On Turning 60 and Other Lessons in Humility
I was a basket case for the week leading up to my 60th birthday. Recovering alcoholic, the first thing I did was step up my meetings and made sure I shared. And shared. And shared. All about how I was wigged out about turning 60. After meetings I was hugged and assured that 60 was better than the alternative. (I know that. That’s beside the point.) It’s just such a big number. 50 was no big deal. But 60. One of my best friends gave me one of those syrupy cards that talks about now that you are 60 and when I looked at the 6-0 my stomach curdled. My gums retracted. They retract now even as I write the 6 and the 0.
The wildest thing about it is that I have been so arrogant on birthdays. My mother died when I was 13 and she was only 38. Breast Cancer. So I have always told everyone who would listen how glad I am to still be here. Getting old was wonderful I announced. But not now. Something completely different was going on.
I talked quickly—chattering really—and openly about my hair. How I now needed to grow it out. No more going to the hairdresser every three weeks and sitting with brown glop for base and then every third or fourth three weeks the base and the high-lights and low-lights. Now I needed to be natural. I was counseled to follow the program. Don’t do anything rash. Just be. Give every day equal weight. This was just a birthday.
So finally after all my hype and drung the night before my birthday arrived. One of my closest friends took my significant other --what do you call the man you live with when you are 60? Too old to call him a boyfriend, partner sounds like I am gay, and companion makes him sound like my nurse so him, my sidekick—and me to dinner. Korean restaurant. And we had a wonderful time. I was ok. (Except for that card trumpeting 60 on the cover.)
We drove home exhausted and fell asleep. My s.o leaned over around mid-night, kissed me and said happy birthday. (He had already given me a beautiful new French tennis racquet and I was sleeping with it next to the bed so I could periodically unzip the case, bring it out and admire its French strings and beautiful design. (I have to add right here that 2 weeks earlier I had knee surgery so the best I can do with the racquet for now is admire it. Especially as I sit with my leg elevated, iced and resting, it reminds me of why I need to do my physical therapy and that there will be better days ahead.)
So you would never know that I spent 27 years or so as a journalist—tv news reporter to be fair to those of you who are real journalists and resent tv people calling themselves journalists—because I am in sad need of editing and should cut to the chase. So here it is. I woke up 60 and looked around and thought it’s quiet. I have had lots of emails and voicemails saying happy birthday but we have no plans for the day or night. My Jeff was lying in the bed claiming to be sick from the Korean food, I had not heard from my best friend or my son and that’s when it came to me: They are having a big surprise party for my birthday! Jeff is only pretending to be sick so that I will be surprised. I made my way into the kitchen, fed the dog, put on hot water for coffee and looked out at the terrace outside the kitchen doors. There was sanding equipment. Lots of sanding equipment. Jeff was working on a new office off our bedroom and making all of the cabinetry. He would never leave all that sawdust and all the band-saw equipment lying out there if there was going to be a party here later on. So I figured they must be holding the party at a restaurant or possibly at my best friend’s house. That explained it. And I pretended not to know that anything was brewing for my birthday.
I did my knee exercises certain of this big surprise. Would people never-the-less—some of them anyway—come here first? I started picking flowers, putting them in lovely vases all over the house. It should look great for anyone coming over. I went back into the bedroom and I have to hand it to Jeff. He looked sick. I asked if he wanted water or juice and he said yes. Even a piece of toast with jam. I could play along. Even on my 60th birthday. I went to our favorite French pastry shop, bought some croissants and even picked out a cake for me.
That would show that I had no idea about the big party about to happen. So unsuspecting I would bring home a cake for me because Jeff was sick and could not do it.
I brought Jeff a lovely tray with juice and a croissant and some scrambled eggs and he said it was lovely and it made him feel a little better. He even apologized for ruining my birthday by being sick. Sweet man. And God could he keep a secret, I thought.
By now it was a little after 1:00 and still no call from my son. My wonderful 34 year old son had emailed me a few days earlier that he had given $60 to my favorite charity—Heifer International—as I had asked when he asked what I wanted.
