My best friend and I used to marvel, and sometimes still do, about the fact that three years ago we weren’t in each other’s lives at all. One of the most important people to me to ever live didn’t exist in my orbit three years ago.
We marvel at ourselves and the luck—with a little bit of God’s blessing—that allowed us to find each other, and, inevitably, she tugs us into her related wondering: what dates would be important in the future?
What days go by now without a thought in the world but maybe in six years could be the birthday of her first child, my anniversary with the love of my life, the day her grandfather passes, or my sister’s wedding day?
Significant dates offer a moment to meditate on time passing, allowing us to contemplate our experience of this time. Significant dates allow us to establish rituals of celebration and lament or simply recognition. Significant dates are an exercise in experiencing the past and present simultaneously.
And one of the most beautiful things about being human is that we have years looping around us, both before and behind, a year and a day slipping over and over and over again through our fingers, an aging necklace of pearls on a string, being marked and in turn marking memories for a lifetime.
But what happens when the same date is marked twice? Does the joy multiply? Does the sorrow compound?
My sister was born on my maternal grandmother’s birthday—Grandma Sheila’s birthday.
This led to some fun birthday celebrations, and the two grew more alike as time went on, both interested in gossiping (the good kind, usually), beautification rituals, and the opinions of others. They had in common the tenacity of their goals, how far they’d push themselves to achieve them, and the tendency to cultivate space to connect with their friends.
I can only hope my mother’s joy multiplied when my sister was born, the date doubly significant.
This summer, on July 3, my Grandma Sheila died at the age of 76 after experiencing a plethora of health complications for the past decade.
Grandma Sheila died just over a month after two other deaths on my mother’s side of the family, the sister of her father and the sister’s best friend whom my mom had grown up calling aunt. The summer was already steeped in grieving.
Only one of the three deaths was anticipated, and it wasn’t my grandmother, who died on the third of July.
July 3 is my birthday.
My grandmother died on my twentieth birthday. I wonder if maybe my mother’s sorrow compounded.
I saw my mom briefly that morning, as she rushed out the door frantic and scared, and I told her to drive safe. She said goodbye and I love you and my dad told me after the door shut behind her that she might not make it in time.
Work starts in an hour, because that’s how life works, so I leave for work and get up on the stand, then I’m off of the stand and I’m checking my phone and my phone shows a text and the text from my mom says “call me.”
She’s crying and the first thing she says is “Happy birthday, Savannah.” I was wondering if she’d remember.
And she’s crying and she says—I don’t remember the words that she said because the words didn’t matter, only the grief—“Grandma Shelia died this morning.”
I said, “Do you need anything?”
And she says, “She was so excited to meet you when you were born! You were her first grandchild and she was trying to tell the doctors what to do, because she didn’t like seeing her baby in pain, and I had to tell her to leave the delivery room.”
We’re laughing and crying together, and then we’re mostly crying.
She says, “Happy birthday, Savannah. I’m sorry it’s such a sucky one.”
And I say that’s life and she says yeah and asks me to try and get ahold of my sister. So I call my sister and tell her. I finish guarding and we teach swim lessons. That’s how life works, but I really do actually smile.
July 3, 2024, was the day family friends who love me and my family made my birthday dinner because my mom wasn’t there to make it and my dad was taking care of her.
July 3 was the day that more people than I can remember told me they loved me.
The third was a day that I smiled and meant it and a day that I was angry and guilty and grieving and sad and even a day that I laughed.
By the time of this publication, it will be halfway between September 3 and October 3, halfway between two months and three. Right now, I think my mom is counting in days and months.
Thirty days, not years, looping around her, both before and behind, a month and a day slipping over and over and over again through her fingers, the third nicked and rough and painful each time it hits.
Right now, I don’t want more days like July 3. For the rest of my life, when my mom wishes me happy birthday she’ll also think of her mom, who can’t, and I’ll think of my grandmother who can’t.
But eventually, the rough nick of the third will be smoother, and the grief will make the joy so much sweeter, and the joy will make the grief so much more meaningful, and my family will reflect on being alive and remembering. We’ll live the past and the present together every time this date slips by, doubly significant.
Savannah Shustack graduated from Calvin in 2024 with a major in literature and plans to have the job of “books” one day. Rather like Ken, she is still figuring life out; the job “books” provides plenty of wiggle room, though she’s currently leaning toward being a librarian. Savannah is a New England native who enjoys watching hockey (Go Bruins!) and playing board games—especially ones she can win.
i loved the line, “I don’t remember the words that she said because the words didn’t matter, only the grief.”
in moments of loss, we often struggle to find the right words to describe the pain, but so often, words fall short, and all that is left is the grief. but that’s ok too.
beautifully written!!
You absolutely captured the height and depth of “bittersweet.” I really liked when you said you said it was “a day that I was angry and guilty and grieving and sad and even a day that I laughed.” All very confusing emotions but so true that we can feel them all at once. Thank you for sharing!