Surely Not Fifty!

I’ve never been one for birthdays. I have a terrible memory for dates and so hardly ever remember anyone's – my sister Jo being the exception, as she was born on February 29 on a leap year. I agonize about choosing gifts and always feel as though my choices are stupid, so I have given up and asserted “I don’t do birthdays” and give the people I love a phone call.

My own birthdays have historically been a fiasco. My dad’s birthday was November 25, and so sometimes we would have a “party” together. When I was seven, my mom hosted the kid’s party downstairs, complete with a home-baked pink elephant cake and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. My dad’s party was upstairs, complete with whiskey and firearms. My party came to a screeching halt when a gun went off and the bullet plowed through the upstairs floor, which was the ceiling above our seven year old heads. At least at that point they had a lick of sense and sent my friends home.

My next traumatic birthday was the November after my mom died. I had been sent to live with Auntie Hilda, and since I hadn’t made any friends yet, it was decided to round up my old friends from Ponoka and have a party with them. It was well intentioned but horribly awkward. The elephant in the room that year was the unspoken knowledge that my mother had been murdered.

A couple years later, when I was going to St. Mary’s Academy in Kansas, my birthday fell on the American Thanksgiving (as it does this year). To save time and fuss, the cooks at the school put a couple of candles on a pumpkin pie instead of baking a cake. When they came out of the kitchen with it, all the kids stopped singing “Happy Birthday” and burst out laughing. I felt humiliated.

By then I was pretty much done with celebrating my own birthday. I wanted no more parties, no more attention. But there was one last horror show. Grade 8, Ponoka Junior High, the first year I returned to public school. My birthday fell on a night that there was a school dance. I was new to public school and a total dork, and I was overwhelmed by the possibility of interacting with, talking to and maybe even touching boys. Add to the situation the loud music and flashing lights, and I was completely overstimulated. I was in this state when my first friend at that school had the D.J. announce a “Happy Birthday to Connie” and dedicate “Stairway to Heaven” to me. I froze as the spotlight searched for me and people turned to stare. I was so embarrassed that I ran out of the gym and walked all the way home in the dark alone. This unfortunate incident interfered with my ability to listen to any Led Zeppelin for years.

Awkward, insecure, living in more and more unstable situations and relationships, my birthdays became days to be avoided.

But this year I turned 50.

Fifty doesn’t seem real to me. Like many people, the age we feel is not grounded in reality. Sometimes we identify with a time in our lives when we are truly in our element, such as being a college student or parent. Often we feel stuck in the age of a developmental trauma - for me, sometimes I think I’m fourteen, seventeen, or twenty-one. Sometimes time is bend-y, and we can’t pinpoint how old we are...but surely not 50!

However, this year I’m owning my shit. I am 50 and proud of who I am. I worked my ass off to build the life that I have: a safe home, cherished family and friends, and meaningful work. It took 50 friggin’ years to finally hold up my head, laugh and accept the attention I get, even if it feels weird.

To mark this milestone, I wanted to get together with my three best girlfriends for a weekend getaway and finally introduce them in person to each other. COVID got in the way of that plan, but the lovelies surprised me with incredibly thoughtful gifts, including a swinging camping chair. I think I’m going to take it out to my favorite lake, have a fire, and burn my years of old journals. Burn down the past, because the next 50 years are going to be phenomenal.

RIP Simba Cat

My cat Simba died on November 5. My funny cat, my boy. I never met a cat with such a sense of humour, and we loved each other very much. It was unexpected…I’m not sure what happened, a neighbor found him. I couldn’t cry.

My husband cried, my daughter cried…I just took care of him, and felt empty when I went to bed.

Simba slept curled up behind my knees and thighs every night (thus the nickname, “Crotch”).

I would give him a kiss and pet every time I got out of bed, and sometimes he’d lick me and other times bite my nose (thus the nickname, “Bite-face”).

I have been having a hard time sleeping, missing his warmth, but I didn’t cry until I was alone with my other cat, Luna. Miss Lu is an aloof girl, but the other morning she uncharacteristically jumped up on the bed where I was laying, emotionally and physically paralyzed. She began meowing and snuggling and purring all over me. Oh boy, then I cried. Ugly-face, my-eyes-hurt cried.

Since then, I have been journaling about death. Moving back and forth between Reasonable Mind and Emotion Mind, the rational and the irrational. I am not unaware that death is a tricky concept. I have had an intimate awareness of death from a very early age, and I know that for me, experiencing death from violence and emotional illness had a specific impact on my value system and beliefs. 

Existentialism is a vast field of knowledge that addresses our conscious and unconscious awareness of death, and how this awareness influences individual and societal anxiety. Yet many people remain ignorant of death’s influence on their lives, until it is right up in their face with a personal loss. But death influences our emotions and choices more pervasively, in the everyday way we conduct ourselves, our value systems, and our attempts to understand, control or avoid death. Reflect for a moment on Covid. Enough said.

Working in mental health, and working through my own grief, I understand the pain associated with loss. I understand how it throws someone into Emotion Mind, which can distort perception, create rigid thinking and prevent discussion, connection and compassion.

I understand how that happens. I am currently in the “anger stage” of grief, feeling bitter, thinking “nobody understands, everybody is stupid and I hate them,” and having the urge to run away. I recognize that this is because I am grieving my cat, but also my brother Bruce, who died only ten months ago. And I miss Steve. And my mom and dad. This grief stirs the cumulative losses that have occurred in my life. I guess I’m reaching that stage of life where more and more loved ones have died, and the toll feels heavy. But staying in that anger stage is not healthy nor sustainable. 

I am trying to use the DBT model of mind and skills to cope effectively with my grief, so that I don’t implode or explode. First, I recognize that emotions skew perceptions, and I am trying to minimize lashing out (thanks to my best friend Jennifer, gently squashing the first draft of this blog which surely would have rained down justified judgment on me). Googling “how to deal with the anger stage of grief” made me want to throw my phone across the room. So I allow myself to be quiet, I hear the echo of what I often say to clients: “No one else has to understand. You understand. And you must give yourself compassion first.” I recognize this as Wise Mind, the part of me where compassion lives. I draw deep to remind myself of the belief system which I worked so hard to develop, and I say to myself: 

“if you choose to live, then live the way you choose. If I am only alive for this short period of time on this earth, then I choose to live in love and joy. Love means vulnerability and risk. Love means I will lose and I will hurt. I choose to believe that it’s worth it.”

My time with you was worth it, Simba Cat. Rest in peace.