23. Hardest Birthday Ever (Warning: Tissues Needed)
For the past year I’ve been breaking out in tune, singing the first few words of The Beatles song, When I’m Sixty-Four. I’ve driven my family crazy, and have enjoyed every minute of doing so. After receiving the news, I became obsessed with having my last Christmas, and my 64th birthday, and another New Year celebration. As I inched closer and closer to the holiday season, I felt more and more sure I’d be getting them. And when I heard that Don and Denise were making the trip north, my anticipation of milestone celebrations turned into sheer excitement at seeing them.
I sort of missed the fact that after their visit, they would be leaving — and I’d never be seeing them again. That realization inched into my consciousness on Christmas Day, and then banged full-force on the morning of my 64th birthday.
I woke late, barely sipped my morning brew, and sort of settled into a funk. And when deep melancholy tried to take over, I pushed it back so I’d be able to enjoy the gathering set for 2 PM. The expended energy it took to keep from breaking left me fatigued and with a pounding headache.
And when I watched my 86 year-old mom slog the walkway all slump-shouldered, and needing help getting into my home by my sister who was lugging presents wrapped in festive birthday paper, it took all I had to keep a stiff upper lip.
And when Don and Denise walked through my front door, the one they’d be leaving forever later that day, I discreetly popped the Xanax I desperately needed.
A little background. My mother was an expert knitter in her day. There was never a time when the sound of her metal knitting needles hitting one another wasn’t heard upon entering her home. She made hats, scarves, and mittens in a matter of minutes, and pullover and zippered sweaters in a matter of hours. But, her trademark creations — her Irish knit, cable-stitch blankets took months to make and when finished, they were works of art.
Mom had barely seated herself in my home, when she got up and dragged an oversized bag my way. “I intended to leave this for you, Sheryll Anne upon my passing, but.”
She kissed my head and was helped to her seat by someone. I don’t really know because my eyes filled and I willingly jumped into the black hole of nothingness in my head — the place I escape to when things get really hard to handle. And at that moment, I needed to escape, and since I am not allowed to walk, run, or shuffle away from anything, I sat there with a blank look on my face and leapt into the mental abyss.
I heard myself say things like, “Oh, Mom. It’s beautiful. Look at the cable-stitch. This is amazing.” But on the inside I was hearing the echo of my silent scream, “Oh. My. God. This is the saddest thing. This must be killing my mother.”
I pushed the tears deep.
And when Marjorie gave me a crate full of LPs that had been missing for decades the sadness ebbed a bit — until she explained how she spent hours in her spider-filled attic looking for them because she had a feeling my treasures were there.
Some more background. Marjorie and I shared a room when we were kids. Every night, I’d plop into bed, prop my head on my arm and get ready for the nightly show.
Marjorie, my kid sister, the one with golden, wavy hair and sapphire-blue eyes to die for, would enter the room, step to her bed, fold down her quilt, then her blanket, then her sheets and do an inspection for the dreaded spiders she thought might have found their way into her place of slumber.
After a good shaking of the linen and an eyeball inspection from corner to corner and top to bottom, she would put the sheet, blanket and quilt back into place and begin the tucking process. Inch by inch she moved down both sides and across the bottom of her twin bed tucking the cloth-wares nice and tight. Then she’d sit her ass on her pillow, put her lower extremities under the top ridge of tucked things and commence the wriggling into her cocoon.
As soon as she settled, she’d cross her arms over her chest and breathe a sigh of accomplishment. I particularly enjoyed the evenings when she forgot to turn off the overhead light and had to drag her ass from bed and start the process a.l.l. o.v.e.r. A.g.a.i.n.
So, the fact that Marjorie spent hours where spiders congregate looking for LPs that I’d long-ago given up hope of ever finding is beyond touching.
I pushed back the tears.
And when my mother and sister made a hasty retreat from my home — supposedly because they didn’t want to overstay their welcome — I knew IT was coming. IT began when Denise got up and put on her coat. The room silenced. I stood from my recliner and waited for her goodbye hug. She said her “I love you,” and stepped away. We didn’t look at one another when we parted. And I tried not to look at Don when he approached, but I couldn’t help myself. By the time he reached me his eyes were full of tears.
My brother is a strong man, but he is a tender-hearted man, as well. There have been occasions when I’ve seen his tears form, but there have been very few times when I’ve seen his tears flow. He held them tight when he wrapped me in his arms and whispered how much he loved me. It took a good minute for us to end our embrace.
I watched him exit my home and plopped onto my recliner — without a single thought I might fracture my ass. Within seconds, he was back inside my house and I was once again in his arms. This time he let his tears fall as he walked away.
I insisted Tim help me to the door so I could watch Don and Denise leave — what I saw was my brother helping his sobbing wife into their truck, then leaning himself against it before getting in. He pulled the truck forward and parked. He flashed his lights to me and I flashed the house lights to him, and then he backed off the driveway and drove away.
I didn’t bother trying to push back the tears.
I had a horrible headache that night and couldn’t settle myself at all. Tim stayed up late with me and tried to distract me from the emotional tsunamis that came and went. And when it seemed as though my sadness was losing its battle to sleepiness, he kissed my head and went to bed.
The next morning, he came downstairs and found me typing away. “What are you doing?”
“Writing a blog.”
He scoffed and asked, “Oh, God, what did I do wrong now?”
I cracked up laughing — really laughing — the kind of laugh that has marked our lives together.
Our wonderful lives together.
As for Don and Denise, last I heard they were packing their truck with Christmas loot, and two very heavy hearts.