A Perfect Score

I turned 40 last week. I have finally achieved a perfect score. I apparently don’t look my age, which is so nice to hear from person after person after person. I have had guesses from 22 to 32 and back to 26. I’ll take all of them! My ego certainly hasn’t suffered any.

I felt some sadness during the days leading up to the big day, of course, when I remembered morning birthday cards Chris left on the table for me, sometimes accompanied by a box of four Godiva chocolates (which I always split with him), sometimes not. Chocolates are delicious, but the truth is that I never cared the years the card sat alone, awaiting my excited gasp as I emerged from our bedroom, another year older…but not much wiser. Wisdom wasn’t born in me until after Chris’ death.

I missed him last Wednesday. I tortured myself with the numbers game and other such imaginings. He would have been 36 by now. We would have been married almost three and half years. We might have owned a home. We would probably be out toasting to another year of life for me, another year of togetherness for us. He would have told me he was proud of me, just for turning another year. Chris was constantly proud of me for all the little nothings I accomplished. I’m forty. I’m carrying on. There is no doubt in my mind that he’s proud.

Carol and Robby had planned to take me to dinner on Friday evening to celebrate my passage into the next decade. As Friday neared, I began to become very moody, wanting to go one minute and wanting to cancel, the next. Admittedly, they were driven crazy by my anxiety. “Pain in the ass” is the verbiage they used to describe my onset of seemingly dissipating enthusiasm. They were acting weird, though, and their secrecy was throwing me off. I began to feel nervous and experience even more anxiety about the evening’s events. My friends were a bit baffled by the distrust I seemed to be displaying.

Nonetheless, Carol picked me up at 6:45 at my house and drove to Tamarind House in Porter Square. As we approached the doors, much to my surprise and delight, I recognized Meira through the glass window. I was glad she came. I thought that was it, but my friends kept delaying the food ordering. The fact that the three of us were seated at a table for six, along my natural talent for sleuthing, told me we were expecting others. They weren’t talking, though, so we sat, I sipped wine, we devoured appetizers and before long, my friend Linda walked through the doors and not long after that, Rodney appeared before me. Six of us sat and ate dinner, laughing, talking and enjoying the food and drink. I love my friends and I felt loved by all of them.

The next day, in an effort to understand my reaction to the surprise, specifically my inability to sit back and allow my friends to design the celebration, I realized that what bothered me about not knowing what the evening held was a basic lack of control I felt. Then I realized that the last time I felt out of control was during and after Chris’ illness and death. And one by one, as each friend appeared in the restaurant before me, I realized the similarities between my birthday celebration and my and Chris’ wedding day. Meira even bought the cake, just as she did for our wedding dinner. And just like on my wedding day, I felt I endured a self-imposed responsibility to keep everyone entertained

I haven’t really celebrated my birthday since Chris died. Not really. Not like I used to. This year I did really celebrate, with the help of my friends. The same old grief-fog faded in and out throughout the course of the evening. The anxiety I had felt before and during dinner was nothing more than a grief-reaction, come back to haunt me.

I guess “firsts” can come even after two and a half years. All things considered, my birthday celebration with my friends has been the best first, yet.

I’m a lucky woman.