My Birthday Cake

I ordered an extra large birthday cake to celebrate my 85th. Large enough for residents, their relatives, and staff to have seconds.

It was to be the size of a third of a card table. I chose the icing to be pink, orange, and purple flowers, and a candle of the same colors.

When I saw it in person for the first time I was astounded. It was spectacular and the birthday candle shimmered in the dining room lights.

My two sons, my grandson, and my daughter-in-law Laura joined me in admiring it, but then a waitress came to the table. She was crying—literally!

Over sobs we heard her saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry about?”

“Your cake is ruined!”

“It looks fine to me.”

“We had it all set up. Everything was perfect on the table, the napkins, the silver, the ice bucket for wine, the cake, and we went back to the kitchen. But then as I came down the hallway, I saw a woman grab a fork and take a piece, and begin to eat it.”

I told her, “No! You can’t do that. That’s Barbara‘s birthday cake. The woman wasn’t convinced. It took another waitress to convince her before she walked away.”

I said, “I can’t see anything wrong.”

“Look at it carefully. There are the marks that she made with the fork.”

I said, “I don’t see any missing piece.”

“I took it out the piece and scrunched it together, so it wouldn’t look so bad.”

The director of food services had ordered the best Sauvignon Blanc and the best bourbon.

My family stood up and toasted my 85th!

The news had just come in that Biden had bowed out of the election race.

They all stood up again.

“Here’s to Mom on her 85th, and to President Biden for his humility and graciousness!”

Cheers all around!

Then the staff and the residents sang Happy Birthday, and I tried to blow out the candles. For some reason there were three candles. On my first try no luck.

Then Steve held me up so I could be on the same level as the candles.

On the second try nothing.

And then finally, the second candle went out. At this point, everyone was cheering, “You can do it, you can do it!”

At last, all the candles were extinguished. Shortly after we adjourned to an adjacent room where I opened my gifts. My two sons, my daughter-in-law Laura, and my grandson Theo gave me beautiful and useful items. Katee, who couldn’t be there because her birthday is the same as mine, always wraps gifts perfectly. But when I looked at the two that Steve had brought with him, I saw they were sealed with shipping tape!

I looked at Steve, and said “Did you wrap these?”

He said, “Oh Mom, neither of them would pass through security. The guard took his knife and split open the boxes. He kept tearing them open more and more to examine what was inside. The Chief Security Guard asked what the problem was. I told him it was a gift for my mom’s birthday.

The guard asked, “How old is she?”

Steve responded, “She’s turning 85.”

One of the gifts was a hard pouch to hold eyeglasses, with a steel base to hold it upright. The other was a mid-size night light, decorated with a hummingbird sipping from a morning glory blossom. The box also contained two batteries which rattled around. As this process went on, Steve heard the last call for his flight!

The chief said to the guard, “I don’t think this young man would be bringing anything dangerous to give to his 85-year-old mother.”

Steve said, “Thank you very much. How can I hold these together until I get to my gate?”

With that, the chief tossed him a roll of shipping tape.

We were all laughing about this, and I said to the waiter, “Please give that group of men sitting over there some of my cake.”

The cake was a checkerboard, so that a person could have all vanilla, all chocolate, or some of each. Knowing that they all love chocolate, I said, “Make it a double portion.”

Four women who also really love chocolate sat nearby. They ate theirs quickly and I said, “There’s plenty, come over and take some back to your apartments.”

The waiter did a beautiful job balancing a double portion of cake into the to-go boxes.

One woman said, “I want a double-double of double chocolate cake.”

“Can somebody do the math? How many pieces is that!” the waiter asked.

We all cheered, and Renee took the cake back to the kitchen.

The next morning, I gave the kitchen staff a list of all the people that I had promised a piece of my cake.

After my lunch, I said, “Please bring those to me now and I will deliver them.”

The same waitress who solved the cake problem the night before came out. She literally went down on her knees.

I asked, “What’s wrong?”

She said, “There’s no cake!”

I said, “How could there not be cake? There was a mammoth amount left last night!”

She said, “This is what happened. The waiter and I put the cake on the rolling cart to take it into the elevator to the basement where there’s a freezer. Only the staff are allowed to use that elevator, but a guest made a mistake and when he opened the door, the cart started to roll out. The waiter and I grabbed the box, trying to keep it upright, but it slid off and fell right onto the person!”

I said, “Oh my god! Isn’t there even a tiny piece I can give as a sample to my friends?”

She shook her head, and said “No, there’s not even a crumb.”

