Living True

Somehow I’d forgotten the particular shade of blue that is sky.  That blue that defies duplication.  The blue that speaks the word “yonder”, by inviting eyes to see further. 

 Today, I saw it, and knew the wonder.

I’ve missed the caress of wind in my hair.  The feeling of freedom.  A space in time whose only accompaniment is the dull roar of the engine in front of me, competing with wind whipping through an open window.

Today, I felt it, and appreciated the gift.

It’s been a while since I’ve really looked into a loved one’s eyes as she spoke, or shared air, or a fork.  I’ve missed the abandon of shucking my shoes under the table before resting my heels on the booth beside her.  “That’s a lovely shade of blue on your toenails, honey.  It looks just like you.”

Today I took the time. 

Today I saw sky, and felt wind.  I memorized the eyes of a friend, and held my daughter close for no reason.  I stretched out, barefooted, in a booth at a restaurant and laughed loudly, with abandon.

Today, I knew the gifts of those who truly live.

Comes With Eggroll

When I was a kid, Chinese food was Chop Suey, served warm and fresh from a can.  I remember dodging lots of water chestnuts in an effort to uncover tiny shreds of meat that justified use of the word “chicken” on the label. The best part of the whole meal was the topping of “noodles” which were not actually noodles at all, but tiny strips of crunchy pastry.  Years later, my grandmother would introduce me to another, even tastier, use for Chinese noodles.  After melting equal parts of chocolate and butterscotch chips in a double-boiler, she stirred in a package of noodles and dropped the mess by heaping spoonfuls on waxed paper.  The finished product was called a “haystack” which quickly became a mainstay of childhood Christmases…but I digress.

While in college, my friends and I discovered this great little place in a strip-mall where four or five of us would meet for lunch.  The “special” was a combination plate which offered a choice of two entrees, rice, soup, and eggroll.  Everyone ordered something different and we shared.  The price was reasonable, and there was so much food that we easily got by on just one meal a day.

As the mother of growing boys during the 1990’s, I welcomed the advent of the Chinese buffet.  Not only could my sons eat until they were full for one low price, but the proprietors played to their audience by almost always filling a tray or two with traditional American favorites, such as pizza or french fries. 

Saturdays usually began with a weekly visit to a local flea market that spanned an entire city block.  My friend Hallie usually accompanied us and, fortunately, she too enjoyed Chinese food.  After stowing our finds in the trunk of my car, we headed all the way across town for China Star Buffet.  I’m sure it comes as no surprise to hear that this was the highlight of the trip for the kids.

The place was cavernous in more ways than one, as muted lighting camouflaged stains on the garishly colored, indoor-outdoor carpeting padding the seating area.  My children’s behinds never even grazed the top of the tattered, vinyl-covered booth before heading for the brightly-lit, tiled buffet area at a controlled gallop.  A row of six stainless steel buffet tables reflected light from exposed bulbs. in a manner that I suppose was meant to compliment the colorful display of food.  The kids always made for the pizza first, before attacking the pan of beer-battered chicken, meant to be covered with sticky sweet-and-sour sauce.  The last two buffets featured piles of freshly cut fruit and a full salad bar.  My children’s feet never touched the tiles surrounding them.

Hallie and I also worked together, and often lunched at a more upscale establishment featuring an awning supported by four huge, gilded columns sprouting from the backs of statuesque lions.  The food at Peking was considerably better than that enjoyed at China Star Buffet, which sat just around the corner.  I’m sure it was this proximity that provoked Peking to install a lunch buffet.  Theirs, however, was much smaller and featured only the food Americans think of as Chinese which one would never actually find in a restaurant in China.  There was not a slice of pizza in sight.

When my oldest son,  Josh, decided he liked his girlfriend enough to introduce her to his parents he requested we meet at Hong Kong Buffet; China Star Buffet being out of the question, as I had by now returned to Atlanta.  Hong Kong Buffet had, apparently, purchased carpeting from the same manufacturer as China Star Buffet, and it was interesting to finally see what it looked like under sufficient lighting to confirm that it was indeed possible to remove stains made by toddlers flinging foods soaked in red sauces. 

