Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Pina Martinelli

January 25, 2008

52

Pina Martinelli

For 32 1/2 years I have dreaded the day I would turn the proverbial page of my life and finally come "full circle" to meet- head on - the embodiment of all my fears, the age of 52, the exact age my mother was when she died. For 32 1/2 years  I have carried the weight of this pivotal birthday on my back wondering, with great anxiety and fear, if I would arrive at this point intact, in one piece, and alive, or if I would suffer an identical fate and die too young, my life cut short before it began its next chapter, as hers was so long ago. This has been my secret fear all these years; the one I have cleverly cloaked behind smoke and mirrors, a wan smile and a brave front, always hidden from view. To others I appeared to be anxious about something nonsensical and difficult to understand. To me this was all a part of the pathway through grief and healing, a part of my destiny and journey.

In the wake of such losses, this unwieldy angst isn't all that unusual to experience, even though it does seem somewhat odd to most who haven't yet walked this path. Birthdays are supposed to be grand occasions in our lives; a day marked by festivity and laughter, love and contentment, a feast of presents, parties and attention, a glorious day. Yet for those who have lost loved ones young, it is a day marked by anticipatory anxiety and secret despair that is relentless in scope and intention. Reaching the decedent's death age is an even bigger milestone marker in our lives and psyches, a time when we can quietly breathe a sigh of relief knowing that we made it this far, that we crossed that bridge and can move forward once again. Thinking about it becomes a long, somber refrain with no end in sight, no relief from the pain, until that time actually arrives. This, a part of the lifelong and twisting nature of grief and its pain, a fate sealed, with no change. To know it you have to live it, as I have.

Ever since my mother's death (but not with my father's death, ironically) my birthdays have always been the harbinger of a depression and sorrow so deep literally nothing could free me from its grip. For a month prior to the grand day, the gradual decline in mood would quicken until I would catch myself staring outside the window at something only I could see: my mortality and life's finality, more often than not thinking how futile life could be. Days before the  grand day arrived a measure of anxiety would appear in various guises, shapes and forms: I would feel anxious and needy, depressed and sad, insecure and scared, grasping and hungry, demanding and forlorn, and caught in a vise with such grip I couldn't break free. I loathed these feelings in myself with such ferocity I would become increasingly angrier at my own vulnerability, an action that only made matters far worse than they needed to be. Invariably, and like clockwork, my despair would pass on my actual birthday when a wealth of attention would distract me from my inner thoughts. By the next day, any trace of my angst were gone and I would return to my otherwise "normal self", aware that I would return to that same mournful space again next year.

This year something shifted inside of me and I changed. Though I often thought about this big birthday, I didn't feel the long-fingered grip of despair on my shoulders. Instead, I found a place of peace and serenity within myself that soothed whatever ache I had, rather than seeking it out from others as I had always done. I felt so calm and serene a close friend who was aware of my feelings commented that I seemed to be in a better place this year. She was right. I was.

Now, days after my birthday, I can finally say the words I have long wanted to express, but couldn't, "I have arrived. Intact, in one piece, and very much alive."

And Mom, now I understand.

Please consider sharing this with parents of small children or adults who work with small children.
Pina Martinelli

Pina1101@aol.com