I had the most interesting, calm, busy and depressing birthday this year. I was awoken at 1.37am, local time, by my Mam and was delighted to hear her voice. I had just begun to doze after an hour long call with Gaelic Games Europe’s Hurling Officer. So getting a call from Ireland after one from Holland was pretty good for me. I planned to sleep until 8am, go for a walk, breakfast, walk and then begin work. Didn’t work out that way. I woke at 7, began working and then broke for breakfast, the hotel were in a panic and needed my passport for registration I handed it over and went back to work. I’d received 1 greeting, from a former client in Moscow, so I didn’t feel exactly birthday-ready. I was on my own, far from home, in a different timezone and still half-asleep.
At lunchtime, feeling a bit tired and sad, the waitress approached my table with a smile, a bottle and some paper. She wished me a Happy Birthday. I felt happy, yet puzzled as to what to do next. Sure I got greetings from family, friends, former colleagues, friends and I even celebrated quietly with a cake, but I sat alone that night thinking - is this what I want? How many more birthdays do I endure so far from home. It seems that almost all my adult birthdays have been outside of Ireland and certainly the last 20 years it’s been that way. Canada, UK, Saudi Arabia, Germany, Holland, Russia, Croatia and Malta. I’ve, more often than not, been working, or moving or preparing for something or other. I don’t have my birthday on social media. I don’t broadcast my birthday, never have or will. Why?
I celebrated my 11th birthday with my Grandad Ralph, Mam’s Dad. We share the same birthday, courtesy of my being substantially premature, and I grew up with a picture of me sitting on his knee with my 1st birthday cake in front of us. Above all else, that’s the image I have of him, of us, in my head. He hadn’t been well for a while and a newly minted 70, his health was poor. It hadn’t always been. He cycled from Finglas to the city centre twice a day for decades. A bar manager, he’d cycle into work in the morning, then home at lunchtime for food and a rest, then back in for the evening shift. In those days pubs closed in the middle of the day, they also observed holidays like Good Friday which, a few years ago, was deemed a “disaster” for publicans and done away with. Irish pubs have continued to close.
Eight days after we celebrated our birthday we got a call from Granny. My Grandad had passed. To say I was devastated is an understatement. Shock, disbelief, pain, anger - the full remit of emotions ran through me that Thursday night. I cried, for days I cried. Seeing his body, kissing his forehead as he lay in the coffin, it was only the 2nd real time I’d been so close to death in my life to that point. My Uncle (he was actually my Dad’s cousin) Louis had been knocked down and killed in Louth a few years earlier and that shook me. But I didn’t see his body. Now, looking at my Grandad, my world collapsed. In my mind, today, the 2 things are inextricably linked - our birthday and his death.
I was angry that he’d died, as he promised to come watch me play hurling. My Uncle Johnny, married to my Mam’s Sister Eileen, had come to watch me play and I scored a goal and made one. He said, in the car on the way home -
The way you drifted off your marker, that can’t be taught.
God I was so proud. Finally, someone other than my Dad recognised it. I practiced it, I honed it, I had fun with it. I can still do it today, disappear and then pop up to get the ball. I lost a little confidence and ended up drifting away from the forward line and into midfield. It took almost 2 decades to get it back thanks to a team-mate’s advice. But, my Grandad never saw it. He never saw me play hurling and that was the one thing I wanted to show him. That I was good. Likewise music, I broke inside and drifted away from it. That upset my Dad, as he got a buzz from me playing music. I just stopped, at 11 years old. Stopped.
Until I was 11 I can remember birthdays. I remember a cake Mam made for me shaped like Doogal from The Magic Roundabout. I was only 4 or 5, but I remember the cake. I had no compunction in eating the cartoon dog, despite my love of animals. Yet since age 11, I’ve avoided my birthday like the plague. It’s brought me into conflict with my other half who believes birthdays ought to be celebrated - but that’s a Russian thing. Here you, yes, YOU, have to buy pizzas, juice, food, wine, whatever and provide your own party. I mean, what the absolute hell? I don’t get it, never got it and will never get it. Though I do get the enjoyment people have with parties and surprises. I actually like organising and celebrating other people’s birthdays.
And yet, yet. In November 2019 I was in my office in the College a day after being given a huge move to head the International Office and only 1 colleague knew about it. My office manager said there were some people to see me - in came a host of students with hand made gifts and cards. How fake I felt, I cannot convey. It doubled up when, minutes later, the entire teaching and support staff came in. 50+ people sang Happy Birthday, gave me a cake, gifts and so much warmth. I made eye contact with Natalia, the only person who knew the truth, and I kept myself together. Last year I was training and my students, and some colleagues, ambushed me with a beautiful cake and gifts. I was humbled, thrilled and guilty.
It may be dumb, it is. It may be damaging, it is. Though the idea of celebrating a birthday I once shared with someone whose passing rocked me to the core - I don’t know if I’m ready for it yet.
Lovely piece. And Happy Birthday whenever that actually is!
It is my birthday everyday I get up and see the blue sky and my little white Maltese dog opens his eyes on my bed Grateful