Birthday

Today is Colby’s birthday. Today, he would have been 24. Via phone, mail, and email I receive many birthday wishes for Colby from my support group and from friends. I so wish he were here; would give anything for him to be here. But he is not. I have given much thought to the various ways I can remember his birthday and decide the best thing I can do is file incorporation papers for Colby’s Army, the nonprofit organization founded in Colby’s memory.

Soon, Colby’s Army will present a united front to educate and encourage people to affect positive change in animal welfare, the environment, and personal development. These were all things Colby felt strongly about, and in these areas he hoped to change the world. Collectively, through Colby’s Army, maybe we can accomplish that on his behalf. In coming weeks, as things progress, I’ll post more information.

In addition to getting Colby’s Army off the ground I spend a few minutes at the spot where Colby passed. I bring Abby (our dog) and she looks pleased to be here. This is her first time at this spot and she wags her tail the entire visit. I think of Colby’s past birthdays and especially one of his favorites, when he had a party at Chuck E. Cheese. He was seven or so, and had one of the best times of his life. More recently we’d eat sushi in honor of his birth and talk of good times spent together.

Now, I take a few moments to sort through more of his “stuff,” as I do every day, Within a minute I find an envelope filled with birthday cards from Colby’s grandma and from me. He had saved every one. How ironic that I would find this today, of all days, the day of his birth. The cards are all humorous, and some are worn, as if he had looked through them over the years. I sit with the cards spread out around me and sort them by years. Most are easy to figure out. I guess on a few. Then I carefully store the cards with Colby’s writings and song lyrics, knowing that I, too, will treasure them for many years to come.

Holidays

Today I buy a card for my mom, write a note in it and send it to her for Grandparent's Day. It takes me an hour to write three lines and I cry the entire time. Colby should be here to do this and some part of me can't fathom that he's not. I'm not sure how I will get through another "holiday" less than a week after the last one. I do not want to become one of these embittered people who hate celebrations, hate holidays, but I can see how easily one could become a person like that.

Holidays and celebrations are for people with families. Colby's passing is so new, so raw, that I try not to feel jealous, devastated, enraged, bitter, overwhelmed, when people this week show me photos of their children, grandchildren; when they tell me they ate lunch at their grandchild's school; when they say what a great parent their son, daughter, is. Those are all activities I had looked forward to; now they are things I will never do.

I try to be happy for them, proud for them, to share their joy, but I am still so overwhelmed with grief I don't even come close. The key for me is to stay busy, to work, to be physically active, so I get on Colby's bike and pedal, pedal, pedal through the neighborhood. My brain is quickly consumed with curbs, dips, humps, speed bumps, traffic, dogs. I ride up and down hills until I am completely exhausted, until my legs are shaky, until my bum knee aches. After, I feel better. I feel guilty for my earlier mood, for that is not normally my nature.

The next big event is September 30, Colby's birthday. That gives me 21 days to figure out a way to get through the day. By then I am sure to have come up with something positive and productive I can do in honor and memory of my son.