Josh’s girlfriend, Heather, and I returned to our assigned booth at the same time with similar looking plates of which the largest portion was covered by a gooey, cheesy, crab concoction.  Well, I say crab.  In truth, the chef had made no effort to hide the tell-tale, dye-reddened edges of faux crab he had sautéed with onions and butter, before swaddling the mix in an unnamed, but sinfully delicious, white cheese sauce.  We shoveled the greasy mess into our mouths simultaneously, groaned at the same time, and shared a smile. 

Shane and Roger, carrying platefuls of saucy meats and pastry encased cheese, soon joined us.  Several mouthfuls later, we realized that Josh was missing.  Scanning the stainless steel maze of buffets, I found him standing amidst a group of large African-American women holding empty plates while looking hungrily towards the swinging door that led to the kitchen; or as I thought of it at the time, Mecca.  I could see the resolve on my son’s face as he tightened his grip on a single, thick, white, ceramic plate while staring into an empty, steaming bin where crab-legs used to be.  He was first in line, and he would not be moved. 

A swath of yellow light assaulted the colorful carpeting as the kitchen door swung wide, revealing a small, dark-haired woman of oriental descent who bent one knee just as the door began to arc back in her direction.  The door stopped, and she gave it a little kick before entering the dining room. carrying a steaming metal dish in the direction of the buffets.  Several of the women surrounding my son began to stir; their plates balanced precariously on multi-colored talons above their carefully coiffed, swiveling heads.  Joshua’s eyes remained trained on the steaming hole before him.

The dark-haired serving girl cut her eyes in the direction of the milling crowd surrounding the space where crab-legs used to be, and shooting an apologetic smile in their direction, made for an adjacent buffet.  Several of the women leaned in her direction, as though fearful she had taken a wrong turn, or planned a covert dump in a different pan.  As she began to scoop greasy, green onion fronds mixed with bits of beef through the steam, they settled back into position, training their eyes once again on the nautically-inspired steel door.

Several minutes later, as I wiped oily remnants of crab casserole from the corners of my mouth with a napkin that definitely wasn’t cloth but wasn’t exactly paper, Josh returned to the table, slightly out of breath. 

“Here…”, he growled, shoving a plated mound of steaming, orange crab legs between two sweating glasses of sweet tea.  Before we could thank him, he was gone again.

I turned to see him pull a plate from the buffet and hand it to a large, blonde woman sporting a Dallas Cowboy’s jersey.  Grabbing another, he meandered through the buffet maze, stopping occasionally to spoon food onto his plate.  When he returned, several of his precious crab legs had been reduced to orange-colored shards.

Sighing heavily, Josh sunk into the booth beside his girlfriend and in the same motion lifted a bundle of swaddled cutlery. 

Leaning in her direction he stage whispered, “Watch that door!”, motioning with his fork towards the swinging door to Mecca.  “I’ll have to get up there fast if we’re going to get anymore.”

*******

Sometimes even twelve-year-old boys are needy.  Take last weekend…

It wasn’t anything he said.  He went about his normal routine, but something in his demeanor told me Shane needed one-on-one time; the kind you find under an immense, sparkling chandelier in a Chinese buffet.  This one was called Asia Buffet and featured hand-rolled sushi and made-to-order stir fry.

“Hey?”  I called out from the next room.

Shane gathered his limbs, which he had sprawled across a recliner while watching a football game.

“Yeah?”

“You hungry?”

The question warranted standing, as he answered.  “Yeah!”

“Chinese buffet?”

“Cool!  Let me get my shoes!”

And, I realized then that many of my family’s most pleasant memories come with eggroll.

Change of Heart: A Healthcare Dilemma

I have long been a proponent of socialized medicine, believing that access to healthcare should rank high on a list of unalienable rights.  Lately, though, I’ve begun to rethink my position.

