Episode 15: Happy Birthday To Me

Birthdays used to mean cake, candles and making a bit of fuss (okay... a lot of fuss)

Now they mean something very different.

This episode os about grief showing up where you don't expect it. In hospital waiting rooms, in quiet moments, in the space where someone should still be. 

It's about missing him. It's about making your own birthday coffee (which just isn't the same)

And it's about learning how to hold both love and loss all at once.

Also featuring:

- A pre op appointment that emotionally assaulted me within 30 seconds

- The reality of being the "responsible adult" 

- And a birthday message I didn't expect, but somehow really needed

If birthdays feel complicated for you too, then this one's for you

☕️🖤

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:03

Hello and welcome back to the Early Morning Coffee Club. The podcast where grief is intense, humour is finally ground, and strength sneaks up on you like a double shot. When this podcast goes live, I'll actually be getting ready to head in for surgery. But before you panic, please don't, there's nothing dramatic, no Grey's anatomy storyline here. It's just a small, annoying issue that's been quietly simmering in the background for a little while now. You know, one of those we should probably deal with that situations that's eventually turned into, okay fine, we have to deal with it. Anyway, a few days ago I went in for my pre-op assessment. So I arrived, sat down, didn't have to wait long before they called my name, and I'm taken into this little room with a nurse, and I expect we're about to start going through all the standard checks, blood pressure, questionnaires, tick boxes, all very routine. Also I thought, because she just launched straight in with, I understand that your husband's passed away, so as the last surviving parent your child, who will be caring for him after your surgery? I mean, fucking hell. Straight in, no warm-up, no gentle lead-in, just emotional devastation before I've even got comfortable in the chair. And just like that, I'm crying. Proper caught off guard crying. Not the cute composed kind, the kind where you're trying to answer a question, and also remember how breathing works. Anyway, I managed to tell her that my father-in-law and his partner will be looking after him. She hands me a wad of those hospital tissues. You know those paper towels, the ones that are less soft and comforting, and more like a light exfoliation. Anyway, she just carries on like we're discussing the weather. Next question. And who will be looking after you? And I genuinely paused because my first thought was, well, me. I told her I was planning to get a taxi home. Absolutely not, apparently. Nope, she said, someone needs to collect you. Right, of course. Because even in my most fiercely independent, I can handle everything myself, Era. Turns out minor surgery still requires a responsible adult. And then just to really round things off, she goes, I've noticed your husband's still listed as your emergency contact. Can I take someone else's details? I mean, wow. Five stars for efficiency, lady, but zero stars for emotional cushioning. I left that appointment feeling completely broken. It's strange, isn't it, how grief can just ambush you like that? You think you're going in for something really straightforward, and then suddenly you're hit with a reminder of everything you've lost in the most clinical, matter-of-fact way possible. Anyway, thankfully my lovely friend Holly's offered to come and collect me, which I'm incredibly grateful for. But if I'm being honest, it's uncomfortable. I don't like needing people this much. I was stubborn and independent before Alex died, and somehow I've become even more so since. Which is ironic really, because life seems to keep putting me in these situations where I have no other choice but to let people show up for me. And I'm still figuring out how to be okay about that. Anyway, more importantly, slightly more ironically, I'm recording this on my birthday, Monday the 30th of March. I know what an absolute treat. Cake one day, hospital gown the next. I'm really living the dream, guys. There's really nothing like blowing out candles and then immediately preparing to be told not to eat after midnight and to arrive early for surgery. Honestly, if that's not the universe having a sense of humour, I don't really know what is. But birthdays, they're supposed to feel like a celebration, right? Cake, candles, messages, maybe a slightly emotional Instagram post if you're feeling reflective. A little moment to look back on the year and think, okay, I made it through. But grief doesn't care about any of that. Grief doesn't pause for milestones. It doesn't respectfully step aside and say, go on then have your day. If anything, it gets louder, like it wants to make absolutely sure that you don't forget. Because this is another birthday I'm living without Alex. I was thirty when he died, and today I turned thirty-two. That's two birthdays he's missed. And I genuinely don't understand how that's possible. Like how has time moved forward like that? Who approved it? Because I definitely did not sign off on it. And the strangest part is how birthdays feel now. It's like holding two completely opposite emotions at the exact same time. There's this quiet, almost reluctant gratitude, like, okay, I'm still here, I'm still breathing, I'm still moving forward, even if it's not in the way I imagined. And then sitting right next to that is this deep aching absence, the space where he should be. I catch myself thinking about all the little things. What he would have said to me, how he would have looked at me, whether he would have taken the piss out of me for getting older, or made me feel like I was the most important person in the room. Probably a bit of both to be fair. Alex was never big on his own birthday. He hated being a December baby, too close to Christmas, everyone's busy at work parties, always slightly overshadowed. And he'd never properly admit it, but I'm pretty sure that there