My Father's Hands

In the musical, Carousel, Bobbie Bigalow, during his one day leave from Purgatory,

has his wish granted to see his wife, Julie, living a good life on earth.

When he does appear, unseen by everyone else, Julie knows he’s there by her side.

When I lived in Manhattan many years ago on weekend days, I’d get up about 5:00, grab a cup of coffee, and head to Central Park. There I’d enter at 72nd Street, head north, walking fast, skirt by the Sailboat Basin to 103rd Street, about forty blocks, more if you counted the blocks from East 71st to the entry to Central Park.

There were frustrations as I strode through the park—dogs fighting, angrily barking, folks talking on their cellphones, but when I entered the Conservatory Garden at 101st Street all was peaceful. It was my haven. I left all my worries and frustrations behind when I stepped through the beautifully decorated tall cast-iron gates.

As usual I turned left and headed toward the Wildflower Glade, stopping on the way to pick up my second cup of coffee and a donut.

As I leaned forward and up to pay the cashier, I suddenly felt lightheaded and stumbled back. A kind stranger righted me and with the help of a second stranger guided me to a bench.

They called a security guard over.

“Should I call 911?” she asked.

“No. No, thanks. If you could help me to the street where I can catch a cab, I’ll be fine.”

With the help of a second security guard they got me up the steep, uneven steps, called a cab, and helped me in.

“Where to?” the cab driver asked. “I can’t hear you, speak up!”

I leaned forward as far as I could and gave him my address.

“You don’t look good,” he said.

When we drew up to the entry of my building, he tapped his horn twice and signaled to the doorman.

The doorman opened the door and went to help me out. I couldn’t move. He signaled to the other doorman.

“I think we should call 911.”

I shook my head No.

They helped me to the elevator, and one helped me to my door.

I grabbed the walls to keep up upright as I struggled to get to my son’s room where I collapsed onto the bed.

I wished I had my cell with me now. I hadn’t carried it with me that day, fearing I’d be mugged.

There was no way for me to get to the master bedroom where I knew my husband was still sleeping. I slumped down and rested my head on a hard bolster pillow. I had a terrible headache, and my chest hurt.

I was always told by my family, friends, and my doctors, that I just needed to relax.

A few years later after going through extensive tests, I was told that it had nothing to do with my state of mine, but rather it was my anatomy.

The heart is like a battery, if the electrical wires don’t connect properly the battery misfires and the car doesn’t move, but just sits there shuddering.

My cardiac electrical wires were very close together, and physical stress could cause one to hit the other, causing the heart to beat at an alarming rate. I could have died with any one or those beats.

But, of course, I didn’t know that. I tried relaxing. Nothing. I began to pray. I didn’t want to die alone. I began to cry. My crying turned to sobs.

Then I felt someone behind me, and a hand touched my shoulder.

It was my father. He’d never been a consoling man in my life. That fell to my mother and sisters. And he had died decades earlier, no longer able to criticize or comfort.

“Don’t be afraid. Whether you live or die,” he said and rubbed my right shoulder. He kept his hand resting there.

I relaxed, and soon fell asleep.

I woke when my husband, concerned that I hadn’t returned from my walk, opened the door.

He came around, and took my hands.

“Your left hand is cold, but your right is warm! How can that be? And there’s a dent in that pillow! Who’s been here?”

I started to say, Dad, but thinking how weird that would sound, I said, “I’m not sure. Would you please get me a glass of water?”

Adjusting to a New Life

In 2014, my husband of forty-six years died; in 2019 I had one terrible fall and then in 2022 I had another, breaking my back. After that, I left my longtime home in Manhattan to move into an assisted living facility in Bethesda, Maryland, in August 2022, when I was eighty-three. At the time, I knew all the stereotypes about assisted living: a place where people sit in rocking chairs, staring blankly into space. But the reality I found here was very different. In my assisted-living facility, I’ve made friends, built community, and learned so much from the other residents and staff. I knew I’d tolerate living here, but I quickly grew to love it.

My experience has taught me that aging is more complicated than people who have not yet had the opportunity might think. As I learned sitting in the dining room, overhearing my fellow residents’ conversations and taking notes on my cellphone, elderly people are not all the sweet white-haired old ladies you might believe. Pettiness, cliques, and rivalries are as rampant here as in any high school cafeteria, and people can be jerks. Meanwhile, however, the bonds of friendship and community sustain us, and as was true for me, many old people use the extra free time of retirement to develop creative practices that can keep them going even when things are difficult.

We are living in the undeniable presence of death. The ambulance visits regularly, and then everyone gossips in the dining room about who went, how they went, and who might be next. This constant reminder can be inspiring, terrifying, and sometimes mundane. After all, everyone, regardless of age, lives in the presence of death—old people are just more honest about it.

