Birthday Wishes from Heaven

It's amazing to me how fast things can sneak up on you without warning. I thought I was doing just fine, and all of the sudden--wham! Today is my birthday. I'm 24 years old. It hasn't even been a month since my mom died. I almost feel like it's not fair to have a birthday in less than a month of someone dying, especially when that someone is your mom. How unfair.

I wish I was little again. Those mornings were so different from this morning. To be woken up by my mom, to have her say, "Wake up, birthday girrrllll," like I'm five again. I'd get up, get ready for school, there would be a birthday card on our kitchen table with a small present waiting for me. Even if it was 6 o'clock in the morning and it was before school, it was still special.

One specific birthday I remember was when I turned 10. I was in fourth grade, and I had one of those plastic lunch boxes. I opened it up, and on the inside of the lid was the number 10 spelled out in quarters. They were stuck there with a bunch of tape, and on top of my lunch was a birthday card. I remember even then, that young, realizing how special my mom was. And how much I loved her. When other kids that age worried about if their mom was going to embarrass them on the way to school, I sat contently with her, happy just to be near her before I left for the day.

This morning I woke up to a text message. "Happy birthday to you, Julia!" I forgot. "Oh yeah, my birthday..." My TV was still on from last night, the Golden Girls, an episode I've probably seen at least 10 times. I laid there and watched a little and then realized I still had to go to school today. When you lay in bed all day because your mom dies and then because you're really sick, you tend to forget there's actually stuff to do in the real world. So, I picked up my computer to check my email and make sure there weren't any assignments I missed. I had 25 emails, all from Facebook. All Happy Birthdays. I read each one, amazed at who decided to take time out of their day to say happy birthday to me. People I haven't heard from in years, people that were good friends with my mom that I had connected with over the last few months of status updates and picture-posts of her wearing a silly hat in her hospital bed. I hope I don't sound bitter or upset, I appreciate that they thought about me. But I worry that maybe they were trying to fill the void they knew I would feel today. I think even I underestimated the void and just how big it was going to be. In fact, I am positive about this. I had no idea how sad today would be, not even one tiny idea. I was caught completely off guard.

I try to picture how my morning would have been different if she wasn't sick. If she was home. If she was still here. All the different ways I could have been greeted with a birthday wish from my mom. I would have been excited about my birthday, excited to talk to her. I knew this was a happy day for her too. All she ever wanted was a baby. Anyone who knew her well enough to know that always reminded me, "You know, she waited and waited for you";"All she ever wanted was you";"She would have done anything to have you, she wanted you so bad."

The first thing I would do is pick up the phone and call her at work, before I even got out of bed. Before she would even say "hello," I can hear her radio in the background, she would take a deep breath, and sing a funny version of happy birthday to me in a type of salsa-esque rhythm. "Good morning, my 24-year-old girl!!!" And we would talk about what I'm going to do today and my plans for tonight, possibly a dinner with my family and a couple of my close friends. Just something simple, low-key, how I liked it. No presents, nothing, just the people I loved around me. That's all I've ever needed, and all I've ever liked to do on days like this.

How sad. To have that person that matters the most in your life now missing, especially to celebrate the day of your birth. Your birth, that they went through for you. That was probably more special to them than you'd ever actually realize until you went through it yourself. I do not know what it feels like to have children, to hope and pray for them, to finally hear the words, "You're pregnant." But I do know what it feels like to feel special and to feel loved, as a child, and to look over at your mom year after year and know how important this day is between the two of you. I do know what that feels like.

And it is gone.

I woke up this morning to nothing. No excitement. No phone calls to mom. No card waiting on the kitchen table. Nothing.

My aunt Rita called me this morning to try and wish me happy birthday. I say "try" because I heard her voice on the other end. That voice that says, "OK. I'm going to try to do this, but don't cry or I'll start to cry. And I really need to do this because your mom isn't here, and someone has to try to make up for what's missing. Happy birthday." She sang happy birthday to me, in a shaky, happy voice. I laughed and thanked her, also in a shaky, happy voice. She sounded sad when she said good-bye and hung up the phone. I knew. I'm sure she knew too.

I hate to sound ungrateful or unappreciative for the people I have in my life, but it's just not the same as having your mom. It's like all of the birthday messages and cards and voice mails just cancel each other out. All I really want this year is one from her. Just one more. What I wouldn't give for just one more.

I miss her so much today I feel like I can barely even breathe.

I hope that in Heaven, instead of missing your living daughter's birthday, you get to celebrate this day as one of the happiest of your life. I hope that she is sitting at a table with her eyes covered by my grandma's hands, standing behind her. All the lights are out, and my aunt Polly is carrying a small cake that has a stork carrying a baby girl on it, with a single candle burning against the dark. She puts it down in front of my mom, the flame casting dancing shadows against her face, and they both say, "OK, you can open your eyes now!" and my grandma pulls her hands away to let her see. She gasps in surprise, grasps her hands together and pulls them up to her heart as she tilts her head and smiles.

"Happy birthday, Julia," she whispers quietly to herself. "I love you."