My dad left me this voicemail the morning of my 34th birthday. He passed away when I was 35. Tomorrow, I turn 37.
This birthday is my second without my father. My birthday has always been tied to him—not just because he helped bring me into this world, but because it was something we shared. For my dad, my birthday wasn’t just the day I was born; it was a celebration. A sacred holiday. He made me feel like my birthday was the single most important day of the year. He didn’t do this by throwing extravagant parties or doting countless gifts upon me; my birthday was more than those frivolities. Instead, he used his words and his feelings to express how much my entry into this world changed him, and how I was the absolute most important and wonderful thing that ever happened in his life. Me—his only child, his daughter, his best friend. This is how he made my birthday feel so special.
As long as I can remember, I have been confused about this life and the meaning of it. I had a complex understanding of the world long before other kids my age did, and I was often filled with anxiety about why I was here. I remember being five years old, staring at a vase of flowers in my mom’s kitchen window and trying so hard to figure out why the flowers were there. Why did they grow? Why did they sprout? What came before them? Why? What came before me, and my mom, and my grandparents? What was the reason for any of it? No adults seemed able to satiate my hunger for these answers. Being so young and realizing that the grown-ups were just as clueless as I was felt overwhelming. It made me prone to melancholy. For whatever reason, my birthday would amplify these feelings. My dad recognized this, because I think he had the same affliction. He tried his best to take the weight of it from me.
My dad used to leave me little notes in my lunchbox. On my birthday, he’d usually leave a small present in there, too. I’ll never forget my birthday in fifth grade. I went to school, opened my lunchbox—excited for my note—and didn’t see one. I teared up with disappointment, thinking maybe he had forgotten about me, and did my best to bury my feelings in my Happy Sandwich (that’s when you make the mustard into a smiley face). Then I saw what I had missed: at the bottom of the bag was a note, and a gift wrapped in construction paper. He got me a Britney Spears CD.
This moment is sacred to me. It’s a core memory, and I don’t really know why. Maybe it’s because my 6’6″ behemoth of a single father went to Best Buy to pick out a Britney CD. Maybe, as a child, it made me feel validated, like he went out of his way to pick up this thing I desperately wanted as a little girl. This giant construction worker setting aside machismo, wandering the bubblegum pop section for my happiness. I think about that, and it makes my heart feel light.
My dad always tried to be the first person to wish me a happy birthday. Even as I grew up and moved out, he was always the first to call and text (he woke up at the crack-ass of dawn every day of my life…we can get into that another time). He did it without fail, every year. I loved that.
My dad was a lifelong alcoholic, and as many people who love someone with addiction know, there are varying stages of bad. I imagine the stages of addiction like this: green, yellow, and red. Green was when he was an alcoholic but mostly functioning. He drank every day, and everyone knew he liked his beer. For most of my life, he stayed in the green. Yellow was when his drinking started interfering with his relationships, and he began to be abandoned by friends and some family. People told him he had a problem and tried to help. He sometimes acknowledged that his drinking was abnormal, but ultimately wouldn’t stop. He entered yellow territory in my twenties. Red was when he started pushing everyone away, his body stopped forgiving him, and all of us knew he couldn’t live like this much longer. Most people gave up on him.
My dad left me this voicemail when he was still in the yellow. Very shortly after, he stumbled into the red, and we lost this version of Jeff forever. Hearing his voice now feels bittersweet. When I listen to it, I’m grateful to be reminded of his love—but it hurts knowing I have to live the rest of my life without it. He made me feel like I could conquer the world if I wanted to. He truly believed I was the smartest, most beautiful, and worthwhile person he knew. Despite the countless hurts he caused throughout my life, there was no one who cared for or defended me more. And honestly, he didn’t just love me, he liked me.
Learning to live with this incredible loss broke me.
And now, I think it’s time to start to rebuild.
So, happy birthday, Jenna.
You can do this.
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