Around and Around

For the last ten months I’ve been a resident in an Independent Living Facility in Bethesda, MD.

Last week in the dining room, one of the residents, Sue Ann, dressed elegantly in a black-and-white checked Chanel summer jacket, rolls up to our table on her hospital-issued walker.

“May I join you?”

“Sorry, this table only seats four. The staff won’t allow us to add another chair.”

“Right on!” she says as she turns her walker around and rolls away. A few minutes later she’s back.

“Can you make room for me?”

“No, sorry.”

She shows no sign of any frustration or rancor.

My tablemates look back and forth at each other in mutual sympathy.

“We complain when we have to wait a little while for our food. We could learn from Sue Ann,” I say.

All the while Sue Ann stands, leaning on her walker. Doesn’t move.

“Try over there, by the window. Virginia is sitting alone at that table for two.”

I instinctively point to the place, forgetting that Sue Ann can only see a few feet away.

After being prodded by a waitress, Sue Ann looks toward that general area, and then—taking the longest possible route—goes to the end of the dining room, and circles around to Virginia’s table.

I watch as Sue Ann and Virginia talk. Virginia shakes her head No. Sue Ann begins to park her walker. Virginia shakes her head “No” vehemently.

Obviously, Virginia is expecting a guest.

Sue Ann nods, and I lip read, “Right on!”

She heads toward the area at the other end of the room where eight men sit discussing politics with vigor. She stands patiently until an arm thrown out in excitement hits her walker.

I hear one of the men say, “Sorry. No room.”

At this point, I lose track of Sue Ann as I turn my attention to my dinner.

One of my companions asks, “Do you think Sue Ann has found a place?”

Looking around, I answer, “I don’t see her; my view is fully blocked now.”

The four of us are silent for a few moments.

“You know,” I say, “Sue’s wandering could be an analogy for our days here. Each day we circle from our apartment to the dining room, then to the activity room, then to our apartment and back to the dining room, on and on we circle until we retire for the night.”

We remain silent as our plates are cleared.

As I leave the dining room, I pass Sue Ann sitting comfortably at a banquette enjoying a dish of her favorite strawberry ice cream.

“I’m glad you found a nice spot,” I tell her.

“Enjoy your evening!” I add.

“Right on!” she answers.

Later that afternoon, Sue Ann is sitting on the bench by the eighth-floor elevator waiting to go down to her apartment.

Luigi, one of the staff members, approaches.

“How are you today my beautiful lady?”

“Not lady. I’m no lady.”

“Ok, my beautiful Maryland gal.”

“Not Maryland. I don’t live here!”

“What would make you happy on this lovely afternoon?”

“I want to go home!”

“This is your home now, your family brought you here to live near them. Oh, I remember, it’s one of those M states.”

“Montana? No, Missouri?”

“Not Missouri!! Mississippi!!”

“Should we go on a road trip? I’ll drive because you’ll be too slow. Take too long!!” Luigi teases her.

“No, you won’t! I’ll do the driving!!”

The elevator door opens. Luigi escorts Sue Ann in.

“I’ll escort you to your apartment now, while you’re resting you can think about what you’ll need to pack.”

“Right on!” Sue Ann responds.

Your Shirt Matches

Many years ago it was arranged for me to meet a young woman who my son, Peter, was dating.

The young woman was going to spend some time in India. My friend thought that I’d be able to give her advice from my travels there following my stint in the Peace Corps.

The young woman and I agreed to meet at an Indian restaurant in Midtown. It was opulent, decorated with brass platters and samovars. I arrived first and was standing on the restaurant’s beautiful burgundy-colored carpet.

When she arrived, before either of us had even said hello, I blurted out, “Look! Your sweater matches the carpet!”

When I told Peter about this, he hit his forehead, and said, “Oh, Mom! You didn’t!”

As years went by this became a catch phrase, not only within our family, but also with my friends.

Sweaters matched eyes, earrings matched tee shirts, jackets matched sunsets, coats matched stormy skies.

One time my younger son, Steve, slid his Bronco off the side of a mud road. After great effort with me driving and him pushing, I looked at him as he slid behind the wheel and said, “Your blue shirt splashed with all that mud matches the sides of your truck!”

Now here in my independent living facility, beautiful white hair matches the crisp white of tablecloths and napkins.

The healing blue and purple of a black eye matches the tie-dye blotches on a tee shirt.

The bright pink braids of a waitress matches the rich pink of a cashmere sweater.

