As a predictably self-absorbed teenager, I loved celebrating my birthday. Often it would fall during February School Vacation which in grade school made for lots of flexibility in scheduling the go-to sleep over party. Truth be told, I was terrible at sleep over parties. Well - not really. I was a beast the day after sleep over parties. I have never done well without sleep. Nevertheless, my mom grudgingly allowed annual sleep over birthday parties. And once high school rolled around and my parents began to take my younger siblings to Florida for February break - which wasn’t feasible for my older brother and I who were playing basketball - the unauthorized and fairly famous keg parties that my parents always found out about sometimes morphed into a Jane birthday celebration (at least in my mind). I think my mom would have gladly gone back to giggling 10 year old girls.
Anyway, I loved my birthday. As a mom and climbing through middle age, birthdays began to lose a little luster for sure. And as a practicing Catholic my birthday almost always came during Lent and giving up sweets was a teenage - and young adult, and okay, is an adult sacrifice. Even still, I think fond memories of birthday celebrations influenced my decision with Chuck to set our wedding on February 19th. Part of it was also my fear of missing votes in the State Senate and knowing that we always held informal sessions during school vacation weeks.
I convinced Chuck, whose birthday proximity to mine on March 2nd fit perfectly with my logic, that we could one day take birthday/anniversary trips with our imagined children. And, let’s be honest, getting married while I was 28 and not 29 (by 5 days - and he was 39 and not 40) just seemed like more of a triumph. Shallow, yes. But — some of my logic was prescient. We did take many wonderful February family vacations. But, I did miss a few final votes on the Thursday before my wedding.
Like every other aspect of my life, Chuck’s death changed my relationship with February. That first year, still numb but with Sarah off to study abroad in Vienna, and Lauren back at Northwestern University and Elizabeth back at UMass, friends and family began to gently inquire what I would be doing. An unexpected invitation from a longtime work colleague to visit a part of Florida I’d never seen - the panhandle - created a semi-plan. I set a few days to be there and then I leaned on another of my coping mechanisms: driving. On my birthday I got in my car and headed south (ish). My father was likely turning over in his grave. Our family has driven to Florida and back so many times. It is a familiar and comforting ritual. But there are rules: the approved route, the first night stop (can you say Emporia, VA?), the detailed itinerary and hotel reservations. I did none of that. I broke every rule - I didn’t decide where I was stopping till I left in the morning. I stopped and saw some sites. In the middle of the day!!! Like so much in those early weeks, I just operated on instinct. And somehow I survived February and early March.
February in Year Two followed more what Year Two brought generally. More acknowledgment of my grief and more experimentation with how to deal with it. I know my girls, family, friends and just about anyone who has ever spent more than five minutes with me was shocked by my decision to attend a silent Catholic retreat.
And in a cold climate! But the continued and unexpected intensity of my grief demanded deep contemplation and reflection. And I was as surprised as everyone else that it worked. I survived another Valentine’s Day, another anniversary and our birthdays. And I continued to be grateful for that long ago decision to plunk our anniversary in the middle of those other events. Run the gauntlet once intensely and don’t prolong the misery. Okay, that isn’t actually how grief works but my desire to control things beyond my control is a lot more on brand than a silent retreat!
This year February kind of snuck up on me. I don’t know how Year Three will play out. But February has definitely been different and has mirrored my recent grief journey and the “sneaking up” part is fully on brand. I don’t know if these unexpected bouts of intense grief really are more painful than previous moments or if they simply feel worse when bookended by periods of relative normalcy. But when a bad cold ended up being COVID and I slept through Valentine’s Day only to realize I was hurtling toward the 19th (30th anniversary) it punched me in the teeth. I am also grappling with challenges that Chuck predicted. How to keep the farm viable will be a separate (and overdue) post over on our chfarm.org site soon. But I will say there is a reason small New England farms struggle to survive the death of the full-time farmer and to transition between generations. I am still determined to figure it out but to say it is easy would be a lie. Chuck knew this and in addition to giving me lots of practical knowledge, the support of the best contractors for those things I can’t do myself and working to get things as “set” as possible, he also gave me permission to sell if that was the best decision.
One of the most beautiful and painful conversations Chuck and I shared as it became clear that dialysis was not working for him and that he was not a candidate for a second transplant was his concern for getting the girls shepherded to adulthood. He lost his mom at a slightly older age but he knew deep in his soul how hard this would be. We also had many conversations over the years regarding our admiration for single parents and our gratitude that we had complementary parenting skills.
He worried - for his cherished daughters and for me - how I would handle the road ahead alone. I suppose it should make me reassured that he knew what the ongoing challenges would be. Perhaps I should feel less overwhelmed knowing these were obvious obstacles ahead. However, it doesn’t make facing them down easier and February 2024 hasn’t been a dream which may also have contributed to my surprise that those last dates of the month that are etched in my brain came out of nowhere.
There is also the complexity of being in a new, very early relationship. I have chosen not to speak much about it publicly or in this blog for a lot of deeply personal reasons. But that has also made February a complicated month. Luckily, I seem to have found another understanding and kind person who articulated last week an understanding of my need to emotionally withdraw a bit this week. In fact, he named it before I realized it. While I write this blog for my own healing, it has been deeply gratifying to learn that it is helpful to others. That is one - among many - reasons to keep my relationship private. I will simply and briefly note that early in my widowhood, hearing about others who were dating or who remarried was inexplicably painful and hard for me to deal with - for reasons I still can’t articulate or even fully understand. That isn’t the most important reason I have kept my current status to myself, but those weird early emotions seem somehow related to the complexity and intensity of this February season.
As I was walking Bucky in the dark and cold of the farm tonight I wondered if I would ever want to turn February into a time of happy celebrations again. As we approach our 26th month without Chuck, our third … everything … without him I can almost imagine a more nuanced February. But it won’t be this year. February Year Three - with a 30th anniversary that we didn’t quite reach, his 70th birthday that I can see his wry smile acknowledging, and my 59th birthday that I am dead set on ignoring - is all about the work of rebuilding and solidifying the foundation for the future. Whatever that might be. And insuring that I am strong and brave enough to withstand the intensity of unexpected or surprisingly strong attacks of grief.
I get it! Going into the 3rd year of grieving with the big tsunami waves of grief, yes. Is it easier, no, but different! God bless you and your family.🤗🙏
Love this Jane! ❤️ Miss you all