When Your Birthday Is in Heaven

Your mother will never be the same

“He’s a football player,” screams the voice on the other end of the phone.

“I wish I was there,” I say.

My sister Marylou is calling with news of our nephew.

It’s my senior year in college and I would rather be home. Our sister Kathy is giving birth to her oldest son. He is the first grandchild in our family and he’s a big boy. Hence, the linebacker reference.

We are smitten, captivated, and over the moon.

Indescribable love has knocked at our door.

We put this sweet baby boy on the living room floor and sit around him. We watch him. Everything he does is perfect. He is our sister’s but we believe he is ours. Or maybe we just want him to be.

We fight over him the way love makes one do.

“I’ll buy him a bike,” says my sister Marylou.

“No,” I say. “I’ll buy him a bike.”

As much love as we give, he responds tenfold.

It’s a love affair we have never known.

I’m getting ready for my oldest son’s high school graduation party at a local restaurant. My phone rings ten minutes before the guests are to arrive. It’s my brother.

The only word he gets out is, “Colleen.”

I have never heard my brother say my name like this before. I know something terrible has happened. I instinctively move towards the exit.

“Please tell me everything’s okay,” I say.

“Colleen, we lost Matthew,” he says.

I collapse onto the pavement screaming. My friend tries to pick me up, to quiet me. I don’t care who can hear me. The beautiful boy who taught our family love is missing.

Our linebacker is gone.

I have fight or flight.

I need to get to my sister, my sweet sister.

I remember the day we drop Matthew at college. I cry as we leave him. I look at my sister who keeps it all together. This is not uncommon for the two of us. She has always seemed stronger than me.

“How are you managing this?” I ask.

“Colleen,” she says. “This is happy-sad.”

My sister Kathy has spent her life saving other people’s babies. A pediatric nurse at one of the country’s most respected children’s hospitals. She has a strong perspective on what tears are meant for.

This is a joyful occasion.

Her oldest son is attending the University of his dreams.

Life is good.

But I continue to boohoo. Like the emotional youngest sister and aunt that I am. Because as always, Matthew has made us feel like he is a part of us. Whether it’s an ‘I love you,’ a hello, a thank you, an ‘I miss you,’ it doesn’t matter.

He lives within us.

As he has from the moment we sat in a circle on our mom’s living room floor.

Matt thrives in his newfound collegiate freedom.

He is a leader, a musician, an academic, and a Navy man.

I go with my sister to his first military ceremony.

The crisp white uniform accentuates his entire being. “Isn’t he handsome?” I say. Not giving his mom a chance to brag. She tolerates me, understanding I am not overstepping her role but verbalizing overwhelming love.

I stand a little taller because my nephew is grander than me.

A selfless humanitarian who is brave, independent, and strong.

My sister is not surprised, after all, he is her son. And he is every bit the reflection of his mother’s heart. His demonstrative love, his kindness, his selflessness, his empathy, his fearlessness, his generosity, his thoughtfulness, his quick wit, and his sense of service to others. A son devotedly influenced by the values and strength of the mom who raised him.

Matthew continues to soar. My sister’s courageous Navy fighter pilot deploys and returns home. We are once again, over the moon. Our family scurries to welcome him back.

We eat and laugh, and the peace of being together once again washes over us.

But it doesn’t seem like enough, so I call him.

“Matthew,” I say. “Can you meet me for lunch?”

At the time, I don’t understand the burden I am placing on him. He has much to do. He is dealing with the logistics of his personal and military life as his squadron returns and prepares to redeploy in the months ahead. But he spares me these details. And like his mother, always makes time for those he loves.

We meet at Chipotle.

As we order our meal, I hand the cashier money.

“Aunt Colleen,” he says. “I’m old now I can pay for my own food.”

“No,” I say. “To me, you will always be a baby.”

Matthew, his brother, and I chat and laugh. Again, my sister’s boys tolerate my need to be together. They lovingly humor their aunt, despite the list of things that are beckoning.

It would be the last time I would see my sister’s, sweet Matthew.

An agony I can’t describe and one my sister will never recover from.

The one thing that gives me peace is Matthew understood he was loved.

He entered into this world with a bunch of adults fighting over him, begging to be his babysitter, buy him the latest toy (or bike), play with him, dry his tears, or make him laugh.

The ranking of the oldest grandchild.

A huge Irish clan as my uncle would say.

One that surrounded their children and said, “We belong to you and you belong to us. Don’t ever doubt your place in this life. No matter how near or far. You are loved.”

And pride, that goes without saying.

We couldn’t wait to tell everyone he was our sister’s son.

I avoided that Chipotle for a long time.

Had I known it would be the last time I would know Matthew’s voice and hug I would have refused to leave. I would have told him of the day the phone rang my senior year and his Aunt Moo Moo told me a ten-pound football player made his world entrance.

I would’ve reminded him his aunts and uncles fought over him.

I would’ve told him of watching him while his parents took a cruise.

How his little one-year-old self comically said, “Whoa,” when I hit the brakes.

I would have told him how many times I repeated my name. In hopes of him saying it and how he shocked me by actually spitting it out at such a young age.

How my high school friends and I watched him and placated him with a little bit of sugar on his pacifier while we awaited his brother’s birth.

I would have told him his grandmother LaLa loved the name he gave her.

I would’ve told him he was loved.

But he knew that.

And his mom, the one he would have worried most about. Who selflessly cared for and watched out for everyone else’s children. The one who had a strong perspective on what tears are meant for.

She’ll never be the same.

Without her linebacker.

**The following are two articles my sister Kathy wrote about her son Matthew.