Birthday before Christmas

Yesterday was your 23rd birthday. Only you weren’t there to celebrate – at least not physically. So it was left to us – the people who love you. We organised a birthday party – falling just before Christmas, we always wanted to make your birthday special.

A local vicar gave us a hall space near a tube station and we invited people way back in September because it was a Tuesday and might be hard for people to get to. On the other hand, we figured, your friends might be home for Christmas.

The logistics were a bit up and down. We heard the week before that the hall had been double booked so we had to find another one. The queues for CostCo were immense for the food and drink. We had no idea how many people were coming as a lot of the invitations were word of mouth from friend to friend and my mum went down with Covid. The headlights on my car stopped functioning on the day and Dad and I struggled with the projector because technology is not our strongest suit, as you know.

But we figured as long as we were there it didn’t matter. I got t-shirts of some of the bands you loved for your siblings and we brought guitars for people to sing. Daughter three played Fleetwood Mac with one of your friends. Another friend sang a song she wrote for you. A sad, sad, beautiful song for you because you were never a side-man, Anish. I read some stuff, a blog, one of yours, your uni statement [sorry, but it was very good]...

As the day approached, I could feel myself tensing up. The approach to such days is always hard. I had bad dreams, Dad couldn’t sleep, I was snappy with people for no good reason, every day it was a struggle to get up. I made you a card the night before, as I always did, sending you so much love wherever you are, somewhere back in space and time. Doing these things and campaigning are the only ways left to look after you and I will never stop being your mum. Never.

I woke up on Tuesday and it felt like we were back at the beginning again. It felt like we were preparing for your funeral and re-running it. It would be the same people. My short speech similar to the one I read at the funeral. But what can you do? You can’t ignore the day. It lies inside you, however much you distract yourself, waiting to overwhelm you. We have to celebrate you, even if the sadness is so immense that it knocks you down every time you try to get back up.

You wouldn’t want us to be endlessly sad, of course. But sadness is a fact. Sadness cannot be bypassed or wished away. It simply has to be endured. But it can also co-exist with joy. Being with friends and family remembering you brings such swinging emotions, but it is the only way and it is, as only son says, what you deserve. Aged nine, he wrote after your death: “Anisha was a truly spectacular person – smart, funny and caring. She was always there for you and never would not be. She is loved no matter what. Her love is endless. She is an immortal and that’s what she deserves.”