My Most Memorable Birthday

Jason’s been given an assignment to write in detail about his most memorable birthday and I thought I would try to tackle the assignment also. It’s really hard to single out one birthday to write about. To be honest I don’t make a big thing out of birthdays any more, and I have pretty much forgotten the details of most of my birthdays.

My birthday falls on December 26^th, the day after Christmas. I was born six weeks premature, and for a long time I resented missing Christmas by only two hours. It seemed to me that my very first day, the actual day of my birth, should have been a major holiday since it was clear I put my life in jeopardy in order to emerge on a special day.

For several years I tried to piggyback my birthday onto Christmas. If we hadn’t been Jewish, I might have resented my birthday’s proximity to Christmas, because I would have lost out on half the presents most kids got every year. But since that wasn’t an issue I daydreamed about getting Santa Claus to make a return trip. I remember hanging socks on the handles of our television console (since there was no fireplace) in the hopes that on his way back to the North Pole Santa would drop off a few gifts.

This was considered akin to blasphemy in a Jewish household. My parents didn’t order me to take the socks down but they left no presents in them, either.

I don’t remember my childhood birthday parties. There is a picture of me at a party, presumably mine, all dolled up in a party dress of indeterminate color, since it is a black and white photo. I’m guessing I was three. In the picture, instead of being a cute little birthday princess, I’m scowling and looking like a spoiled brat. I have no memory at all of that birthday but somehow I have a feeling it wasn’t a great day for me.

As a kid I was excited about reaching the next birthday and I counted the months. When someone asked my age I would proudly announce, “I’m eight and seven twelfths!” or whatever my age was at the time. Adults were impressed that I knew fractions, but other kids rolled their eyes and let me know that this was too much information.

The year I turned nineteen, I spent my birthday in Florida. My friend Janet and a couple of her City College friends decided to take a trip down to Disney World and invited me along. The one memory I have from that birthday is being on the beach and taking a dip in the ocean. It must have been eighty degrees in the sunshine. I was used to ice and snow on my birthday, so spending it on the beach was unforgettable.

Worry about aging caught up to me quickly. When I was about to turn twenty, I tossed around in bed the night before, uncomfortably aware that I was not going to be a teenager any longer. The next year, before turning twenty-one, I worried that now I was a full adult and solely responsible for my actions.

When I turned thirty, the clock was ticking. I wasn’t married yet. I wasn’t dating anyone spectacular, and my life was pretty humdrum. I went to work and went home to my studio apartment in Forest Hills. Sometimes I went out with my friend Monica and we cruised singles bars but never seemed to meet nice normal men. I felt the passage of time and wanted to do something outrageous to mark the big three-oh.

I decided to visit Plato’s Retreat, a sex club that was thriving in the years before AIDS became a menace. I didn’t want to participate but just visit a sex club and watch what people did. But, it didn’t seem safe to go alone. I had no idea how these clubs operated, and was afraid that just by being there I’d be setting myself up to get raped. I asked a few girlfriends but no one was willing to join me. In desperation, I called up a male escort service and asked what it would cost to have a young man pretend to be my date and look out for me for the evening.

The fee was $200. Aghast, I asked the secretary, “Is there a discount if I don’t fuck him?” The answer was no. Then and there, I dropped the notion of visiting Plato’s Retreat. I did something else for my birthday that was far less memorable.

Skip ahead another ten years, to my fortieth birthday. This was a bad one for me emotionally. We had a celebration, there was a cake, but I was in a dreadful mood. If I had PMS I don’t remember it but I do remember feeling like my youth was gone and now it would be nothing but a downhill slide. I felt old, or at least middle-aged. Bruce was trying to cheer me up but I would not be cheered up. I was miserable and I acted it. That birthday was spent in a cloud of gloom.

Three years later, I had the worst birthday yet, but it was a turning point in my life. In late 1997 I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I had a mastectomy and recovered well. But on December 22^nd I had a bone scan that turned up a mass in my left femur. On Christmas Eve, we visited the oncologist and he told me it looked as if I had metastatic cancer in my leg and that if that’s what it was, it was a question of how long it would take me to die. I wanted to answer, “Yeah, and Merry Christmas to you too,” but I was too devastated to crack a joke. I couldn’t even eat at the Christmas party we attended that night. My throat closed and I could barely force any food down.

Bruce wanted to take me to dinner for my birthday but I couldn’t face the thought of any kind of celebration. It seemed my life was over and there was nothing to look forward to. When I tried to imagine my future I saw nothing, just darkness. I refused to go out to dinner, but I knew we would have to do something. I asked myself what I would be willing to do for this birthday and the answer came back to me, “Go see Richard.”

Richard was a friend from the Ethical Culture Society, and he’d already been a blessing, calling me up every other day and sending me information about alternative treatments for cancer. I felt if there was any right place to be, it was at Richard’s apartment. Richard was struggling with his own demons, terminally ill with hepatitis that had destroyed three quarters of his liver. Yet he was the head of the Society’s Caring Committee and when he was no longer able to get out and make visits he would call and do his best to cheer the congregation’s shut-ins.

So I called him and said, “Richard, tomorrow is my birthday and I would be honored if you would let me spend it with you.” Richard was delighted. His nephews had visited him for Christmas but the next day was a lonely one for him. Although I was still very frightened and remained terrified until I got a good report on a biopsy in February, visiting Richard made me feel better. We were both in trouble, in the same boat as far as I could see, and we were supporting each other. Richard was the one person who could say, “You’re going to be fine,” and I would not feel he was making light of my worries. People who had no idea sometimes said, “I know how you feel,” but when Richard said it he was right on target and I knew it.

I can’t tell you what we talked about that day but I can tell you that I knew the little voice that spoke to me and told me to go and see him on my birthday steered me right.

Ever since that birthday, yes, I have felt old sometimes, but birthdays are a celebration again. Now I feel that every birthday is a chance to stick my tongue out at Death and say, “You see? I’m still here, and you’re just gonna have to wait!”

My fiftieth birthday was a great celebration, marred only by news of the tsunami that struck that day. This time I was taking no chances with a major milestone. I asked Bruce to make sure I had a party. I gave him a list of people to invite and he got a group together to come to my party. It was at home. I like giving parties at home. This time I didn’t do much cooking since it was a special milestone birthday. We must have ordered some food in; whatever it was, it was good. The company was lively and varied, friends from elementary school, from my single days, and from the Ethical Culture Society. Everyone mingled well and there were three or four conversations going on at once. I meandered between them and also helped myself to chips and dip as well as the main dishes. This was probably my happiest birthday so far because I asked for a party and got exactly what I wanted. Maybe that is the secret of birthdays, just as it is the secret of so many other things. Know what you want and make it happen, and you’ll have a day to remember.