Guess what I got for my birthday. A crick in the neck of epic proportions. Which makes me want to call it a river in the neck. Because you know how some people call a creek a “crick” and a river is bigger than a creek? That came to me in the early hours of morning – when I do my most creative thinking. Like the other morning when my nose was freezing and I started thinking about creating nose warmers. I even considered talking to Tori at Radioactive Girl about knitting some.
And guess what I get to do for my birthday. I get to go to the dentist where they will cram my mouth with disgusting goo. I’ll try to go to my happy place and pretend I don’t want to gag.
I’m not sure what’s going on for dinner tonight. All I know is I don’t have to cook.
Friday night we’re all going to a hockey game for my birthday. I love hockey. Not on TV, though. You have to be there in person. And I especially like it when there’s a good fight. I’m not sure why that is, either, because I hate violence. But my favorite game ever was when both teams ended up in the penalty box and the ice was covered with gloves and helmets and sticks. Good stuff.
Geesh! Is it just me or does this post read like something Eeyore would write?? I will leave you with my post from last year’s birthday.
My thirty-eleventh birthday is next week. It’s not a landmark birthday and nothing to get excited about. In fact, if I wasn’t so greedy as to want presents and a day of being spoiled, I’d just forget about it altogether.
But I don’t think that’s an option anyway. After the last year-and-a-half we’ve gone through, my birthday has become kind of a big deal. Instead of lamenting the fact that I’m middle aged, I need to be happy that I made it to middle age. Oh, I know that’s all very dramatic and it’s really not something I think of very often. Yes, I had breast cancer, but it was caught fairly early and my prognosis is excellent. There are so many worse things it could have been.
You may or may not know that I’m writing a book about my experience. It’s not a self-help or an inspirational book. It’s more of an Erma Bombeckesque look at what the past 18 months have been like for us. Don’t get me wrong. Parts of it are very serious. But I was amazed at the humor and the silliness that was borne of some of my situations.
As much as I would love to see this book published, I’m not going to hold my breath. If I do ever manage to get it into some semblance of an organized thought process I will try publishing. But even if it never comes to anything that’s okay. It’s a type of therapy for me now and it will forever be a record of what our family endured and learned through all of this.
So here’s a little excerpt from my story that has to do with my birthday:
In the spring of 2005 I had thick, curly hair that fell beneath my shoulders. I was also walking a few days a week with a friend. With the age of 40 closing in, I was in a desperate want to get into shape. You see, I had this plan.
For my 40th birthday I wanted long, curly, auburn tresses and a pair of red thigh high PVC stiletto boots. I wasn’t sure what would go in between my locks and the heels, but suffice it to say it was going to be hot. Todd would have his very own vixen.
Instead, I had a very thin buzz cut, 30 extra pounds and only one boob. Thigh high boots would have been a waste of money (and they ARE expensive) because I probably couldn’t have shimmied them past my knees. And whatever provocative little number would have accompanied the boots would have been too filled out in some spots, not filled out in others, decidedly dropping the sexy factor to somewhere around nil.
They say that 50 is the new 30, so does that make 40 the new 25? If so, what does that make 42? I’ll be going through reconstruction at the age of 41, so 42 is the next birthday I have a shot at.
Emotionally it was a little difficult to reach the landmark age of 40 in the way I did. My hair had started coming in, albeit slowly and still thin. I was actually scheduled for my last chemo treatment the day before my birthday, but the doctor graciously postponed it for nearly a week so I could enjoy my celebratory weekend.
Todd booked the two of us in a romantic little cottage up in Eureka Springs that we had stayed in several years earlier. The cottage had guest journals and I flipped back through the archives until I found my entry from 1995. It was a poignant moment to see the words I had written in such a different time. We were a young, happy couple with a baby and toddler at home. We were there to celebrate our 8th anniversary and enjoyed the romantic interlude from our hectic lives.
It was a good time for us. There were no thoughts of cancer or chemotherapy or reconstruction or hot flashes or, well, the list goes on. I was saddened by the way our lives had changed so drastically. I was heartened by the good and joyful life we had shared.
But mostly I was grateful. Even in the midst of a life threatening disease and all the problems associated with treatment, even with our husband and father living 1200 miles away, I had joy. I had the most important things necessary to a good life.
I had a husband who loved me with everything, even though I couldn’t wear thigh high stiletto boots and looked more like a GI than his wife. I had two children who were healthy and happy and who had stepped up to the plate when I was too tired or weak to do what needed doing. I had family and friends who loved me and lavished me with help and food. And I had a God who loved me and comforted me and promised me this, too, shall pass. I had everything I needed.
I am still shooting for the long, curly, auburn hair and thigh high stiletto boots for 42, by the way.
Dangit!! Looks like I’ll have to aim for 43, now.