I took the dog out again. Wonderful Scout—my rescue that my wonderful son had gotten me 2 years earlier for my birthday. Scout was so happy to be walked again. We headed for Hook Mountain but I was still walking slowly because of the knee surgery when I got a text message. It was a birthday greeting from my daughter-in-law. A lovely text message. I figured she sent a text rather than call because she was afraid if she talked to me she would give away the surprise.
I have to add here that the day was beautiful and the walk out of this world. The Honeysuckle was in full bloom and the fragrance was dizzying it was so lovely. And Scout is always so grateful. Hook Mountain off in the distance was enormous, green and welcoming.
A good friend called and sang Happy Birthday. What a sweetheart. And the phone kept ringing. Lots and lots of friends who sang.
As soon as I got home I checked my email again. Something from my son I was sure. But nothing. Tons of other emails and e-cards. I have a lot of friends. Nice.
But where was my son? Probably on the road. I knew what to do. I would call their home phone—they live in North Carolina—and if no one answered I would know they were coming to NY for my big party.
Ahoy! Wiley answered the phone! They were not coming for my big surprise party after all! Wiley said he was sorry he had forgotten my birthday. He explained he and Caroline were all tuckered out. Wiley had given a huge surprise birthday party for Caroline whose birthday is the day before mine.
I have to admit I was disappointed and briefly very jealous. The old me, the alcoholic still drinking 3 years ago would have gone insane and acted out in all kinds of ways. Perhaps none visible to the naked eye. Still a huge scene would have taken place in my head. Something like I will be a famous writer one day and I will make tons and tons of money and you will be sorry that you did not remember my birthday. I might even have phoned and said something awful like how I was very sad and disappointed and what a terrible son he was.
Reality is he is a great son. I am just no longer the center of his universe. His wife is. And I raised him to be independent and to put his wife first and he did! It’s hard that. The letting go. But my son is a 34 year old man. And I am so proud of him. I am also very happy to be off the sauce and in the program (AA) so that I could call my sponsor and be reminded of these things so that I don’t go off the deep end if only inside my mind.
So Wiley and Caroline were not coming to my big surprise birthday party. I was still crushed but started to think about my best friend and how she must be getting things ready for the party. Who would be coming? It was now 3:00 o’clock I had called my sponsor and talked for a long time about acceptance. Was she coming to the party? I said nothing to her about it.
Instead I got right into the shower. I would look beautiful for the party. That meant clean hair. Two hours from start of shower to finish of blow dry. I figured the party would likely be at 7:00 so I would now need to step on it to be ready on time.
The shower was wonderful. I have to admit I could have stayed in there for hours. And it was nice to step out and have clean hair and clean everything.
Jeff was still in bed but his color was coming back. But still no word about leaving the house. I dried my hair and crawled into bed next to him. Did he want to go to dinner I asked? I mean sooner or later he would have to talk about dinner if he was to take me to the party. He kept his silence. Said he still couldn’t eat.
Feeling restless I went into the kitchen and brought out the cake I had bought for myself earlier. I took it to the bed. Asked Jeff if he could manage some cake. No. He told me decidedly. But he said I should go ahead and have some. Again he told me how sorry he was about being sick on my birthday. It was now close to 6:00 and slowly it started to dawn on me: There would be no big surprise birthday party. My best friend had not even called me back because she was likely preoccupied with her bad back. And there was absolutely no evidence ever to have even thought it. I crawled back into bed with my cake and Jeff, opened the cake box, and ate it. I did not even have a fork. Just used my fingers. It was one of the best cakes I have ever had. Pistachio with apricot. Unbelievably good. I can’t remember anything tasting that good for that matter. What a cake. And eating it in bed next to my wonderful sick sidekick! With my fingers. It was just short of glorious.
And so my 60th birthday came and went. It had been one of those perfect days weather wise. Mid-70’s, sunny, no humidity. May 23rd. Everything was in bloom outside and inside. My walks with Scout had been like floating it was so pretty out. The house looked amazing with all the freshly cut flowers everywhere as I made my way into the kitchen to throw out the empty cake box. (It had just been a large slice of cake to be fair…I did not eat an entire cake.)
And as I crawled into bed for good that night, and snuggled up next to my half way better sidekick, I realized what a truly wonderful day it had been.#