Happy Birthday??

Do you remember what age you were when you started dreading birthdays? Maybe for some of you it has never happened. Maybe you still look forward to your birthdays. I'm happy for you.

Maybe for some people they enjoyed birthdays when they were younger, dreaded them in mid-life, then reverted back to celebrating them later in life. The thought would be that until you are about 29, birthdays were celebrated. Some of those early birthdays are viewed as milestones for various reasons - 15, 16, 18, 21. The 30th birthday may be the first birthday that you don’t look forward to. You are no longer in your 20’s and the thought of having a 3 before your age starts making you feel old. Every ensuing  birthday brings you closer to old age. I haven’t gotten to the point yet, but I would figure after turning 80 or so, each birthday feels like an accomplishment and is something to be celebrated.

My birthday was last week. Spare me all the birthday wishes. I appreciate them but prefer to not be reminded how old I am becoming. I fall into the “it is just another day” camp. Now, some people might just say “it is just another day” because they think it is cool to say and it is counter-culture, but they don’t actually mean what they say. Those people will still monitor social media closely and keep a log of who wishes them happy birthday or likes their "it is just another day" post.

But I genuinely do not care. I'm not sure I ever did. OK, now I am being one of those liars. I’m sure I enjoyed some birthdays until I was 21, at least. I remember, on the eve of my 21st birthday, sitting at the bar of a Pub Dennis, a long defunct local restaurant, waiting for the clock to turn midnight so I could order my first beer. I was with a couple of my coworkers who insisted on buying me my first beer after work.

When the clock hit twelve, I had my license at the ready as I told the bartender, “I would like a Coors Light, please.” The bartender, correctly, asked me for my ID which I was all too proud to present. The bartender looked at it, and, again, correctly informed me that, technically, I was not legally allowed to purchase a beer until the first full day after my birthday. He was nice, though, and served me a couple of beers anyway. I felt like a man.

Somewhere along the way I began poo-pooing my birthdays. Turning fifty was particularly depressing for me. The thought of having been alive for half a century made me feel really old. It also reminded me I was on the back half of my life and what had I accomplished. What would be my legacy? What would they write about in my obituary? Did I care? Instead of celebrating life, I was thinking about death.

Last week, I turned 52. My girlfriend, Erin, pointed out to me that there are 52 cards in a deck of cards. For a long time, I was an avid poker player. I even tried making a living from it. Again, being reminded of there being 52 cards in a deck of cards made me think there are no more cards left after that. It is just the way my mind has been working in recent years. I think about death often.

I started my birthday like any other day. I put on my sweatpants and sweatshirt. I got my hat, put on my sneakers, and I headed out for my Dunkin Donuts iced coffee. I then sat at a park and watched people walking their cute dogs while I sipped on my drink and listened to sports radio. Again, this has been my routine for a while now.

Then I decided I should go spend time with my mother. I drove to the cemetery and parked under my favorite tree, about 100 feet from my mother’s grave. I used to spend upwards of four hours just sitting here overlooking my mother’s plot. It was comforting for me then being close to her.

She has been gone for over two years now. Visits to the cemetery have felt different for some time now. It does not bring me peace or comfort. It upsets me and makes me feel very alone. The reason being that I now visualize my mother as decomposing. I don’t want to picture what her body might look like now, but I can’t help it. I feel more distant than ever from her now. Now I feel like she is really all gone. Ashes to ashes.

But I needed to be here with her today. In recent years I have come to view birthdays as more of a celebration of mothers. They are the ones who gave life on this day. They are the ones who carried us inside their bodies for nine months. My mother is the one who made the miracle of a life on this day 52 years ago. I didn’t do anything. I just went with the flow, no pun intended

Having been as close to my mother as I was, I had a good sense of how her dementia was progressing. I was telling doctors she had the beginning signs of Alzheimer’s years before doctors believed me. 

There came a time when I just knew – I just knew – that the day was fast approaching when she wouldn’t recognize me and my brother. Her coherent moments were becoming fewer and fewer. 

It has been kind of a running joke our whole lives of trying to get my mother to admit who her favorite son was. We always knew she didn’t have a favorite - or, at least, wouldn't admit it. I, genuinely, believed, though, that she didn't have a favorite. But on this particular day, I tried again. I knew this might be my last chance. My brother was with me, sitting at a table in the community lounge of the nursing home. So I asked, “Mom, once and for all, please tell us which one of us is your favorite.”

She gave a dismissive wave, and grunted for me to shut up. I persisted. Finally, she replied, “Fine – whichever one came out fastest is my favorite.” It was classic. This was who she was and is a perfect final memory I have of her.

Back to the present day and the cemetery. It was about 9 a.m. and the birthday texts started rolling in as I was sitting in my car. I heard from people I only hear from once a year. It is nice to know they hadn’t forgotten about me. I chatted via text with a few of them to pass the time.

I started to get nostalgic. I began thinking of friends, family, and co-workers who had recently passed. I had a feeling my brother wouldn’t wish me a happy birthday. It is just the way he is. I started thinking about how his deceased wife, though, used to be the one who would call me and sing “happy birthday” to me over the phone as soon as I answered it. She has been gone for about five years now. I know I said I didn’t keep a checklist of people who wished me a happy birthday, but my brother is the one exception. Here I am a few days days later and I still haven’t heard from him. It hurts.

I’ll be honest. That is, after all, the point of me writing these blogs/articles. As I was standing next to her grave, suicidal thoughts did creep into my head. I have had suicidal thoughts before, but they never progressed to the planning stage or anything like that. The same was true today, but I was thinking if I were to ever do it, doing it on my birthday would be appropriate. Reaching a birthday is an accomplishment. It represents the end of a 365-day marathon.

Did I want to start a new race? I've seen athletes tear up their same knee two or three times, and, grudgingly, go about beginning another year-long rehabilitation. I've admired those people. If it were me and I blew out my knee a second time, I'd be done.

That is what I feel like now. I feel like I am at the beginning of another marathon. I feel like I am starting another long rehab. Use whatever analogy you like. It is intimidating to me, like being at the base of Mount Everest and looking up at the peak. They say each year Mount Everest grows a few extra feet, just like life seems to get a little harder each year.

But what choice do I have? Time to stretch my legs and twist my torso. Let the race begin.