I listened, recently, to a piece on public radio in which the presenter took a calculator into an operating suite, tallying each piece of equipment used in the treatment of a woman suffering from arthrosclerosis.  For instance, a small length of rubber tubing cost $65.00.  The physician attempted to use, and eventually discarded, several of them before finding one he felt fit properly.  He explained his need to be able to do this in order to provide the best care to his patients.  Similarly, he inserted and retracted several $2000.00 stints, before settling on the one he felt would provide the best blood flow to the affected artery.  Unlike the rubber tubing though, the stints were not discarded, but rather returned to the manufacturer.  The patient was charged only for the one left in place.  The company instituted this policy as a means of safeguarding the success rate of their product in the hope that by removing cost as a factor, physicians would feel free to act as the one featured in the piece. 

Losses incurred are reflected in the cost of the millimeters-long plastic sheath, but don’t account for the total price.  Another factor in the price is its infancy.  As new technology is approved for use, there is no pricing structure to use for comparison.  Should an innovator build a better mouse trap, he can compare his product to the thousands of mouse traps that came before, and settle on a price that will make him competitive in the mouse trap market.  When an innovator builds a trap never before imagined to catch a creature never before trapped, there is no such barometer.  So, after figuring costs of research and development, materials, and labor, exclusivity is also assigned a premium, and will remain a factor until another innovator comes along with a similar idea. 

And, as the world leader in medical technology, the United States is chockfull of ideas.  Between 1996 and 2006, twelve Nobel prizes were awarded to American scientists, three went to foreign-born scientists working in the US, and only seven were awarded to those working outside the United States.  As of 2006, four of the six most important medical innovations were developed in the US, and the other two were perfected and made commercially available by American companies.  And who pays for all this brilliance?  That’s right, we do. 

Admittedly, I have never before considered the burden carried by United States citizens in helping to develop and distribute much needed medical technology to the entire world.  After doing some research, however, I feel it as a point of pride.  The US exports all manner of goods and services to other parts of the world.  For instance, you can find a McDonald’s in most international city of any size.  I don’t necessarily see this as a good thing, and neither will those experiencing a Big Mac for the first time once they realize that their burger comes with a side of morbid obesity. 

The American penchant for exporting western religions has always bothered me.  My understanding of biblical text forbids making a judgment against the beliefs of others.  One may think them misguided, one may even pray for the souls they feel are surely headed for eternal damnation, but the effort to indoctrinate a culture in “The Way” seems outrageously pompous at best, and sinfully intrusive at worst. 

In comparison, the exportation of medical innovation is a practice I support with a feeling of benevolent pride, and considering the alternative, I’m willing to pay a little more for healthcare.

Lawsuits filed by lawyers, aptly named “ambulance chasers”, hired by people who see financial gain in an unfortunate outcome, also drive up the cost of American healthcare.  Legislators have tried, sometimes successfully, to cap these costs, but as long our citizenry demands the right to exorbitant financial compensation for mistakes which are often unpreventable, health professionals and hospitals must figure equally exorbitant insurance costs into their bottom line which is then passed on to all patients regardless of litigious proclivity.

And now we have arrived at what I believe to be the true source of inequity in the American healthcare system; insurance companies.

When I was a young woman it worked like this.  Insurance was offered by employers who paid some, but not all, of the premium for their employees who received a card they could then flash at healthcare providers who graciously swung wide the doors to the system.  Patients presented with symptoms, doctors performed examinations and ordered testing, which was scheduled by office staff.  Often insurance information, too, was forwarded, making the visit to the testing facility as simple as waiting nervously to hear your shouted name.  Deductibles were reasonable and mitered out over the course of the calendar year, usually not really coming into play unless a hospital visit was required.  Prescriptions carried co-pays, but the amount was much less.  I remember paying six-dollar co-pays for a number of years, and being scandalized when the company increased the amount to ten dollars.  And there was no question as to whether or not the pharmacist would fill your prescription.  The doctor wrote the order, the pharmacist filled it, the patient paid the co-pay, and insurance picked up the rest.  End of story. 

It seems as though the advent of HMOs, and PPOs, and various other tri-lettered options changed everything.  The doctor who had cared for my family for years, was no longer authorized by my new insurance company, forcing me to choose from a list of practitioners who had subscribed to the new, “improved” plan.  And should the man I now thought of as my “Primary Care Practitioner” feel the need for consultation with another doctor, the list would be consulted again.  Gone were the days of depending on the physician’s knowledge of his colleagues, or the experiences of friends and family.  Insurance companies now dictated our choice of practitioner.  And very quickly, they extended their reach into the pharmacy.

