Madison’s 5th Heavenly Birthday. What have I learned so far?

I learned that grief has no time limit. In fact, it literally doesn’t care what day it is, who is present, or what you had planned. It legit doesn’t care. It just kicks in the door, rearing its ugly head, and you are helpless, defenseless, with nothing left to do but curl into the fetal position and wait for it to pass.

Grief is a relentless debt collector, and it will collect its debt when it wants to. You can’t run, you can’t hide, and you can’t bargain your way out.

While I anticipate special days being amongst the hardest—namely her birthday, the day she died, holidays, and life celebrations of those who love and miss her—I never truly know what to expect.

This year the tears started the night before. The anticipation, the hard and painful reality, slowly crept into my thoughts and broke my heart down even more.

This morning was welcomed by more tears and sadness as I forced my tired and weary body from my bed, forcing myself to start the day.

Had a few bouts of crying, but not quite the torrential downpour of tears… yet.

I went to work and tried to hold it together as best I could. Went to Mass at noon and prayed for my sweet, beautiful girl. And then climbed into my car to head to Publix to buy the annual birthday cake for a random stranger in honor of her birthday, in place of her birthday cake.

As I was driving, I pushed the touch screen of my car to listen to Siri spout out whatever text messages had come through.

I received a text from the optometry office we all go to for our vision needs. It was one of those automated texts. This one was wishing Madison a Happy Birthday, followed by “respond STOP to opt out.”

And that’s all it took.

That was it.

That automated text from the eye doctor wishing her a Happy Birthday, and the tidal wave of tears tore through like a riptide. It was uncontrollable, unstoppable, and unrelenting.

As I sat there just letting the floodgates open and the stream of tears flow down my cheeks, I wondered if I should respond. Do I respond “STOP” to opt out? Do I prevent this from happening again next year, this well-meaning text that brought out all the pent-up emotions I was trying so hard to contain?

But then I thought, do I want to opt out? Do I want one less Happy Birthday for her next year?

I know it sounds ludicrous. After all, this is just an automated system, not an actual person letting me know they remember.

Upon further consideration of whether to respond or not, I realized how ridiculous it is that, one, I can’t make a simple decision, and two, that I have spent this much time contemplating something so seemingly simple.

Once I pulled it together (or pretended to), I drove to Publix to purchase that annual random birthday cake for a stranger.

I usually dread this part.

Not the whole paying-it-forward in honor of Madison. I do that because I think she would love it.

It’s the conversation.

It’s asking the baker for any birthday cake order that has not been paid for.

It’s the question on their face, the initial confusion. I’m sure it takes them by surprise. I imagine it’s not every day someone comes in asking to pay for the cake order of a complete stranger.

At that point, I explain my why.

And it’s usually followed by a look of sadness or pity. Hell, maybe it’s a mixture of both.

When I asked for an order receipt that I could pay for this year, the woman grabbed one for me and said, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I thought about her question a bit too long.

It wasn’t that I was questioning if I wanted to do it. I was questioning why.

Why am I that mom?

Why my child?

Why?

Why, for God’s sake, please just explain to me why?

And then I realized that no reason why will ever exist that will sit right in my heart.

She should be here.

This is so wrong on so many levels.

I freaking hate this.

And then I responded with another stream of tears and explained that today is my daughter’s birthday. And I couldn’t get any more words to leave my lips.

The woman was now even a bit more confused.

She asked, “Is she no longer here?”

And I shook my head no.

The poor lady didn’t know what to say or do, for that matter.

So she simply said, “Well, I’m sure she would be very pleased that you are doing this. Would you like a hug?”

And she gave me one of those amazing squeezie hugs that soothed me more than any words she could have said.

Publix bakery lady, you are amazing. Thank you.

After leaving the store feeling the weight of the grief lessen just a bit, I proceeded to head to her niche to pray.

More tears followed, of course, as I arranged some fresh flowers for her vase and tried to tie a birthday balloon on just right, knowing damn well it would never truly be right.

And when I go to sleep tonight, I imagine I’ll cry some more. My broken heart will continue to beat, and I’ll pray for my baby again and every moment until my final breath.

Tomorrow may be a better day.

I might be lighter on my feet.

My broken heart might beat with a little more ease.

I may even find something to smile about.

But I know that grief will come back again to collect its debt at some random moment.

But I’ll be ready.

I have learned that the pain is the heartbreak, and the tears are all that love with nowhere else to go.

And through it all, I will continue to thank God for His sacrifice, for the salvation of souls, for Heaven where life is everlasting, and where I will be rejoined with her again.

And believe me, when that time comes, I’ll never, ever let her go.

Happy 23rd Birthday, Madarando!