Today would have been Christopher’s 19th birthday. I’ve been dreading the arrival of this day since he took his life because I hear it’s a doozy. So far, I’m kind of numb.
When each of my boys turned 18, I wrote them a letter about what their life has meant to me, what it’s been like to watch them grow up into young men, and what I hope the future holds for them. I also talked a little about what the day of their birth was like.
All of my children were planned homebirths with a nurse and doctor in attendance. All three went off without a hitch but each had their own silly stories attached. When I was in labor with oldest, Austin, there was a media crew in attendance (long story) and a decorated cake of a guy in a mustache (even longer story). Austin was born a long, skinny string bean with energy the likes I’ve never seen from a newborn before or since.
Labor with my middle son, Zane, involved me dipping in and out of a lukewarm hot tub for pain relief and watching Blues Clues with Austin. Miraculously, my aunt happened to be in town and was there for his birth. I rewarded her by unexpectedly throwing up all over her. Zane arrived in this world laughing and never stopped. Infant giggly Zane was a precursor to the always-laughing Zane who would keep me in stitches for hours.
Christopher’s labor was by far the fastest, as third babies usually are. He had his own agenda that day, as would turn out to be his personality for the rest of his life.
The nurse arrived in the middle of a snowstorm to see how my labor was going and once we got to a certain point, she’d call the doctor to come out and attended the birth. Christopher must have sensed the intended timeline because he decided time waits for no newborn. He didn’t give the doctor time to arrive or, to be honest, even me much warning. One minute I was talking to the nurse, the next minute I was looking into Christopher’s big brown eyes.
I wrote in his 18th birthday letter:
The day you were born, you opened your eyes, looked around, and went right back to sleep. Figuring you’d wake up soon to spend time with us, we laid you in a play pen in the middle of a noisy living room filled with your brothers, a dog, cats, family, the doctor, a nurse, and a ringing phone with people calling to say congratulations. You slept through it all for hours! I knew then that you would grow up to be someone who always did their own thing and kept their cool no matter how wild things were around him.
My prediction was true. Christopher was the person the expression “marches to the beat of his own drum” was modeled upon.
I wanted to mark Christopher’s 18th birthday last year in a special way so I ordered him an 18×24 print of what the night sky looked like at our house on the night he was born. It included his name, birthdate and time, and the coordinates of the town where he was born.
I wrote in his letter:
This gift to you is what I saw when I looked up to the night sky 18 years ago. My world changed because you were finally here. Words can’t express how much I love you.
The poster and card now sits with the rest of Christopher’s possessions in my office closet. I have no idea what I’ll eventually do with everything, but for now it’s safely on the top shelf.
A couple months after Christopher died, I had his name, birthdate and time, and the coordinates of the town where he was born tattooed on my inner forearm. It seemed somehow fitting to commemorate on my body the day he came into this world and the last gift I ever gave him.
I wasn’t sure how I’d feel on the day of Christopher’s first birthday without him. The first thought I had when I opened my eyes this morning was to text him. Let me tell you, remembering you can’t never gets any easier.
The day of your child’s birth you think about what their life will be like, the things they’ll accomplish, and who they’ll grow up to be. You never, ever think about how you’ll mourn their death.
This wasn’t supposed to be how I celebrated Christopher’s 19th birthday, sitting broken and trying to type while may eyes are blurry with tears. I grieve for him as well as for Austin and Zane, who miss their brother terribly. I grieve for me. I grieve for all that could have been and all I wish had been.
But Christopher showed me who he was on the day he was born. He arrived with utter disregard for everyone waiting for him and the doctor who was racing through a blizzard to be there. He lived his first day of life peacefully snoozing despite the chaos around him. From his first breath he was his own person who did his own thing.
So in life, as in death. Christopher also left this world with utter disregard for the people around him. He lived his last day tuning out the chaos around him. With his last breath, he was his own person who did his own thing.
Christopher may never have another birthday but I will never stop acknowledging them as if he could. There will be no gifts or cake, but I will always spend the 9th of January thinking about how he came into this world and the absolute joy it was to be his mother, rather than dwell on how he left.
Happy birthday, my son. I will always see you in the night sky.