A cake with 59 candles would be chronologically and celebratorily accurate for me today. Kind of a big one and not just because of the related fire risk. Ten years ago, my 49th birthday was the last I celebrated with my Mom.
She had been diagnosed with multiple myeloma (a blood cancer) more than two years earlier. She was in remission for most of that year. Around Christmas, three months before that last birthday, I was working on a jigsaw puzzle and I suddenly knew she would die the following year, 2011. I am not one given to messages from beyond, but it was like someone just told me without telling me. The knowledge was injected straight into my brain. And heart. I remember freezing in front of the puzzle, absorbing the shock. And I remember hoping she would die at the end of the year so I could have another twelve months with her.
A few days after Christmas I got a call from my parents that the myeloma was back, and it looked aggressive. There were treatments to try, but I knew 2011 would be the year we said goodbye. Mom gamely faced some aggressive chemo in early 2011, with some of the worst side effects she had.
The picture I have of me with my parents on that 49th birthday shows her to be pale and thin, like she was already starting to disappear. I didn’t notice that at the time. But I still love this precious photo and have it framed beside my morning coffee spot.
My Mom had a thing about celebrating birthdays on the actual day. I don’t share that obsession, and always enjoy celebrations all week with whomever would like to celebrate (pre-pandemic, obviously). But in Mom’s mind, there was a hierarchy of celebrations and the actual day was the top spot. That year, I invited my parents to our place for my birthday dinner on the actual day, April the 8th. She was pleased, but ever gracious, asked if I was sure I didn’t want to reserve that night for my family? I didn’t tell her that I wanted my last birthday with her to be on the actual day she brought me into the world.
It is hard to think back on that day as the emotions were close to the surface. Even harder days were ahead. I remember vaguely thinking ahead to my 50th milestone birthday the following year. But what I didn’t know was that Mom would die 50 days later.
Wish you were still here Mom. Today, the actual day, I will think of you, all day.
Your love is the best memorial your Mom could have