A friend visited her local pharmacy to pick up a prescription she had taken for years to treat acid reflux disease.  Upon her arrival, the pharmacist explained that the insurance company had denied her claim, ordering, instead, that she have further testing.  After consulting their list of participating providers she waited two very uncomfortable weeks to have the procedure, and several days afterward for the insurance company to pronounce she no longer needed prescription medication.  They suggested she use an over-the-counter antacid, which she did with no relief for a number of months until, desperate, she returned to her pre-approved physician’s office.  He prescribed the medication that had worked for her in the past, and after several telephone consultations between physician, pharmacist, and the insurance company, she was allowed to purchase the pills.

In another instance, a physician ordered a test for a patient for whom diagnosis had proven elusive.  When the patient called to schedule the test, she was advised that her insurance company had refused to cover the procedure, deeming it “unnecessary”.  When she attempted to schedule anyway, with plans of funding the visit herself, she was denied.  When told this story, I didn’t believe it.  I reckoned there to be other factors, not presented by the patient, which figured into the insurance company’s decision.  In an effort to help both of us understand, I accompanied her to her next visit, only to find her situation exactly as she told it.  The insurance company to whom she paid a percentage of her income every two weeks in the belief that they would provide care, had now denied her.  And the testing facility, so tied to the purse-strings of the insurers, didn’t dare participate in her attempt to bypass them.

One answer to the travesty that is healthcare dictated by MBAs?  Healthcare savings accounts.  If insurers, who line their pockets with record-setting profits taken from our paychecks every two weeks are the problem, then the answer is to bank their premium in an account used solely for the purpose of paying for healthcare.  When I count back over the years, all the premiums paid to insurance companies I was fortunate enough not to call on, I am sickened by the number I might have seen on my healthcare savings account balance sheet.  And, imagine a world in which pre-printed lists were not requisite to healthcare choices!

As Americans, we want it all.  We want all the latest technology and the most brilliant innovations.  But, we don’t want to pay for it.  We reserve the right to hold accountable another human being, who though highly educated, is surely as fallible as any other human being.  And, we want him to pay, and pay dearly!  We want complete and total access to all that medicine has to offer, but we want someone else to foot the bill, and we are willing to give up a small percentage of our income if necessary, just in case.  Just in case, though, doesn’t actually come very often for most people. 

As President Obama proposed his option to our current healthcare morass, cries of “Take back our healthcare!” rang out from all sides.  But, how can you take something back that isn’t even yours to begin with? 

By paying for it, yourself.

Day One H1N1

Languidly rising to the surface, I feel the lateness of the hour.  Lying face down, I struggle to open eyes compressed by cotton-covered down and turn to face the only window in the room for confirmation.  Daylight…

I wouldn’t have thought lawn-mowing a typical Tuesday morning activity.  But there it is; a sound usually reserved for the occasional late Saturday morning.  On Tuesday, though, it feels out of place.  The slits of my eyes lower as I consider the sound.  From my supine position in the back of the house, it’s impossible to discern the direction of the offense, and before I decide to care, sleep comes.

Snores, my own, rouse me several times until I make the effort to turn, and sleep comes again.

I reach for the telephone to quiet it.

“Oh, are you still sleeping?  I’m sorry…”  I’m sure there was more, but it’s gone now.

As a person for who sleep is an elusive luxury, the ability to turn, tuck, and snore is something to be relished.  It only hurts when I move…

The telephone rings again.  Desperate to quiet the clamor, I reach towards an empty cradle.  The ringing continues.  I turn in my stupor.  Groaning, I roll towards the empty side of the bed over a hard object which grinds against my hip, turning my groan into a grimace.  Though muffled, the ringing continues.  Rolling back the way I had come, I pull the phone from my hip and press “talk”.

“You’re still in bed?  You’ve been in bed all day!”  There must have been more, but I can’t recall.

