wait for that vanilla cupcake you promised.”
My phone rang soon after, “Umm, I never promised you a cupcake and why do you celebrate your half birthday anyway?”
“Don’t you think I’m worth celebrating twice a year?” I prodded.
“Well, I don’t like being the center of attention so dealing with one birthday a year is enough for me.”
In truth, I honor my half birthday for a viable reason. I auditioned and was accepted to Vanderbilt University’s Blair School of Music on April 11, 1987. When I called home to share the good news, my mom said, “A letter arrived for you. Want me to read it?”
“Sure,” I replied, and then listened as she unknowingly introduced me to the man I would marry in just over three years. After seeing me at a service at his home church a few weeks earlier, Jason asked the church secretary for my address and sent a short note. “It’s not as much a generic pick up as it may sound,” he claimed. “Please call. It’s relatively painless.”
Having lost him to a brain tumor, pausing to remember the day still seems worthwhile.
After recording a song and stopping for an x-ray of my right hip, I tried the grocery store. But recent pain has slowed my steps. A massage therapist suggested bursitis and an orthopedic nurse ordered the x-ray.
Regardless, when I reached the meat section, an unusual sharpness scared me. Pain clogged decision making skills and I fought tears. Knowing my husband, Don, was on his way home, I called.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he promised.
By the time he arrived, I stood in the check-out line. A quick wave alerted him to my location but when I looked up after paying, he was gone. So, I wheeled my cart to the middle of the entryway and dug through my bags. Soon an Annie’s organic cinnamon pop tarts eased my pain.
“Let me have one of those,” he demanded with a smile.
“Where were you?” I asked as I broke mine in half.
“I had to go to the bathroom.”
“Oh. Fair enough.” I replied without budging. “This is what happens when I shop while feeling sorry for myself. I buy things I shouldn’t. Comfort food.”
“I like it. This is yummy.”
Since my husband’s schedule often keeps him from rescuing me, his presence comforted me like the sweet cinnamon. As we lingered in the entry way, I asked why he called our visitor’s dog, “Nebuchadnezzar,” when his name is Hercules. In turn, he asked if I realized I’d referred to the popular restaurant, “Mellow Mushroom” as “Yellow Mushroom” twice the day before.
As we poked fun at each other and ate pop tarts, the stress faded away and life felt doable again.
So, happy half birthday to me… and onward! No matter what.
About the Author: Susan Schreer Davis lives with her husband, their cat named, Eggs, and the challenging effects of mitochondrialdisease. Learn more about Susan, her latest book and many songs at: www.susanschreerdavis.com