Birthdays, Funerals, and Celebrations
December birthdays run in our family. Today, December 10, would have been my mother-in-law’s 90thbirthday. She passed away 6 years ago on All Saints’ Day, fitting for a woman who was an ex-nun. My youngest daughter, born on December 13th, barely escaped having to share her special day with me, December 12th. My husband’s birthday is on December 27.
This Saturday, in this quarantine season, I’ll need to get creative to find a way to celebrate my birthday. My college roomies have scheduled a zoom for me at noon. My golf buddy is coming over for a backyard cocktail after that. Maybe champagne and cookies? And then my husband and daughters will pick up a special dinner for the four of us to enjoy at home. There may be a few presents and some cake, and I’ll probably insist on some dancing by the firepit before the night is over. We’ll crank the music up loud and sing and laugh — necessary components to any good party. If I’ve taught my daughters anything, it’s to celebrate big whenever possible. And by big, I don’t mean quantity of attendees, I mean quality of attendees. Fully and totally present. And with enthusiasm, please!
Birthday celebrations are so important. I hate passing up a birthday invite, and rarely miss the chance to attend a good party. When our friend Mike invited us to his 40th party in Jamaica many years ago, Chuck and I immediately made the necessary travel and childcare arrangements to attend. 10 couples, some of whom I had never met before, convened for four days of some of the most excellent partying and debauchery I’ve ever experienced.
That’s where I met Liz. We connected immediately — learning that we both grew up in neighboring hometowns, played on rival high school volleyball teams, and shared similar views of the world. We sat by the pool on that first day of the long weekend and confided about kids and husbands and life. Her eyes were bright and her smile was big. I watched her effortlessly, fearlessly dive off the cliffs into the aqua blue water. Liz and her husband Andy sat next to us at dinner on one of those special nights, and I knew then that I had met a friend who would have an impact on my life forever.
A few months after Mike’s birthday celebration, Liz found out she had ovarian cancer. This was devastating news. Mike and his wife Christy kept us informed of her brave struggle in her quest to stave off cancer’s cruel and insidious ways. Liz shared her brilliant words documenting her journey, which I read diligently each time she posted on her blog. We weren’t close friends, but I felt that I knew her intimately. When she came up from San Diego to visit Mike and Christy, we’d all get together. And again, Liz and I would usually find a way to sneak aside for a few moments and confide about kids and husbands and life.
On December 12, 2015, I turned 47 years old and I received a text from Christy. Liz had passed away. My birth and Liz’s death — we would be inextricably linked. That evening, Chuck and I celebrated my birthday. And we celebrated Liz’s life too. We toasted to her, to Andy, to their children and the road ahead.
Sometimes I think I could read eulogies all day long. Is that odd? Normal? I haven’t gotten to the point of reading the obituaries daily . . . yet. But truly, I appreciate reading how loved ones find the words to celebrate and honor a life. Andy spoke at Liz’s memorial service. It was beautiful and touching and perfect. And her dear friend, acclaimed author Kelly Corrigan, spoke too. Equally poignant. And then Kelly wrote a book, the New York Times Bestseller Tell Me More: Stories About the 12 Hardest Things I’m Learning to Say, including her most profound observations about love and loss. Excerpts from Liz’s eulogies are included in the book.
That was five years ago. I saw Andy and his kids last month. It was rowdy and happy and there was laughter. Andy told the kids not to throw the ball in the house (because “that’s what mom always said”), we joked about jokes, the kids have grown and Liz was totally and completely present in them — I could actually see her mannerisms and style in her daughters, and her son has the same bright eyes and big smile. My heart hurt with happiness seeing Liz in them. I should have told Andy that.
Kelly now has a podcast, of which I faithfully listen to on my morning walks along the beaches in Southern California. On Tuesday, I listened to her interview with BJ Miller. They shared views on “Losing the Ones We Love”. She also teased the segment with a portion of her interview with Andy, noting that they were approaching the 5-year anniversary of Liz’s death, the day I will turn 52. On Saturday morning, she will air the interview with Andy in full and she says they’ll discuss grief and loss and love and change.
One of the most difficult things for me to come to terms with during this quarantine has been the inability of people to mourn collectively for their loved ones. The fear of contracting and dying from COVID is ever-present, but even more worrisome to me is the thought of the people left behind unable to celebrate together the life of a loved one.
My mom used to say, “Karen, birthdays, weddings and funerals, that’s when everyone comes together.”
We had bagpipers playing outside the Catholic church after Rita’s memorial service. We clinked glasses and toasted her at the reception following. While the adults drank and ate and told funny stories about my mother-in-law, the grandkids were drawing pictures and playing games and dancing in the dining area near the kitchen. Rita would have liked that, I remember thinking. Celebrating the start of life and celebrating the end of life is a uniquely human experience. And in my opinion, necessary.
I may wait to listen to Kelly’s interview with Andy. Perhaps I’ll save that for Monday when I’m willing to shed tears. Before that, I think I’ll put all my energy into the celebration of a few Maguy December birthdays.
