I've never been comfortable being the center of attention. I'd just as well stand on the side and chat about what's happening over there in the spotlight. Okay, maybe, some not mean spirited gossiping from the side. But definitely the side.
So that combined with all my cancer-driven mortality angst and the natural reflections that come with a birthday ... I don't even know how to describe it... make for an intense couple of days.
Plus I have a right ankle that aches. I have nausea. I have fatigue. Signs of my age. Or signs of the crazy year. Or signs of progression. Hard to know. Especially, if you are like me and disinclined to ask.
Happy Birthday. I smile, say thank you, change the subject, count how many days in a row of pain or nausea or fatigue (hundreds) and wonder whether to check in with the doctors.
But this is all me and my crazy. My birthday was lovely. Beautiful, funny, ridiculous cards. Lots of Caps shout-outs and a game seven win. A visit from New Hampshire. So many texts and calls and checkins from friends. Fruit baskets, banana bread, little bouquets from the garden, little gifties dropped by the front door, cookies made by the boys, brunch with family, dinner and movie date with Jim.
Ian whispers the sweetest Happy Birthday, Momma. Miles pouts and refuses to yield his birthday celebration to mine, telling his brother, Happy Birthday, Miles. Everyone gobbles up dessert. Jim grapples with the unvarnished family birthday experience - early, mediocre family dinner, homemade desserts, kid cards, bad family photos, crying and whining galore. What's not to love? I can't wait for sticky-icky, Mother's Day breakfast in bed....
Having cancer helps you remember what matters. Not was dinner on time, delicious, orderly, pleasant, without a discussion of poop, but was there dinner and did you make time to enjoy it? It seems that's what makes the memories.
This week has been hard but you gave me a handful of small moments, subtle kindnesses, and sly, shared smiles that helped me enjoy it.
Only two days in, but so far the best thing about 41 is that it is cancer-free. Assuming my ankle, nausea and fatigue are nothing of consequence, I plan to spend the next few weeks before the next cancer check with my family, at work some, exercising and thinking about what I want my next year to look like.
Some have inquired about the hair. Nothing to report except I still prefer bald to brown and as the result of some fluke of radiation physics, I'm a dead ringer from Marcin Gortat. Lucky girl.