And, of course, blouses match sunsets.

A few weeks ago on February 14, I’d tossed on a tee shirt for an early physical therapy appointment. I kept it on for the day as I worked unpacking boxes that had just been delivered from storage.

I hurried to the dining room and was dismayed to see that it was adorned in red: flowers, balloons, napkins, the works. And, the residents were resplendent in shades of red.

My dear friend, Vicky, and her husband are doing a tour of Latin America. We correspond by text. Wanting to relieve my angst a little, I texted her explaining the situation with a photo of me sitting at the table.

Her reply?  “Your yellow shirt matches the carpet!”

Last year a few days after I’d broken my back, my doctor said I had to go to the hospital immediately. There the ER doctors gave me unimaginable news. I might not see another day.

My daughter-in-law had sat with me until Peter could arrive. He’d been working thirty hours straight, and she‘d insisted that before he drove over he had to change his shirt.

There wasn’t room in the narrow space for three people and my bed so my daughter-in-law stepped out and Peter, after asking the nurse if he could disconnect the beeping vital-signs machine sidled his way around the equipment to my side.

What would I say to him, in this perhaps the last time we would see each other?

He smiled and leaned in close. I looked up and said, “Did you plan it? Your shirt matches my paper hospital gown.”

A Dream Represents Reality

I was beyond exhaustion. This was the last few hours in my apartment of 54 years.

I’d been packing up essential things to take to my new Independent Living facility. This followed six long weeks of getting rid of clothes, prized jewelry, business papers, old letters and even older tax returns!  

But the most important, and the hardest part, had been sorting through my books. The facility could take a few for their library, and my apartment could hold maybe ten. So, I needed to whittle perhaps a thousand books down to only twenty. 

Each time I thought I’d finished, that I was almost through, I’d find another row behind the first row of books or a small box hidden under a larger box. 

The day had finally arrived!

With the help of my son Steve and his wife, Katee, I was to leave my home of so many years.

As they packed up the luggage carts to carry my things down to the car, I tried to neaten up the place a bit, but it was impossible. 

There were stacks of dishes on the table, bags containing my clothes, piles of books, all taken out of boxes that we couldn’t get into the car. 

Shelves that once held perfectly placed books and travel artifacts were now stuffed with things that Steve and my other son, Peter, had yet to claim.

Near the window, garbage bags containing clothes were piled so high that Steve had to lean far forward and reach hard to turn the last lamp off.

When I looked at the rooms for the last time, the place was such a disaster, it didn’t feel so hard to walk out the door.

The trip down to Maryland was hard, especially because the hour that we’d planned to leave was long past. Even though the traffic wasn’t that bad, we didn’t arrive at the hotel we were staying at until 10:30 p.m.

Unloading essential items from the big SUV and placing things where I needed them for my single-night stay at the hotel took a lot of time. I didn’t get into bed until midnight.

Even then, I didn’t sleep well. We were to check into my new facility between 10:00 and 11:00 the next morning. With that, there was no time for us to have a relaxing breakfast before getting to work.

My room at Brightview, now filled with boxes, seemed as strange as my messy apartment that I still thought of as home. 

Staff members filed in and out my room all day while my son and daughter-in-law worked hard to get my personal things into drawers and some paintings on the wall before they had to say goodbye.

I felt the need to escape. I went to the dining room.

When I returned, I was so exhausted, I didn’t have any trouble falling asleep. But I did have trouble staying asleep.

I had a very vivid dream that there was a globe outside my window, complete with rivers, continents, and oceans. All the borders were carefully delineated. At the top of it was a knob. Perhaps an Arctic iceberg, I thought.

I found a rubber band and tried to cast it around the iceberg. Again and again, I missed. I never was athletic. It was dark, and my night blindness made it even harder, adding to my list of deficiencies. On top of the globe were small figures. They were my New York friends.

I held on tight, but the globe moved farther and farther away from me. My friends tried to help, their hands reaching out to pull me back. The rubber band stretched to a thin strand.

I prayed that it would hold, even making the sign of the cross. 

The shapes of my friends grew smaller and smaller. Then I saw movement. What was that? They were waving. First one by one, and then all of them together.

Goodbye, Barbara, goodbye. Goodbye, dear friend. Goodbye!

With a snap so loud, I jumped and the bed springs rattled, the rubber band broke and fell to the ground in pieces.

New York was moving away and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

My cheeks felt wet. I brushed at them. They were wet.

“Was the window open?” My sleepy self wondered. 

“But the windows here don’t open.” My logical self reasoned.

The image was so strong that even when I fell asleep the second time, I awoke with the ominous feeling it was going to happen all over again.

