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Tomorrow is my birthday. It’s coming at a hell of a time. Since the end of November, when my car exploded, I’ve had metal plates inserted into one ankle and ligaments torn in the other. Last week, I was laid off from the only job that gave me a steady salary and health insurance. Sprinkled throughout, I’ve been sick.
To say I’m tired is an understatement.
I’m trying not to dwell on any of this though — I’m healing slowly and I will find more work, although the car is a total loss, one that has coincided with my inability to walk, so that one really sucks.
When I told my Ukrainian friend Vadym some of what I’ve been dealing with, he joked, “At least you’re not dying slowly from a brain tumor!” Which he is.
He’s right.
It’s been strange getting close to 50 and going through all this. It makes me value my health, my time, my work, my lifeso much more than ever before.
My mother and I shared the same birthday. I grew up hearing that I was her birthday present. I’d picture myself as a baby in a box with a big red bow on our butcher-block kitchen table.
She died a number of years ago, and every year on our birthday, I think about how that was one of the only days we would speak. If I didn’t call her early enough, she’d cry on the phone when we connected. Yes, we had a hard relationship. But this year, I feel sad about losing her. She was a good person with a lot of problems, and I find it bizarre that she never saw Trump tear our country apart or watch as Covid devastated us. She never got to meet my puppy, Xavier.
I also share my birthday with a close, close Italian friend who I met in 1999 when we lived in Venice. We had waltzed in Piazza San Marco at night when it was flooded to our knees from the acqua alta, the high tide that would sporadically force us to put on Wellingtons and walk on raised planks throughout the city. Together, we spent the millennial New Year’s Eve in that same piazza as fireworks went off and we were nearly crushed to death. We ate so well that year — our friends would joke that Flavio could make an amazing meal out of “three ingredients only.” He could.
All these years, our calls and texts to each other on our birthday was a balm to the calls with my mother. To feeling alone or in any way unloved. He is full of joy and he gives me that gift every year.
Life is hurtling forward for all of us. One day, we will all miss the big and small events in the world. For now, though, for right now, we’re still here. And now is the time to live like we know we won’t be here forever.
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Happy Birthday, Lauren, unpack this tomorrow! I hope your healing is going well, and I hope you and Xavier share some good treats to celebrate. One day at a time, and tomorrow is for you to enjoy. All the best.
Happy early birthday my friend. This year will be better, I know it. Your bones will heal and you will again join the rest of us walking wounded. And the right employment, one that values your talents, will find you. Your attitude is perfect though, we have so much to be grateful for in our relatively peaceful, healthy lives.
I almost shared my birthday with my father, we were 2 days apart. My mother, in her zeal for efficiency, always had us share the day, cake, and celebration. As a kid I resented the intrusion on my special day, and wasn’t a great sport about it. Maturity makes me ashamed I was that bratty kid.
My synagogue has in its memorial prayer book a special section for the parent who wasn’t who we needed them to be as we mourn them.
I hope your birthday and this upcoming year is wonderful.