April 6, 2019

I turn 45 on Monday.

Kind of like the New Year’s tradition I wrote about here, I usually spend the time leading up to my birthday thinking about the year past, the year to come. For some reason this year, I find myself rewinding six years instead of just one.

On April 6, 2019, the day before my birthday, my youngest brother Nico’s partner, Rubén, died suddenly. I got the call from my mom while in an Uber en route to a birthday gathering I had organized. Chad and I had just moved to Cape Town in December of 2018, so I was thrilled to even have a group of friends to bring together by early April. Still, they were new friends, and for reasons having more to do with my inability to make people uncomfortable than with the compassion of the folks I was meeting, I somehow absorbed the horrible news in the Uber and then proceeded to host a picnic as if nothing had happened.

There was a part of me that thought maybe I could buy time by living in a state of denial for a few hours. But as much as I thought I could pretend, it was awful to hold the shock and grief while also trying to be bright and bubbly with these new acquaintances. I did, at least, ask Chad to tell the first couple that arrived and they helped usher everyone in with their tickets and get them settled while I sat on a park bench to collect myself. These remain two of my closest friends here, I believe at least in part because I was able to be vulnerable with them that day.

But as far as everyone else was concerned, I was a carefree almost 39 year old, living her best new life, at an outdoor concert in the park on a beautiful Cape Town day.

It was gut wrenching.

I made it through the concert and everyone dispersing, but one friend who had had too much to drink invited herself over to our flat for another glass of wine. Even then, I couldn’t find it in myself to refuse. I suffered through the conversation, smiling when I wanted to cry.

I still think about what it says about me that I did that. What it says about my fear of letting people know what’s really going on. Of asking for help. Of just allowing myself to collapse and “inconvenience” people, when a horrible, terrible thing has happened. There was something about me having brought everyone together, having asked them to buy tickets for a concert and prepare picnics and be at this place in time, for me, that made it seem impossible to simply say: something has happened and I can’t be there. I feared I’d lose all of these new friends, that they’d somehow think I was being demanding, not worth the time and effort.

I couldn’t imagine cancelling, or worse - crying. Forcing everyone to care for me. Making them feel the discomfort of knowing there is nothing they can do but hold space for grief. And so I pretended, and felt my soul screaming the entire time. I think a part of me wanted some one to magically know, to realize what was going on and put their arms around me, so I wouldn’t have to be the one to say it.

Six years later, almost to the day, I can see how deeply sad that is. And I feel such tenderness for the me that believed she was only worthy of friendship if things were going well. There’s still a part of me that believes that, and still connects my worth to what I do or provide. Letting people down - no matter the circumstance - is still my kryptonite.

And now, I think about this birthday. 45. And I think about how April 7 will always be the day after April 6, the day we lost Rubén. I think of the cycle of life, of the balance of light and dark we all hold, of the duality and complementarity of grief and gratitude. I think about how, if I’m lucky enough to live to 90, I’m now halfway through my life. I think of my brother, of the months and years of pain that followed April 6, 2019, but also of the happiness he has found again. How it was not, and could never be, a straight line from deep pain to joy. I think about how I don’t want to close myself off to people who love and support me by shielding them from the reality of my feelings - my anger, my sadness, my joy.

Because there will be pain again, that’s the spiral path of life. And pretending not to feel it, or pretending it isn’t there, even for a few hours during a birthday picnic, is a losing battle. Because it lives in my body, the pain of April 6, 2019. The lonely cloak I pulled around myself, without letting anyone know enough to support me.

I hope I’ve learned by now not to do that anymore. Or at least, that I do it a little less.

That’s my birthday wish this year.