I look at the clock for the first time all day; 3:15.  I marvel at the ache in my joints, as my own voice begins chiding me silently.  “You haven’t taken your herbs.  Of course, you’re achy; you haven’t taken your herbs.”  I sit with that. 

 

Ingesting medication requires eating.  Eating requires standing, and walking, and using my hands.  I shoo the sheets from my legs, will myself into an upright position, and shuffle the miles to the kitchen.  A lone, brown, boiled egg sits inside a white, glass bowl.  I peel it over the trashcan amidst whimpering dogs, hoping to take advantage of my weakened condition.  As I eat food some people shun because of its smell, I neither smell nor taste as I pat myself on the back for my choice.  Protein, the building block of life…

I turn on the television, and my finger instinctually dials up “The Guiding Light”.  Raised by a mother who began her television day with “The Secret Storm”, the CBS soap opera schedule soon became part of our DNA, and 3:00 means “The Guiding Light”. 

They’re shooting it differently.  I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something is different.  The faces are all the same but the setting is different.  I don’t like it. The scene changes and a female newcomer, who can’t have been a part of the show for more than ten years, begins talking to a man I think I remember.

“Is that Harley?”, I wonder. 

I always liked Harley.  I think I read recently that she is leaving the show.  Could this be her replacement?  I focus on their faces to the point of deafness.  Their conversation escapes me as their relevance becomes clear. 

“No wonder. I never liked her.”  My silent discourse continues, and as the credits roll I point the remote.

Swallowing a handful of pills I return to my cocoon of blankets.  Shane will be home in twenty minutes.

His rubber-soled footfalls wake me.  I wonder that he didn’t stop at my room as the door to his slams, only to open within seconds.  He approaches stealthily, checking for signs of sleep.

“Hey, Mom…”, he stage whispers.

“Hey.”, I croak.  “Stay away.”

“Okay…”, he pats the mound of my blanketed hip.

His presence makes me a mother, holding sleep at bay.  I think to encourage homework, but can’t afford the effort, hoping instead that his father will remember. 

A second set of foot-falls echoes down the hall.  Drawers are opened and closed.

“Should I feed the dogs?”  The words travel some distance before reaching me.

“Yes, please.”  I’m grateful for his thoughtfulness.

Twelve paws dance chaotically as two males voices attempt to corral one animal into each room with a bowl of kibble. 

I awaken to a quiet house.

My phone is chirping, and I think, again, how much I love the sound of that alert.  Who doesn’t like the sound of birds chirping?

“Yeah?”  He feigns indifference.

“I saw you called.”, I say with a voice I shouldn’t be using.

“When you didn’t call back, I figured you were at work or really sick.  When you didn’t even text, I knew you were sick.”

“Yeah…”

“Did you go to the doctor?”, he asks as though the trip should be anticipated.

“No.  I’ve been sleeping.”

“Well, you need a z-pack.  Okay, okay, now look…”  And he was off.

I almost forget how much it hurt to smile.

Hanging up, I sit at the computer for several minutes, wondering if sweating would be of any value.  The telephone rings again.

“Stacye?”  I work for this voice.

“Yes?”, I croak.

“How are you feeling?”

“Not good.”, I manage.

“Okay…I meant to call earlier today, but…”, he leaves the rest unsaid, knowing I can fill in the blank.

“Do you have a fever?”, he asks authoritatively.

“Yes.”, I answer with shame.

“Tamiflu.  You need Tamiflu.  And, my witchdoctor wife is plying everyone with elderberry.  Get some elderberry.”, he orders.

“Okay…”, I reach for a pencil, afraid that this conversation, too, will evade memory.

“It’s H1N1.”, he pronounces. “And you are contagious twenty-four hours before, and twenty-four hours after, you know…so you can’t come back to work tomorrow.”

“Okay…”  Uncaring, I envision crawling back into bed.

Who needs a doctor when you have a boss with a witchdoctor wife?

Driving Home

“Did you get it, yet?  I checked, and it’s shipped.  I really wanted you to have it by your birthday.  I’m sorry it’s going to come after….” 

