30
I turned 30 as quietly as I could. Not one to want to force attention on myself for my birthday on a normal year, I felt that much more inclined to take the fact of the day and roll it up. To hide it in a corner where other people didn’t need to acknowledge it. Where the day could be just like the day before and the one before that - full of people and yet empty of action, swirling with repetition, weighed down with everyone’s unshareable thoughts.
I woke up that morning in a bed that was familiar but not my own, in a state that was familiar but not my own, in a house thick with grief that was familiar but not my own. I woke up thinking I should feel something specific about making it to this milestone, and instead acutely aware of feeling absent. Stuck in my body and in a place where suddenly mundane chores had become insurmountable, and where I would watch my partner fill his day with endless lists of tasks and not know how to help.
So instead I got up and went downstairs to the kitchen that seemed to be forever filled with people, even at early hours of the morning. No one was sleeping very well. And I made eggs - something I had been finding myself doing every morning. A small part of me chafed at the gender roles we had so naturally fallen into during the week. When I wasn’t standing around feeling useless, I was helping with cooking and cleaning. On the other side of the house he sorted bills and made arrangements - constantly on his computer, calling people, sending emails, identifying new tasks to add to his endless list. While I was still, he was ever moving. And neither of us were okay.
And I didn’t know how to help. So I made eggs. They gave me something to do, made me feel like maybe I was making someone else’s day a tiny bit easier by doing so. And part of me knew that the only person I was really making feel better was myself, and I wasn’t doing that great a job at that either. I couldn’t stop myself wishing someone was giving me more direction, helping me navigate the empty spaces.
Tired eyes greeted me as I came into the kitchen, wishing me a happy birthday with ghosts of smiles. I felt bad making people put on a happy face for me, having to acknowledge something outside of themselves. It starkly highlighted the new reality - that for every joyful occasion there would be an accompanying feeling of loss.
I got calls throughout the day wishing me a happy birthday. I ran into corners of the house to take them, not wanting anyone else to have to hear. Trying to coach my voice into enthusiasm, shake off the dark. My cousin called, her voice infused with infectious energy like it always is - asking me how I was going to celebrate. The question felt loud and coarse, highlighting the hollow feeling in my body. She told me to go out to dinner to celebrate. I told her I might.
Ultimately it wasn’t the lack of celebration that made me sad. It was that the day made me feel isolated, during a week where I already felt out of my depth and scrambling for purchase. All I wanted was to connect with my increasingly insular partner, to try to take on some of what he was feeling - but all he could do was sit at the dining room table and make ever expanding lists of things he was taking responsibility for. He needed to help his mom with her credit cards, with insurance, with the funeral home. He had to make decisions, set up appointments, write emails to former colleagues, make endless numbers of tough phone calls. And I didn’t know how to share that with him.
I wondered if the roles were reversed if I would need him to do the exact same things - helping change accounts and track paperwork down. If he would always default to being the rock during a crisis, the responsible adult, even if it was my family rather than his. I think I probably would, and I wish I had more of that inside of me to give back to him.
My parents called me towards the end of the day, their voices sounded far away - the distance highlighted by the emotional gulf that surrounded everyone in the house. They very clearly did not know what sort of tone they should be using - working to cover over the lingering sadness with something brighter. The layer it added was insubstantial and translucent, and it only seemed to highlight the loneliness of the day. And as they sang happy birthday to me I couldn’t stop myself from crying.














