Two weeks ago was the first time in twenty years I spent your birthday without you. From the earliest dawn of our relationship, we celebrated it together. Sometimes joined by friends or family, sometimes just the two of us, and, later on, always with our children. I did not feel I approached this day with much trepidation; I never put that much stock in birthdays, and I don’t miss you more on the date you were born. But apparently, somewhere hidden inside, was a place that did dread the advent of the 27th of May, for the preceding day greeted me with a severe migraine.

There was a vacancy where all those years before my strenuous search for the perfect gift had found a home; you always managed to find the best, most considerate presents, putting me under quite a lot of pressure to do the same. Now I was left without preparations to make for your breakfast in bed, which I never managed to get done early enough to actually wake you up.

This past 27th of May, just after sunrise, I took our two daughters to the small lake nearby our house. It was a beautiful day, as is the unbroken rule on your birthday. Why would it change now? We brought flowers from our garden and sent them across the water towards you, for you to pick up later. Our children do not show their grief very often, but this serene early morning we wished you a happy birthday and our silent tears flowed in unison, binding our aching hearts together.

Two days later, it was time to commemorate that other most important man in my life, my father. He too, is no longer here to celebrate it. Losing him, five and a half years ago, I thought was the worst that could happen to me. I was wrong.

I am very grateful for the support and love my daughters and I receive during this mind-blowing event and its never-ending aftermath. Most people would agree that what happened to us is so huge, it is entirely accepted if you are still mourning and struggling after five months, or even a year. Especially when the loved one lost was such a brilliant human being as you were. Are? Dying, death, is so enormous. We cannot seem to grasp it.

Strangely enough, this only goes for people. In general, we do not attribute the same significance to the death of any other creature, unless it is almost extinct. Even then, the amount of mourning never reaches the depth or extent of that for a fellow human being.

These reflections were prompted by an incident that happened a few weeks ago. One evening while driving, I noticed a bird on the street. It was not dead, but it did not flee my car, so I figured it must be injured. As I approached the jackdaw, it tried to get away, but could not, so my guess was correct. I picked it up and gave it to my daughter to hold. Its wings were strong. It seemed healthy except for not being able to walk. The pet ambulance came to pick it up and bring it to the bird hospital. “Looks like a broken leg, they will probably put it to sleep”, the paramedic said. This took me aback, and I decided to call the bird shelter first thing in the morning, so if they were planning on putting it down, I would be in time to save it from that fate.

The next morning, I called the bird shelter at the exact moment it would open, 9 am. It was too late already. The jackdaw had indeed suffered from a broken leg, and they had euthanized it. I told them I had wanted to take care of it, like a pet, and all the woman could tell me in her business-as-usual-manner was: “You’re not allowed to keep wild indigenous birds.” So that was that. Wiped away by bureaucracy and rules, a broken leg as a death sentence. A human leg can heal, why can’t a bird’s? I did not get it, and I cannot find the justification for it. Death as an afterthought.

The current worldwide crisis is kindled by our fear of human death. We go to great lengths to save another human being, we close down society, while a non-lethal flu among livestock is reason enough to kill these animals by the hundreds of thousands. Clear them, like broken toys. Why is a human life worth so much more to us? What wisdom, what religion supports this arrogance? Isn’t it time to revise our old-fashioned mores? Yet I know I myself am fickle and inconsistent: I do occasionally eat meat, and I can’t deny I kill ticks or mosquitoes once in a while. I am hardly saying I have the answer, but something feels amiss.

Of course, I did not mourn the bird the way I am mourning you, and probably will for the rest of my life. I did, however, feel the same kind of powerlessness at hearing of its demise. Death is so definite; there is nothing I can do to bring it or you back. In life, you can try again, repair, make a new start. Death can never be undone.

Being in control is the grandest illusion we as human beings have created for ourselves. You might feel in control for a very long time, as I believe we did, until suddenly you realize you are not. At all.

Your birthday ended up being a beautiful day, spent with our blood and extended family in our luscious garden. But when I woke up the next morning, you were still gone.