The last word swung back and forth along the invisible line connecting their cell phones.  She saw it getting larger, and then smaller, hurriedly rushing at her with the force of resignation, before dancing away in a pathetically hopeful soft-shoe.  Her birthday was still three days away.  “After” no longer meant just her birthday.

She smiled before she spoke, knowing it would sweeten her tone.

“Don’t worry about it.”  She chuckled softly as much for her own encouragement as to ease his angst.  “It will come, and I’ll love it.  I know I will.”  The blinders she’d donned earlier in the day, when he’d called to tell her the news, remained firmly in place as she trained her eyes on a colorless traffic light.  Every word, every action, required a decision and focus.  And though her car sat motionless for several minutes, she maintained a 10-and-2 death grip on the steering wheel.  She only breathed when she had to.

Even before he spoke, she knew he was crying, again.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen…”, he began.

She interrupted with resolution.

“Yes, you do.  You know what’s going to happen, because it’s the only thing that can happen.  We’ve talked about this.”  She stopped to breathe and drew in the dust of her words.  “From the very beginning we’ve talked about this.  There’s nothing to think about.”

“Ok…”  The second syllable rode the wave of a sob he couldn’t contain.  Both were quiet while he tried harder.  The cars around her began to move, and she moved with them.

“Ok..”  This time he whispered the offending syllable and control powered the rest of his speech.  “…but know this.  I will never forget your birthday.  Every year, on your birthday, you will hear from me.”  The long “e” stretched longer on the end of a quiver.  He cleared his throat, and she imagined him sitting taller in his leather office chair.  The car in front of her slowed, forcing her to shift her feet.

“I promise.” 

The words echoed between them, reminding her of all the promises he had to keep.  He lived with a woman he’d promised to love and cherish until he died, and children, whose care was promised by their creation.  She pictured him wearing a promise fashioned of cloth under one of his sensible suits as he offered an easy smile of welcome to those who would follow in his church-sanctioned footsteps. 

Night had fallen while he spoke, and as she eased the car to a stop under another albino traffic light she tried to imagine him alone, unaccompanied by his promises.  She thought she heard him sniff as he finally swam into view wearing a gaily colored madras shirt; the kind a family man wears on vacation…because that’s all he would ever be.

“Don’t do that.”  Though spoken softly, her words rebuked argument.  “Don’t make a promise you won’t keep…because you won’t…because you can’t…because promises mean everything to you.”

A whispered “I love you” caressed her ear as she made the final turn towards home.

“Promise.”

Jubilee

I dodge most of the puddles on the way to my car.

Most is the best I can do.

I love puddles.

 

Air that was cool for August is no less surprising, or unwelcome, on the first day of September.

I slide slacks over my sandals.

 

A fifty-year battle with procrastination dictates a stop for gas on my way to the office.

I’ll be late, and I don’t care.

It’s my birthday.

 

It is my birthday!

A smile of recognition and unexpected pride splits my face as I drive.

It’s my birthday!

The day has come, it’s finally here, and so am I.

I’m no worse for wear and remarkably better for meeting the milestone.

It’s done.

 

I didn’t expect the pride, the relief.

And, I revel in it.

Free, to be…

A Numbers Game

 

I spent the better part of my thirty-fourth year dreading my thirty-fifth.  It wasn’t that I expected anything to change.  I didn’t see thirty-five as some kind of horrific milestone, though now looking back on it, I think subconsciously I knew I’d reached a realistic half-way point.

What I couldn’t get past was the ugliness of the number itself, the overt roundness of it, the slovenly way it sits on its protuberant bellies as though fully sated and content in its rotundity.  For twelve months I avoided, at every opportunity, speaking my age.  The image invoked by the words disgusted me.

What makes this behavior remarkable is the fact that I assign no importance to age.  I couldn’t tell you the age of my siblings, and it takes an appreciable amount of ciphering to determine my father’s.  I know the age of my children, but only because I am expected to recite it with some frequency.  If you admit to having children, you are expected to know when you had them.  I suppose that’s fair…

For a full twelve months, while in my early forties, I aged myself by one year.  As my birthday neared, a friend laughingly pointed this out to me, proving her point by counting backwards from my birth-date.  She jokingly held forth my lapse as proof of some kind of mental instability, and her jeering bothered me at first, until I realized that my behavior only proved what I already knew; it really didn’t matter.  For years, the question “How old are you?” forced me to think.  It just wasn’t a number I carried around in my head.