was also a bit of I don't love getting older sprinkled in there too. But my birthday, oh my god, he made a thing of it. Every single year. Before I'd even open my eyes, I'd hear his soft, slightly gruff morning voice singing happy birthday to me. Badly, I should add, not a note in tune, but full commitment. Then he'd go downstairs, make me a coffee, come back up and hand it to me in bed with my cards and presents like I was some sort of birthday queen. And honestly, that is something I really miss. The coffee in bed part. Because let me tell you, trying to recreate that experience for yourself, it doesn't work. You go downstairs to make the coffee and suddenly you're like, oh, I'll just unload the dishwasher quickly. Then you let the dog out, and then you think, I might as well hoover while I'm down here. And before you know it, it's midday, your ten chores deep, slightly sweaty, and on your third coffee of the morning, the magic is gone, the romance is gone, it's just admin now. And so birthdays now they mean something different. I used to love my birthday. I wanted the whole world to know, I wanted full acknowledgement, widespread celebration, possibly a parade, nothing over the top obviously. But you know those people that don't just have a birthday, they actually have a birthday month. Yep, that was me. We're talking countdowns, strategic plans, birthday week easing gently into birthday weekend, and somehow rolling straight into why not keep it going? It's still technically my birthday month. I fully believed in maximum birthday exposure. If there was an opportunity to celebrate me, I was taking it. Dinner, yes. Drinks, obviously. Another event three days later because I couldn't see everyone at once? Of course. I had standards as well. I wanted the cards, I wanted the messages, I wanted people making a big fuss, not in a diva way, okay, maybe slightly in a diva way, but in a this is my special day and I'll be leaning into it fully. And you know what? I don't even feel bad about it. It was joyful, it was fun, it was something to look forward to. But birthdays feel very different now. The idea of a birthday month these days feels ambitious. Emotionally, logistically, just no. Now it's more like a birthday hour, and even that depends on how the day's going. Because when you're grieving, the spotlight shifts. It's not about being the centre of attention anymore. It's not about how many plans you can fit in or how big you can make the celebration. It becomes quieter, more internal, more about what the day means than what it looks like. And if I'm being honest, there is a part of me that misses that old version of myself, the one who made a big deal out of everything, and who squeezed every drop out of her birthday and expected the world to join in. But there's also something about this version of me now. She doesn't need the same things. She still wants to feel loved, she still wants to feel remembered, but she also knows how much strength it takes just to reach another birthday, and that in itself feels worth acknowledging, even if the celebration looks completely different. They're not just about getting older, they're not really even about celebrating in the way you used to. They've become more of a marker. Another year that I live without him, another year of figuring things out on my own, another year of carrying him with me in a completely different way. And there's something else I've found myself doing. I've kept every birthday card Alex has ever gave me. Every single one. And last year I made a bit of a decision. I took out the last card he ever gave me, which was from my 30th birthday, and I put it with all my other birthday cards on the shelf. It's got Pam from Gavin and Stacy on the front with Oh my Christ written across it, which, if you know, you know, very on brand for him. He was always so good at writing in cards, like annoyingly good. The kind of messages you that you keep and reread because they actually mean something. So last year I sat there and I went through them all, and I noticed something. In almost every single card, he'd wrote about our future together. I can't wait to see what our future holds. Here's to the next 30 birthdays together. I'm looking forward to growing old with you. Always us, always we. But in that last card he ever gave me, he wrote, Can't wait to see what adventures your thirties have in store for you. And that was the first time he'd ever written something like that. Just me. Now listen, I'm not saying that he had some kind of premonition. His death was sudden, completely unexpected, with no warning at all. But it's a bit weird, isn't it? Out of all the things you could have written, that's what he chose. And now two birthdays later, that line just hits completely different. Because this is my future now. Not the one we planned, not the one we talked about in all those other cards, but one I'm still here living anyway. And I think that's what birthdays mean to me now. Not just celebration, not just cake and candles, but resilience, survival, another year of showing up even when it hurts, another year of becoming someone I never expected I'd have to be, and somehow still finding moments of laughter even in the middle of all that. Even if it does involve making your own birthday coffee. Oscar. Birthdays are a bit different now, aren't they? I don't know how much you'll remember of how they used to be, or how much we'll just live in the stories I tell you. But your daddy, he made birthdays feel so special. Not just mine, yours too. And I hope more than anything that as you grow up you still feel that. I hope you always feel celebrated, I hope you always feel loved, and I hope you know that even on the days that feel a bit heavy, there's still so much good worth holding on to. I also want you to know this because I'm still learning it myself. It's okay if things don't look the way you thought they would. It's okay if birthdays feel happy and sad all at the same time. It's okay if you miss him more on certain days, and it's okay if one year you want a big celebration