A Birthday Tribute...To YOU

Thank you for eyes, your ears, and your hearts.

Tomorrow is my birthday. It’s not a seminal one. Fourty-four. I like the symmetry, the alliteration. It feels like a good number. There’s some joy there that I’m looking forward to exploring. And there’s some pain and fear there that I’m going to have to deal with.

When I think about the greatest gift I’ve received over the past 365 spins around the sun, it is you…my readers. I never could have imagined that in one year, there would be hundreds of you. I am humbled that you let me come in to your Inbox every Wednesday and honored that you consider my words worth your time. When you 🩷 a post, it makes me smile, every. single. time. Your comments are connection, and in a fractured world, that’s the most precious gift I could hope to receive.

So, in honor of my birthday and your awesomeness, I thought I’d share a story from a birthday gone by, the birthday at the beginning of the next four years of trauma, the birthday where I didn’t yet know how bad it could get.

It’s ironic that the birthday blessing of five years ago is the same as it is today.

Joy.

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March 1st, 2020

All I wanted to do today was go to yoga. I needed to go. I felt slightly panicky at the thought of not going. So when my nephew came down with the flu and my childcare (ie. my brother) had to bail, I called in friend reinforcements to cover my kid so I could make it to the mat. I’m not usually this desperate to down dog, but for some reason today was different. I needed to go someplace where I knew what was expected of me. Where I felt competent and calm. Where for one solid hour my brain was given permission, in fact, instructed to think of nothing else but my breath, my body. Where I was safe, and the unpredictable was wholly predictable.

See, today is my birthday.

And my Mom has cancer.

And those two things feel entirely incompatible.

I made it to the mat, and within minutes of arriving knew why I was supposed to be there. Why I had been called there, to that class, on this day. The first words spoken were “The very definition of being fully present is to welcome in this moment as it is.” Hard pause as I allowed those words to sink deep in to my skin.

I’ve had so many moments over the past two weeks since my Mom’s diagnosis that I’ve just wanted to forget. So many moments of internally closing in, walling off my emotion to make space and aptitude for the practical decisions that must be made. So many moments spent in an absentminded haze while my daughter tries anything to attract my undivided attention. So many moments…like my birthday.

I feel guilty that my birthday is today, that it happens to lie in the middle of this mess. My mother is the master of birthdays. She has spent our entire lives making that one day a big f-ing deal, no matter how young or old, no matter where we live, no matter whether we care or not. That makes this birthday feel even more egregious. There is nothing to celebrate right now. Except no one in my life but me felt that way.

I knew that my friends would remember my birthday, that I would get calls and texts and maybe even a card or two. Facebook is a wonderful way to lose all anonymity on your birthday, so I fully expected some social media balloons too. What I did not expect was the wave of celebration that overtook me. Balloons, signs, cards, presents, wine, cheesecake, and buttercream. Lots and lots of buttercream, which is the only way any self-respecting Southerner celebrates. My husband even wrote me a book. The most authentically sweet and silly collection of my wildest adventures with our daughter. Had I not gone to yoga, I would not have been able to accept this. To enjoy it. To embrace it. But those words gave me permission…welcome this…as it is.

Today is my birthday. And my mother has cancer. And those two things can coexist. In fact, in retrospect I realize that there is no more honest celebration than to honor the life one has been blessed with, to welcome in another year and show gratitude that it has arrived. My friends knew that. My mother has always known that.

I am confident that there will be many moments in the coming weeks and months that I will want to opt out of. Moments of pain, frustration, exhaustion, grit, resolve, and grief. But, what if instead of building up my walls, donning my armor, and preparing for battle, I instead open the doors and invite it all in? What if I welcome these moments to the table my grandfather built? What if I cut them a piece of red velvet cake thick with buttercream so sweet it will make your teeth hurt? What if I chase them down with a shot of bourbon? What if I make them a part of me, just as they are, whatever they are.

What I learned today is that a celebration of life is never inappropriate. It is an affirmation, a reminder, a chance. It is the armor.

My mother thanked me for today. Because today was a good day. What a moment to welcome in. Just as it is.