Blessing #3

Today is my birthday. My 64th birthday. And I guarantee you it will be the worst one ever. And I've had a few sad lonely birthdays in my time. But this is the first where I'm grieving for my wife Debbie, who passed away 9 weeks ago. 

But I'm not looking for a pity party. And I wouldn't blame you for scrolling by or even suspending your visits to this blog as I can see how the subject matter can be tiresome. But writers write. And this turns out to be the best therapy at the moment. 

So to counter the expected sadness, which is mine, not yours, I'd like to tell the story of my best birthday ever.

Some would suspect it was my 60th. Or I should say our 60th. As Deb and I decided to rent out the private upstairs patio at Rush Street in Culver and threw a little bash for ourselves. Even though the electricity was blown out that night we, about 75 of us, managed to have a rocking good time. Warmed by candles, someone with an iPhone + portable speaker, and the irreplaceable company of friends and family.

But the birthday I want to talk about happened a year later, my 61st, which also started with a calamity. 

Knowing I would be exceeding my daily caloric intake, with ribs, brisket and draft beer from Maple Block restaurant, I decided to hit the weights in my garage/gym. Unfortunately the weights hit back and I dropped a 25lbs. dumbbell on my finger, splitting it wide open and unleashing a gusher of blood like a newfound Texas oil well.

Deb, without even taking a look at it, said we should go to the ER.

I brushed off her advice and applied an ice pack and pressure, hoping the blood would stop staining the kitchen sink. It didn't. I decided to wash the wound with cold water. That's when I dared to look at the Grand Canyon in my finger. I could literally see bone. Or tendon. How was I supposed to know?

All I knew was Debbie was right. Again. I hated that. As well as the million other times that happened. She wasn't just my smart wife. She was my much-smarter-than-me wife. 

We jumped in the car and made a beeline to the Cedar Sinai Acute Care Center, just a half mile from the house. And because I was in immediate danger of going into shock or losing the finger, we jumped to the top of the triage list.

Once in the treatment room, Deb and I sat for the next 9 hours. My finger was poked and prodded by a team of nurses, physician's assistants, even their resident hand specialist, who knew with one look that it had to be stitched up, with the warning, "It's going to be extremely painful, but it's a good thing your wife brought you here." 

That was its own form of pain.

Deb looked at me and said, "what made you think you could just ignore this and put a bandaid on it?"

"At Syracuse, I got an A in Biology." 

She lightly punched me in my upper arm and smiled. It was a stupid joke. But she never failed to smile/laugh at it. Even when I would repeat it a thousand times when I would accompany her to all the doctor visits. 

I lived for that. The unspoken language of understanding. Of companionship. And shared love.

And that's what made that birthday, just a short three years ago, the absolute best. 

I spent the whole day in excruciating pain.

I spent the whole day making making her laugh.

I spent the whole day, my birthday, with my Debbie.