It’s almost my birthay. My parents called me to wish me a happy birthday (among other things) because they’re going to be busy on my actual birthday. I don’t care beacuse my birthday means nothing to me, but I’ve gotten over hating it by now. If it makes my parents happy to wish me a happy birthday, well, then so be it.
In the past, I hated it. My birthday, I mean. Not because I was getting older; I don’t care about that. but because I hated being alive and that I’ve not done what I’ve wanted with my life. That’s drastically compressing and simplifying what my deal was, but it’ll do for the purpose of this post. I hated it so much, I refused to tell people when it was. When I first joined Facebook, you had to give them your birthday. I just lied and put a random day in January as my birthday. Then, I would be surprised by dozens of happy birthday wishes on that day. It never failed to amuse me.
My mom used to get upset when I said I didn’t celebrate my birthday. She once cried and told me it was such an important day for her. I mean, I think it’s a more meaningful day for her than me, yes, because she was the one who did the work of giving birth to me. I was did nothing to ease the birthing process, and I was probably a poin (literally) in her ass whilst making that journey. Though, family lore says that it only too k half hour for me to slide out (I was in a hurry).
Look. I didn’t ask to be born. I didn’t want to be born. And I didn’t want to be alive for the first fifty years of my life (more or less). It took dying (twice!) to give me an appreciation for life, but now, that appreciation is draining from me. This president….this country…my countrypeople….Yeah, I’m not feeling it at all.
After I died and came back twice, I lost my hostility for my birthday. I had become ‘neutral’ to it in the decade before, but neutral was definitely in quotes. I said I did not mind it, but I still did not want to celebrate it. And I did not really want people mentioning it.
Here’s the thing, though. Once I came back to life and became as close to normal as I was going to get, I adopted the day I died and came back to life as my re-birthday. I realized much later that I should have made it when I could breathe on my own, but whatever. I’m keeping my original re-birthday. That meanss that I’m four-and-a-half. Not really, though. It’s not that kind of birthday.
Still. It’s much more meaningful to me than my actual birthday. However, it has also helped me release all my negativity towards my actual birthday. I am actually neutral about it–well at least more than I was before. My mother did bring up my birthday, and I was fine. But when she asked if I was going to do anything for it, I could not help but have an edge in my voice as I answered. I managed to keep a mostly even tone, though, as I said I was not celebrating. I might get a piece of cake or something, but other than that, I don’t care.
I know these days “I don’t care” is mostly said as a negative, but it’s as close to neutral as can manage. I learned when I was younger that the opposite of love isn’t hate; it’s indifference. Hate and love are the opposite sides of the same coin. They are roused and strong emotions. Indifference is not caring either way.
That’s how I feel about my birthday. I simply do not care. It it, as the kids say, what it is. It can just do what it does without any recognition from me. Again, it’s not growing older–I don’t care about that. It’s just that I don’t see what it has to do with me. Or rather, what I have to do with it. I did nothing to deserve any recognition on the day. Whereas with my re–birthday, well, I didn’t really do much to earn that, either. Still. It’s more memorable to me, and I would rather mark it than my actual birthday.
I really should have chosen the day I woke up from my coma. At least I had something to do with that, even if tangentially. I mean, my body did its thing in keeping me alive (yay body!). And without a scratch. Well, almost. There were some lasting effects, but very minimal. SO minimal.
I can’t get over that, by the way. I mean, I’ve accepted that I went through something incredible and miraculous, but it still feels like it didn’t actually happen. Because I don’t remember any of it since I passed out in my front hallway, it really feels like it’s something that happened to someone else. I have had to piece it together by talking to my friends and my brother. Even then, I’m sure I don’t have the full story.
I have made my peace with that, truly. I don’t like it, but there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s a week missing from my life, and it will always be missing. The most eventful week of my life, and I can’t remember a thing about it. The last thing that I do remember was emailing my Taiji teacher to tell her I would not make Tuesday Zoom class because I wsa so exhausted.
Side note: I’m always tired. That’s just my base state. But in that moment, I was fatigued in a way that I had never felt before. I felt I could not move, which was unusual for me.
The class, as I said, was Tuesday night. I remember messaging with Ian on Thursday about a game we were both playing. That’s the last thing I remember. Next thing I knew, I was in a room I didn’t recognize, and it was uncomfortably hot. I liked things cool and kept my house’s heater at 62.
It was 3 in the morning when I called 9-1-1. It took twenty minutes to get me to the hospital. This was the start of the wildest week of my life. I liked to joke that it was easy on me because I was unconscious the whole time. It was a joke, yes, but it wwas also true. Everyone else did the hard work while I was unconscious. I just laid there the whole time. My brother said that the doctors didn’t do that much, either. They drugged me heavily, but that was about it (so he says). They did put me on ice, though, for several hours. That probably helped, too. But also, they monitored me carefully, and that’s extremely important.