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!!