I shook my head and waved my arms trying to wake fully.

I managed to stay awake until the first light of dawn. Holding the beautiful image of orange light shining through deep green leaves in my mind, at last, I slept. Readying myself to awaken and embrace my new life.

Birthdays to Remember

There are birthdays—and there are birthdays!

I have celebrated them thousands of miles from home or with my large family where I grew up in South Dakota.

Perhaps my birthday in 2020 during the early days of the pandemic was my loneliest.

Per the Covid rules in the large New York apartment building in which I live, I could have no visitors nor receive any packages. I couldn’t go downstairs to get the mail, and no flowers could be delivered. I received only a few short birthday wishes by phone, short because those well wishers were sick.

Six months ago I fell and broke my back so once again I was confined to my apartment.

But what a contrast this year’s birthday was with the one two years ago!

The day began when my younger son, Steve, and his wife Katee called me on FaceTime. Their glowing faces and wide smiles were the perfect way to start my next year.

I couldn’t pick up the second call, but when I had a chance I listened to the voicemail. It was my older son, Peter, spiritedly singing Happy Birthday in his mellow baritone.

Then began a flurry of texts from friends, and a call from my neighbor to wish me Happy Birthday and ask if I needed any help.

Yes, I did. She could help by taking a legal document downstairs to the administrative office to be notarized.

Next, was a phone call from a college friend that I let go to voicemail (I’d rather wait and have a better conversation). Other voicemails included one from my dentist, followed by another from an insurance agent who informed me that I'm eligible for a lower rate now that I'm 83!

When the building’s number popped up on the phone’s screen, I assumed it concerned the notary. But no, it was the handyman. There was a leak in the apartment above me, and he wanted to come up and check mine.

Sorry, this is not a good time, I said, raising my voice over my cell ringing again.

Then came a scam birthday call. I didn’t pick it up, but left it in blinking mode.

Another call from downstairs. I have flowers! I ask that they be brought up. Just as the man does so, my cleaning woman, Jessie, arrives. She puts the flowers in a vase and plumps them up. They are a gift from my son, Peter and his wife Laura.

 
I’ll be moving out of my apartment permanently in ten days, so Jessie and I continue the seemingly endless job of sorting what to keep and what to give away.

All the while, I keep trying to coordinate the signing by the notary.

Another call from the building. I have more flowers!

Jessie goes down to pick them up and get the mail. As I go through the mass of junk mail, the aroma of the two bouquets mingle, which made the job less burdensome.

Tucked within an application for a credit card, there’s a bright blue envelope. The return address is my longtime friend from childhood.  I don’t open it, saving it for a quieter time.

Another call labeled spam. I let it go.

The next morning with my first cup of coffee, I replay my messages.

Happy birthday from my congresswoman reminding me to vote in the upcoming primary. Another from a writing site, urging me to sign up for an online conference. No thank you, not until my second memoir is finished.

I smile as I listen to the third, the choir of the Native American Indian School that I sponsor singing the birthday song in English and Lakota!

Then I open the card from my friend.

I kick myself: I should have known! Over the years, each celebratory card she sends always contains tinny glitter, appropriate to the occasion.

The pieces fall out onto my lap, the sofa cushion, the floor, clinging to every surface. I open the envelope wide and try to contain them. They stick to the flap and the outside. I try to brush them back into the envelope.

A mistake! Now I have glitter stuck to my fingers, my Apple Watch, the sofa cushions, down my legs, and onto my feet!

I spend an hour trying to corral the shiny little things. One remains clinging to a toe.

It sparkles all evening and is still there in the morning. I take a photo to remind me of my fabulous 2022 birthday!!

Returning Home

After six decades of calling Manhattan home

I was preparing myself for saying goodbye to the city.

But as I was entering Manhattan recently, it hit me

That would be the last time I’d be seeing New York’s skyline in all its glory.

Innumerable times as a passenger in train, car, plane

I marveled at its beauty and the sheer outrageousness of it all.

Millions of pounds of weight thrust upon that small piece of ground

And that dainty bridge slung across the wide Hudson.

The day was cloudy, towers of light radiating through the gray.

But I’ve seen it muted by rain, a large Impressionistic masterpiece,

Or at night, one small rectangular painting.

And when in full sun, the glare from the mirrored buildings,

So bright I hurriedly raised my dark glasses.

On this last entry,

I’m incredibly sad, tears come to my eyes, clouding my vision,

Making it impossible to call out highway directions to the driver.

How ironic it would be if we crashed,

And that beauty was the last time I admired anything.