Until now…

I still hesitate when asked my age, but not because I don’t know the answer.  I hesitate because being forty-nine means I’ll soon be fifty, and I don’t want to be. 

As my birthday nears, I find myself surrounded by two types of people; those who know, and those who don’t.  And, it is those who know who have made it difficult to share with the others.  For the first time in my life, people seem to feel it acceptable to pronounce me “old”.  And, they do so, loudly, and often.

My father was the first to raise the baton.  Months ago, as we chatted on the telephone, he mentioned my upcoming birthday, casually asking “How old will you be?”.  He’s in his late seventies; the question didn’t surprise me.  This was before I’d learned to hedge, and my answer came quickly.

“Fifty.”

“Fifty?” His voice was loud.  “You’re going to be fifty?”  This time his volume was accented by an accusatory tone.  “Do you know how old that makes me feel…to have a daughter who’s going to be fifty?”  He laughed as though he’d told a joke.  I struggled to see the levity, while chuckling softly so as not to hurt his feelings. 

Since that time, my birthday is never mentioned by anyone who doesn’t feel it perfectly appropriate to point out my longevity.  Some appear awestruck; as though living fifty years is an accomplishment worth considerable thought and recognition.  Some seem to feel as though my age poses a ticklish predicament.  They giggle and point as though I’ve caught my heel in a sidewalk grate.  And, of course, there are those whose faces fall in sympathy.  I prefer not to know what they are thinking.

A dear friend mentioned my birthday the other day, and immediately asked how old I would be.  As we’ve known each other only two years, he had no reason to know.  Because he is a man, and younger, I really didn’t want him to. 

I vacillated between simply ignoring the question and employing my finest southern accent, reminding him how improper it is to ask a lady her age, sure that in his usual manner he would soon turn the conversation in a different direction.  While I hesitated he began to throw out numbers, “Fifty-five?  Seventy-six?  Fifty-two?”, until I could take no more.

“Fifty.”  I said it, again.

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?”  His response resounded with authenticity, imbuing me with the courage to explain.  He listened quietly until I finished.

“I have to admit that while you were talking I imagined myself fifty…and my heart did a little flip.”   That one didn’t even hurt.

Last Saturday, my children and several friends celebrated my birthday by coming to my house for a cook-out.  My oldest son manned the grill, and everyone else brought plates and plates of my favorite foods.  The broccoli casserole my daughter-in-law made was the best I’d ever tasted, and by the time I discovered the potato casserole my daughter had cooked, I had to scrape the sides of the dish just to get a taste.  My delight in their cooking skills was enhanced by the feeling that they belonged to me.  I hugged them both, telling them how much I appreciated them.  They did me proud…

100_0446

Despite my warnings, my daughter insisted I have my favorite cake.  The raspberry-filled, white-chocolate cake she produced was perfect.  As we admired her creativity, in scattering wine-colored cherry blossoms around the perimeter of the plate, she produced the obligatory package of black and white candles; the kind that usually come with a set of gray, plastic headstones.

“Do you like the Emo candles?”, she asked demurely.

“Where are the matching headstones?”, I countered.

“I said they were Emo, Mama.”, she answered with quiet forcefulness.  “I’m being sweet.”

I meant to mark this day.  Had all gone according to plan, I’d be wearing a jacket against an early chill as I clicked down a neon-lit sidewalk in Times Square.  We’d be on our way to dinner, fashionably late of course, in a restaurant requiring reservations be made months in advance.  Tomorrow would have been our final day in New York City.  Our visit to the fashion district would be a wonderful memory as I laced my sneakers for one last run through Central Park.

As it is, I accept the blessing of over-time with a company hedging its bets against a fragile economy.  I’m schlepping my son to football practice, and I’m writing.  My gift to myself is my writing.  I will document my half-century in words, and feelings, and words, and epiphanies, and words.

Happy Birthday to me…