September a mixed month …

Well it is for me …

The beginnings of autumn in our communal garden.

It has been a while since I have written an Endings & Beginnings post. There are many reasons why. One of the main ones has been my memoir. Over the last few weeks, I have been writing the most difficult part, the last six years. I wanted to write my eclectic, eccentric rubbish on Substack for light relief. I was awol last week because I have just sent off my first draft for a professional report. I can now sit back, twiddle my thumbs, chew my nails, look back, ponder and spend some time on my Substack

The other reason for writing an Endings & Beginnings post is that September has always been a mixed month: end of the holidays, back to school and birthdays. The title of this post refers to how September has changed over the last few years for me. We all deal with anniversaries of traumatic events, grief, and related dates differently. I deal with different anniversaries differently.

Sarah, my daughter, who died three and a half years ago, in April 2021, was a September birthday nut. The last birthday she was able to celebrate was her 40th in 2019, before Covid. Her birthday was in the middle of the month. She celebrated Sarah style. The preparations started in January. The celebrations began at the beginning of September and eventually ended in the middle of October. Sarah never dreaded her birthday because it meant she was a year older. What was far more critical was the partying, fun and spending time with family and friends.

Sarah’s birthday was also her and Kev’s wedding anniversary. Sarah's logic was that no one would forget either date if they were combined. That was Sarah logic. They would have been married nine years this year. I cannot believe how time has raced away. It all seems like yesterday. I have found that time gallops away after death.

Not only was September Sarah’s birthday, it is mine as well. My birthday in 2020 was the last time I could hug Sarah, laugh with her in the same room, and watch her quaff her favourite gin at our local pub - mango and pepper. It was the last time we enjoyed a Sunday lunch together. I was only able to see Sarah twice again physically. The next time I saw Sarah, she was awake. Countless pillows propped her up in a hospital bed. She could not speak or laugh, and we had no idea how much she understood. The next and last time I saw Sarah was to say goodbye. The damage to her brain was so severe she did not even know I was there beside her. I will never forget hugging her at the station with sadness, getting back in my car and watching her and Kev disappear onto the platform at Ware station.

September 2018 was the last celebration we had as a whole family before John died in December that year. It was my 60th birthday. Although he was desperately ill, John genuinely enjoyed my birthday. We agreed to celebrate at the hotel at the last moment—no time for stress. John was often just a birthday grinch—never with the kids when they were small. He hated his birthday even more. I never got to the bottom of why.

September 2024 is the first year I can genuinely say I can look back, smile, and remember good September birthday memories. There are still tears that sting like pulling nettles down my cheek. With a warm glow in my heart, I remember all the birthdays from Sarah’s first to her fortieth. The children running around at her parties wondering if we would survive the chaos, yet loving every minute. The stroppy adolescent stomping around due to a minor crime committed by her mother - I think I got the wrong cake. The young adult with the banging headache, whose father thought it was great fun to make as much noise as possible and, encouraged her younger brother to do the same. The older adult using her deep, infectious laugh as she worked the room and made everyone smile and laugh along with her.

I remember the kids on my birthdays when John was in Grinch mode, winding him up and then regretting it. I would drag John around Tescos to buy my birthday cake, cava and ready meal for dinner on my actual birthday. If I was lucky, I got a takeaway. We always enjoyed the evenings. On the other hand, he gave me beautiful and very thoughtful presents, except for one year. What do you not get someone desperately trying to lose weight? A deep fat fryer. What did John get me? One guess only. No, I have no idea why, nor did John. It got used once before being consigned to the back of the cupboard. Generally, his presents were beautiful and meant a great deal to me.

September means the beginning of the beautiful, vibrant autumn colours with the leaves, berries and other fruits. Autumn brings the smells of cold mornings, vegetation breaking down to renew the soil and spreading manure. The farmers have harvested the fields. They look tidy, like dark brown carpets recently hoovered. The sun hovers lower in the sky with golden early mornings and evenings—the smell of garden bonfires. The small mammals who hibernate begin collecting their winter provisions, leaving holes in the lawn. The tits return to the garden often in small flocks, the goldfinchesš in charms, their breeding season at an end. The last swallows flying low over the field. Although, I always wish them well. The later they are, the more I worry they may not make warmer climes. Autumn is my favourite season.

Endings do bring beginnings. We all find our way of starting our beginnings. For me, they will never be the same. I am still at the stage of feeling that I will never experience the feeling of exhilarating joy as I did on Sarah’s wedding day. Guilt still hangs around my neck from everything that happened. It always will. Now I know how to push it away so I can remember the good times, memories and feelings with warmth and without tears.

Prompts for this week:

What does September mean to you?

Has that changed from when you were a child?

Think of one of your best September memories?

It is also ok to think of one of your worst September memories?

Thank you so much for reading.

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