and his death day. They are almost exactly 6 months apart, so for most of the year, there’s a cycle of build up, then pain, then we’re past the date but the cycle begins again. Over and over, for the last 8 years.
This year is especially painful, not just because of the milestone birthday but because it’s also my niece’s birthday and it’s our first one without her. My bright and shining, lovely niece Amy would have been 35 today. My heart aches for my sister, her fiancé, my nephew and brother-in-law; they are finding out how hard this day can be, for the first time. It’s a club I never, ever wanted my sister to join: the Club of Moms Who Lost Their Children. This club sucks. (Also, what the hell was the universe doing to give us two amazing children on the same day, albeit years apart, and then take them away?)
I recently reread a bunch of my posts on here. I realized that a lot of what I’m trying to do is find the right metaphor, the right analogy that will explain what it’s like to lose your child. But I don’t think I ever can, not least because every grief journey is different because it’s so very personal. What is clear to me is how very BIG my grief is, how much it colors everything.
And that’s as it should be, right? A loss like this is disabling in a way, like losing a body part. Of course everything changed.
[Woo woo warning ahead]
I have had a few dreams since Charlie died that I call “visit” dreams, where I (mostly) choose to believe he has come back to say hi. I am always achingly aware that I’m dreaming and time is short. It’s been a while since he’s visited so I was so, so excited. I told him I was sad that I couldn’t see what he looked like now. “Mom, of course you can’t,” he explained. “You have no idea what I would look like as an 18 year old, so your brain can’t imagine it. But it doesn’t matter; it’s just a shell for the real me.”
I’m not going to recount more of our conversation, except to say that he really wanted me to know that he is okay, he forgives me and wants me to forgive him, and that I’ll be with him again one day. And in the meantime, stop beating myself up.
Stop beating myself up. Stop holding on to my grief as a way to punish myself for all the things I think I did wrong. Let it go.
The universe is making sure I get the message. I draw a daily tarot card, not for divination but as a way of self reflection and tapping into what my subconscious wants me to know. Today, I pulled the Five of Cups and the Hanged Man — not once, but twice. I usually only pull one card, but accidentally turned over two at the same time. And when putting my deck back in its box, the top two cards got knocked of a deck I don’t use but store – and it was the same two cards (seriously).
One of my favorite tarot books, Wild Card by Jen Cowrie and Fiona Lensvelt, explains the Five of Cups this way:
“The Five of Cups … is a reminder that loss is a part of life, and grief is healthy. Sometimes…it’s a sign that, while you might be obsessing about the cause of your pain, you haven’t actually allowed yourself to feel the depths of it. [It’s] a reminder that the only way forward is through…You can only do the work that’s needed to integrate them into who you are….There comes a time when you need to be able to move on from your grief. You can’t stop time, and nor should you want to…They key to letting go is to lift your gaze so you can see things that are still here, as well as those that you’ve lost.”
The Hanged Man is of course about making choices that we aren’t perhaps quite ready to make. About sacrifices, reflection and moving forward. About the liminal space between now and the future.
So. I hear you, Charlie. I will let it go. The guilt. The “shoulda, woulda, coulda.” The pain and ice and damage that’s kept my heart locked away even from those I love the most. I will look at what’s ahead more than I mourn what’s behind. I will grieve, not drown.
I will let all that weight go. But I will never let go of you and all the light and joy and magic you brought to the world.
Happy birthday, Charlie. Thanks for choosing me to be your mom. Love you.
Saying the Quiet Parts Out Loud 