Of Birthdays and other special days… by Rachelle
Right from the beginning I was warned that special days, Birthday and Anniversaries etc., would be difficult to deal with. Harder than most.
So, I put this to the test on Friday – 31 August 2018. What would have been Johan’s 57th birthday and something that was always celebrated to the max in our house. Birthdays are special. The kids were woken with singing and candles, the adults had another kind of fun altogether. Special days.
Friday dawned… It was hard. Harder than most. All the people “in the know,” knew.
I am still not quite sure if it was harder because I was told it would be harder, or if it was harder because, when I woke up, there were no birthday “adult fun.” I don’t know if it was harder because, even though he is gone, the sun came up, shone like a bitch, birds chirping, bees doing their shit … just like every other day. I think that was the problem, it was just like every other day… It was just not right.
There should have been thunder, lightning, gale-force winds, rain all day. Something that matched my sombre mood. There should have been something to mark the day as horrible. It was horrible, but it was only 24 hours long. Just like all the others.
The day was exactly as long as the day he died.
The day was exactly as long as the day I had to go make sure he was still dead.
The day was exactly as long as the day of his Memorial.
The day was exactly as long as the day I had to fetch his ashes.
24 long, gruelling hours of pain, agony, heartache, sadness.
Saturday was 24 hours of trying to keep busy … shopping, crocheting and listening to music on my new sound system. Nails in the wall to hang pictures – pretty pictures of smiles and “real.” Just not real enough to touch.
Sunday was full of bowls, movies with Sorah, laughter, crochet … an empty bed at the end of the weekend. Again.
Why I don’t cry more and scream to heaven, I don’t know. Maybe that is coming still. I really don’t know. My head is telling my heart still, about the sadness of his passing. My heart says – bullshit, it ain’t true bru. You are shitting me. He’ll be back. Check the back door. He’ll hug you, say he missed you. That huge presence is away for just a while. In the Congo, in Limpopo – having fun. He’ll be back.
I struggle with the little things, waking up and getting up in the morning without my first cup of coffee, lovingly brought by him. He always did.
Getting out of bed when he finished showering, “your turn… come on now, the water will be cold!”
Getting in the car … “you are parked behind the bakkie, move your arse, I’m going to be late!”
Getting home at night … “are we ever going to eat tonight, I haven’t eaten all day!”
The normal, day to day stuff that was so … normal. Wet towels, socks on the floor, boots where I can fall over them. I wish I had a shirt, one worn shirt. Just one.
Ek is lief vir jou my dierbaar. Ek verlang my hart aan flarde. Ek weet nie hoe nie… maar ek probeer.