and the next you just want something small. There's no right way to do this, but what I do know is that your daddy loved you more than anything in this world, and that love hasn't disappeared. It's still here in you, in me, in the life we're still building together, even though it looks different than we imagined. And I promise you this: no matter how birthdays change, no matter how we celebrate them, I will always make sure you feel how loved you are. So I think that's where I've landed with birthdays now. They're not what they used to be, and maybe they're not supposed to be. They don't feel as loud, they don't feel as full, they don't feel as carefree. But they do feel honest. They hold everything now, the love, the loss, the memories, the reality of what life is and what it isn't anymore. And for a long time I think I was comparing them to old birthdays versus new ones, before versus after. Trying to figure out why it didn't feel the same or worse, trying to make it feel the same. And it just doesn't work like that. Because that version of my life doesn't exist anymore. And that's not me being dramatic, that's just the truth of it. So now I'm gonna try something different. I'm not chasing what birthdays used to feel like. I'm not putting pressure on the day to be amazing or meaningful or memorable in some big cinematic way. I'm just letting it be what it is. If it's quiet, okay. If it's emotional, also okay. If there are moments where I laugh and then immediately feel sad right after. So now birthdays aren't just about getting older. They're about carrying love forward, they're about remembering someone who should still be here, and they're about noticing the strength it's taken to get from one year to the next. And I don't always feel strong by the way. I think strength can look a bit misleading from the outside. Sometimes strength is just getting out of bed on a day that feels heavy. Sometimes it's answering messages when you'd rather disappear. Sometimes it's going to a hospital appointment and not completely losing your mind when someone casually reminds you that your whole life has changed. And sometimes strength is just making it to your own birthday and acknowledging this is hard, but I'm still here. And that counts. That really counts. Because there were moments over the last couple of years where I didn't know how I was going to get through the day, let alone another year. But here I am, a little bit different, a little bit more tired if I'm honest, but also a little bit more aware of what actually matters. And weirdly, I think birthdays have become less about me and more about connection. The people who show up, the messages that feel genuine, the quiet acts of kindness, like someone making sure I'm not getting a taxi home from surgery on my own, because apparently that's not allowed. It's less about how big the celebration is and more about who's still standing beside you in it, and who you're carrying with you, even though they're not physically here. Because that doesn't go away. He doesn't go away not on birthdays, not on ordinary days, not in the in-between moments where life just carries on and then you suddenly remember it all over again. It just changes shape. It becomes something that you carry instead of something you share. And I think that's why days like birthdays can feel so complicated. Because you're aware of everything at once, what you had, what you lost, what you still have, and what you're still building. So maybe birthdays now aren't about trying to feel purely happy. Maybe they're about allowing a mix. The laughter, the tears, the oh my god, how is this my life moments, and the quiet, okay, I'm still here moments. And finding some kind of acceptance in that. Not perfect acceptance, not every year, not in a neat, tidied up way, but just enough to get through the day and maybe even find a moment in it that feels like you. So if you're listening to this and you're in it too, grief, loss, big changes, whatever your version looks like, just know this. You're allowed to feel however you feel on the days that you're supposed to be happy. You're not doing it wrong if it feels heavy. You're not ungrateful if it feels complicated, and you're definitely not alone in trying to figure out how to hold both joy and sadness at the same time. Because somehow we do. We carry it, we learn it, and we survive it. And slowly in ways that we don't always notice at first, we grow around it, and we keep going, one birthday at a time. So this morning was one of those chaotic Monday mornings, kids everywhere, noise levels through the roof, the usual rush out the door. Oscar's godfather John arrived to take him to nursery like he does every Monday. And somewhere in the middle of that madness, I casually had to remind John it was my birthday. To be fair, he recovered well, he got all the kids together for a slightly chaotic, slightly out-of-tune rendition of Happy Birthday Before They Left, which I'll absolutely take. And when the house went quiet, that's when it hit me. I went upstairs, sat with my cards from Alex, and wished more than anything I could hear him reading the words out loud to me. A little while later, John called me. He said he had to share something with me. He'd been driving, Oscar in the back sat next to his daughter Tilly, and they were both chatting away in the back seats, and out of nowhere, Oscar said My daddy's died. He's in the sky now. He's talking. Can you hear him, Tilly? Tilly went quiet for a moment and said, I can't hear him, Oscar. And Oscar replied, Completely certain. He's really loud. John asked, Oscar, what's he saying then? And Oscar said, He's singing happy birthday to mummy. And somehow in that moment everything felt a little less heavy. Cause I realised Oscar was right, and if I really listened, I could hear him too. Thank you for sitting with me today on my birthday, and thank you for listening and holding space for this conversation. This has been the Early Morning Coffee Club. I'm sorry you're here, but I'm glad we're here together. I'll see you next week.