44

I've rarely cared that much about my birthday. I'm glad I was born, but it wasn't really a personal accomplishment, and it's kind of an arbitrary day, in that I don't age any faster during this 24-hour period than I do any other day. But it is still my birthday, and therefore, in this culture, laden with some expectation and the likelihood of disappointment. So I've typically played it down, all the better to be pleased by love and attention.

This year, I've been dreading the day. It's loaded with memories, and now with meaning. While time stopped for me last July, the clocks have continued to hum (well, except for the ones that actually did stop after Sandy died) and the calendar pages have continued to turn. Sunrise, sunset; summer, fall, winter, spring, and soon summer again. The campanula dominated the yard when Sandy was in the hospital; it's just started blooming. And now that I've achieved a new age, it's patently clear that I'm moving forward, too. Despite my resistance. Despite my desire to freeze myself and my environment at a point in the world that Sandy knew well. I have no choice, and that makes me grumpy.

As we close in on the anniversary of Sandy's death, I'm running out of initial milestones: my name day, her birthday, Vividcon, Thanksgiving, our anniversary, Christmas Eve, New Year's Eve, the six-month marker, etc. What remains now are the anniversaries of her final decline, starting with the pain that followed radiation on June 15th and ending with her last breath just after the clock's transition to Tuesday, July 19. There are also specific things I haven't done yet, places I haven't gone, friends I haven't seen, tasks I haven't accomplished; those will continue to occur long after the first anniversary, I'm sure.

Last year, my birthday was a lovely oasis in the middle of the desert of pain and nausea that had been so erratic and so frustrating. Sandy felt good, so I felt good. Energized and optimistic, we walked down Madison to Cafe Flora, a well-known vegetarian restaurant that we'd enjoyed many times over the years. Its quality had wavered at times, with staffing changes, so we were delighted to thoroughly enjoy our meal, savoring every bite as we mooned over each other. We indulged in affection and romance that evening. I don't remember the exact words we said, but we talked about how far we'd come, how much we adored each other, and how truly lucky we were. Life was good.

Madison is steep, so we walked over to the bus stop in front of Bailey Boushay House, and the bus rolled up just after we arrived. It was just a bus stop that night, the same one we'd waited at many times, individually and together. It was the bus stop Sandy used to visit her acupuncturist across the street; it was also across the street from the pet food store, and just up the block from the garden store. We knew Bailey Boushay well from the outside; we'd supported it in the past with financial contributions and had volunteered to help weed its gardens. Neither of us had ever been in the building, to my knowledge, and we had no idea that Sandy would die there six and a half weeks later.

Oblivious to our fate, still basking in the good feeling of our evening even as Sandy's pain started creeping back in, we rode the bus up the hill and walked several blocks home. There was an envelope in the mailbox that I hadn't seen when we left; I'd already taken in the mail for the day. The envelope had my name on it, with an exclamation point. Puzzled, I looked at Sandy; it was her handwriting. "You?" I asked. She just shrugged and unlocked the door. The card itself said, "You were born! Sandy says yay." She'd slipped the card into the mailbox as we left for dinner, and she was understandably proud of herself — I was usually the one who sent her on ahead while I locked the door.

That was the last card she gave me. Earlier in the day, she'd left me a note on the kitchen counter that said, "I love you, this 43rd anniversary of your fabulous birth, and here's to us both having many, many more." That note, scrawled on scrap paper with a Sharpie, heartened me. It meant she wasn't giving up yet, that she wanted to stick around. I believed then that if she wanted to live, she would, so any time she said something that made it clear that she wanted to keep fighting, I was reassured.

Sandy loved prezzies, so I always tried to find her gifts that
would make her eyes light up. Sometimes I was successful;
other times, not so much. One of the things I've found
challenging since she died is keeping myself from buying
things I think she'd like, whether it's an Asian pear or chunk
of high-quality salmon at the grocery store or a book or bike
accessory or exercise gadget or any number of things.
They're not things I want, and it saddens me to realize
that anything I buy for Sandy is just going to end up with me.

I've thought today about my birthdays past and how Sandy recognized them. Larger gifts including my blender, the quilt for our bed, the ice cream maker; smaller gifts: fancy pens and random office supplies, cookbooks from restaurants we'd visited when we traveled, the screenplay and soundtrack to Urinetown, which we'd just seen and loved. Dinners out, and dinners in. Kayaking together, as we often did on either of our birthdays. Cards and notes and emails; flowers. When I look back at all of it, the gifts I cherish the most now are that silly card in the mailbox last year and her vow the year before.

In 2010, she was stressed that she didn't have a gift for me, given all that had been going on around her diagnosis and new treatment. I told her I didn't care about gifts, but then she came up with the best one I could have asked for: she agreed to try any treatment that didn't hurt her. She'd try therapy and guided imagery, nutritional supplements and herbs recommended by her oncology naturopath, yoga and meditation, Reiki, and all the allopathic options as long as they didn't make life unbearable. She'd be a full and willing partner in her treatment. This at a time that she was utterly miserable and had said, lying in pain on the sofa, unable to breathe, "If my days are like this, I don't think I need many more days." I loved my gift, and she kept her promise. Last year, when she said she once again didn't have a gift for me, I suggested she renew the previous one and she readily agreed.

A year ago, I was scared and often frustrated as we tried to manage and explain her pain, nausea, and constipation. I was exhausted, and I wanted answers. But we were looking forward to getting through radiation, getting to a new chemo regimen, and finding a new normal as we continued the path to a cure.

A year ago, I turned 43 and Sandy was physically with me. Today, I turned 44, and she's been dead nearly a year. She's still with me much of the time, and I'm hugely grateful for that. But I want more. I want her smile, her laugh, her embrace.

I've chosen to be without living company today, uncertain of what would give me comfort and what would just leave me irritable. Over the past few weeks, I've asked Sandy multiple times to do something for me today, but I've also known that I'm just setting myself up for disappointment. In her current milieu, she doesn't seem to have any awareness of time as we know it, so I've no idea whether my birthday holds any significance for her. This morning, I opted to give myself a gift; I decided that everything that gave me joy I'd attribute to Sandy, whether I really believed she had anything to do with it or not. When I walked through beautiful blue petals strewn across a sidewalk, I thanked her for the flowers. I searched strains of music from car radios as they passed me for meaning. Nada's neediness when I returned home from my errands was him channeling Sandy's affection. It's an unconvincing game — Sandy's not subtle in her communications, so none of these were likely to be her — but it had the desired effect: I paid attention to moments of joy.

Thank you to those who have been thinking about me today, expressed or not. While it's Sandy I want, it's the love and support of friends and family that has made this awful path more bearable as I mark each milestone.