Time Capsule for Grief

I don’t really remember ever giving my dad a birthday card when he was alive. I probably put my name on one as a kid, or more realistically, my mom did it, but do I remember going to the store, sorting through the cards, picking one out and signing my name for him? Not really. But nine years ago, I intentionally walked into the store to buy him a card, hopeful that it would help me feel some sort of connection to the man who died earlier that year. 

One of my favorite photos of me and Dad

My dad passed away a little under five months before his 61st birthday. That year, I remember being unsure about how to observe his birthday. In previous years I probably would have called him and talked a bit or if I was nearby, we may have gone out to dinner. I believe that on some level, I was still unwilling to accept his death and buying this card was a way to feel normal - to feel like the rest of my friends who still had parents for whom to buy cards and presents. Further, his birthday is in June and often is very close to Father’s Day so I’m certain that there was a lot of Father’s Day stuff everywhere for me to avoid as well. No doubt this contributed to my already deep desire for normalcy, and, primarily, my desire for my dad to still be alive. 

I remember looking through dozens of birthday cards at some big box store, searching for something that didn’t make me feel so shitty about having a dead dad. What I ended up buying was one that I felt was at least somewhat related to my situation. The front of it read: “A dad’s love stays inside a daughter’s heart, no matter how many miles from home life takes her.” The inside read: “You’re always close at heart, Dad, especially on days like your birthday, when thoughts of how much you mean remind me how lucky I am to be your daughter.”

Sure, it used present tense but the sentiment was there. I did feel a bit like a fraud, however, like I had a secret or that I was doing something wrong by buying a card that would be used in a way it wasn’t intended. Regardless, I took the card home and wrote a letter to him inside, quite possibly the first time I wrote or spoke to his memory. One small snippet that I’ll share with you is towards the beginning of the letter when I wrote:

“It hurts to know that no matter how many cards I buy, how many June 11ths pass, you’ll never again be here to see it.” 

In that first card I wrote about how much I missed him and all the things I wished I had been able to say when he was alive. I didn’t buy this card with the intention that it was something I would do every year. That first year it was just about surviving - about getting through those firsts with as little pain as possible. But I’m glad I did continue with this practice, because over the years these cards have become something more for me. These cards have become a time capsule for my grief. 

In 2013, on the second birthday after his death, I wrote about how I had signed up for a cross-country bike trip with 4k for Cancer to raise awareness and funds for young adults with cancer: something I likely never would have done if it were not for his diagnosis and death. 

In 2015, I wrote to him about how I was getting married a few days later, and how desperately I wished he was able to be there to see not only the ceremony, but the life that I would build with my partner. 

In 2018, I wrote to him about how I had started a job at a breast cancer non-profit and worked with people who had metastatic breast cancer. The conversations I had with these people about their diagnosis, life and family, resonated so much with me. Yet another trajectory in my life I likely would not have followed if he were still alive. 

In 2019 I wrote to him about how we had bought a house and how I wished he was still alive to help me with all the projects and advice (he was a contractor for much of his life). I had no idea what I was doing as a first-time homebuyer, and oftentimes I felt much more frustrated knowing that if he were alive, I would be able to just call him up and ask him how to repair something. 

As time went on and the more cards I bought, the more disappointed I felt with the selection available. Don’t get me wrong, there were a few cards that got pretty close, especially if you use your imagination. The front of the one from 2014 says “From your daughter - no matter where I go, I take you with me, Dad.” A noble effort, but again, I’m not the one who is gone or going, he is. The one from 2017 says “When you look at your life, dad, I hope you see how much you give to your family and the many people whose lives you touch.” Again, pretty close! But the present tense is really obvious in this one and it just misses the mark a bit. There were no cards for dead people. 

All of the cards I’ve written to Dad over the last nine years

Until now. This year, in 2021, I was able to write a card to my dad using one of my very own birthday cards, specifically the Birthday Cake card. Finally, a card that taps into how bittersweet observing a dead person’s birthday can be. A card that invites you to say “this has been really hard” and won’t tell you to just move on.  A card that can help hold some of your grief . 

On what would have been my father’s 70th birthday, I wrote about how I actually created a business inspired by this little ritual. I wrote about how proud he would have been, and how I wished he could see what I had begun to build. 

What started out as an attempt to feel normal has become a deeply sacred practice that has helped me explore my grief, and feel more connected to my dad’s memory. I’ve been able to express my sadness, confusion, joy, and anger in this perfectly private space, and tuck it in an envelope to be opened if and when I want to access it. It’s an honest, intimate look at how my grief has evolved in the last nine years, and a testament to how I have moved forward with his absence in my life. 

I am eternally grateful for this practice, for this ritual, and the time that I have been able to take to observe my dad’s birthday in a way that feels right to me. I hope Greeting Grief and these grieving cards can do the same for you.