September 30, 2002
Day 285 Birrell update

I will put in a disclaimer right at the start. This is a late night email, and may suffer from a lack of logic. Here goes.

I just figured out that James died 285 days ago. Perhaps I did the calculation in an attempt to shed some light on the perplexing and exhausting business of grieving. I promise that I will not keep count hereafter, making it a daily ritual, in the style of the prisoner scratching a mark on the wall of his cell once a day, because I suspect that road leads nowhere useful. But having discovered today's number, I might as well use it. For example, can the number 285 help me discover why grief is so wearying? I shed tears five times today, (only got caught once). A fairly average day for crying. So, 5 x 285 = 2,280. I guess that two thousand two hundred and eighty weeps could be quite tiring. Yes, that bit of arithmetic brings comfort. On the other hand another part of me is appalled that after 285 days my heart remains broken. Open heart surgery heals in a tenth of that time. Let's dig deeper.

Day 285 was a fairly typical post James day, lots of nice moments, lots of sad ones too. The day began with a jolt at 4.58 a.m. A dream about James playing with a puppet on his hand, laughing hilariously and mischievously, left me sitting up in bed crying with bitter disappointment, for I woke to find the picture was unreal, just a phantom. So I got up, did some emails, shuffled some papers. Now every night as I kiss Rebecca goodnight, she tells me that if I have trouble sleeping, then I am welcome to come to her bed. So I did, and woke with her a few hours later to the wonderful smell of French toast floating up from the kitchen. Pam and Ben had already eaten, so Rebecca and I shared a delightful Sunday breakfast together. One of the really nice moments of the day. Had a visit with Ben to some interesting websites of the world's best roller coasters, something of a passion with him these days. Sunday church followed, still a yoyo experience, very uplifting at times, but then full of poignant memories, as in when my junior choir sang, missing one child these days. Then there are the prayers for the sick, James no longer on the list, but nevertheless a vivid reminder of where we were in times past. To play a cheerful Bach fugue for the postlude is definitely an up time, until there arrives the sudden recollection of James faithfully sitting on the organ bench next to me. But a pleasant family lunch puts things right. 2 p.m.saw me back on the organ bench to play a funeral, and there I quietly lost things as Psalm 23 was read. Many times James asked us to read us that psalm as he lay in bed dying. How often I have thought that the organist's job is so much easier than the singer's. I can choke up and cry yet still make music with my fingers and feet. I don't know how Pam manages to sing.

Home for the bike ride. By contrast this is an absolutely magical time. I thought this was the first time we had ever done a family bike ride, but Pam tells me there actually was one other earlier this spring. Certainly there never was one while James was still alive, so today felt like a milestone event. Four Birrell's riding our bikes together in Jackson Park. What a wonderful thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. Look at us! Maybe we are winning in our quest to find out what normal families do together. Then a stunning thought came: What's to stop Pam and I going for a bike ride together some time? What a novel idea. The possibilities are endless now that we are freed from palliative care. Actually I must confess that Pam and I find ourselves very curious about what normal families do together. We have six years of catching up to do.

Well, the bike ride was followed by a supper with friends at their home, still a rare event, as I suspect many would find the Birrell's an emotional challenge. Then we headed home for a game of Monopoly, and some reading of Rudyard Kipling to Ben. Goodnight Rebecca! It's mummy and daddy time! Go to bed! So Pam and I chat, and surprise! surprise! we find ourselves talking about James again. Rebecca soon returns, in tears, worried about the house burning down, but we see through that one and send her back to bed. Pam and I talk some more, but then it's my turn to get the boot, Pam ready for sleep.

So has day 285 been a more successful day in coping with life than day 284, or for that matter day 184? Just how long does this battle last? Surely our friends will tire of our endless need to talk through our grief. Outwardly we put on a pretty good show, active and upbeat at work, involved with the family at home, excited about the children's new school. But why are we still so fragile, 285 days after James left us? I spoke to 1200 high school students just last Monday, to launch their Terry Fox campaign, and by all reports my James speech was a stunner. How could it be otherwise, when you have had the privilege of being dad to a little boy who says to you "Dad, I've been thinkin that very day is like a precious gift. You gotta use each day!" But why did I shed tears as I took the podium? I think that Pam and I are doing a good job of making our lives focus around Rebecca and Ben and each other. The challenge seems to be finding the right balance between the need to look back and process our memories of James, and at the same time move ahead and give Ben and Rebecca all we gave to James.

Do write me your comments if you wish. Over the months and years your thoughts have been a big part of surviving. I am so grateful that I have such easy access to a community that brings our family so much comfort. Tell me what normal families do on a Sunday afternoon.

Sincerely,
Syd

PS This photo is one of my favourites, taken at our cottage two summers ago.
PPS "My Great Big Fat Greek Wedding" is defintely the movie to see. Pam and I loved it.
PPPS Please note from PPS that I took Pam to the movies. Syd scores extra points.