Blue birthday

Today is my birthday.

I was born on this date 46 years ago, a 7-pound-6-ounce 22-1/2 inch mini version of the bean pole I would become. The doctors smacked my butt, pointed me toward the formula bottle, and the rest is history.

This year, however, there is something overshadowing my usual tolerant acceptance of the family festivities. It took me awhile to figure out what the problem is…I tossed and turned much of last night due to a really sneaky, foggy, malevolent feeling about today. I realized when I was taking a shower this morning from whence the feeling originates – this will be the first birthday I’ve observed without my mother.

It hit me like a ton of bricks.

The shower was the private, dark place last February where I finally broke down and admitted to myself that my mother was going to die. In the shower, you must understand, no one can see you cry. So it should come as no surprise that my satori about the source of my current funk should occur there.

You see, birthdays were very important to my mother, and to most mothers I imagine. Christmases, Easters and Halloweens might come and go, but birthdays were where Mom’s emotional capital was invested. Troubles might come and go, but come your birthday, you always knew Mom was truly grateful for your existence. You unfailingly got a telephone call that morning (and perhaps the night before as well), a card and a clothing present. Even last year, when I had to remind my family two days after my birthday that it had occurred, mom remembered and called.

There will be no call this year. It will be sorely missed.

My father, also I think haunted by his own demons of melancholy on this date, dropped off a birthday present last night and bolted from the house, refusing an invitation to stay for dinner and some pre-birthday cake. He called today to wish me happy birthday, but it wasn’t the same.

So, my 46^th birthday sees me sad, a little lonely and a little blue. Time moves on, but not for everyone, it seems, and the fact is that I’ll have to get used to celebrating each year of my life without the woman responsible for my existence. And I’ll have to content myself with the best wishes of family and friends for continued good health – but I don’t think I’ll ever stop longing for that yearly phone call from someone who proudly proclaimed my very existence as one of her two greatest accomplishments.