What Do You Want for Your Birthday?

Sometime in late March, my wife, Lori, asked me what I wanted for my 60th birthday, which was coming in early May. I told her my 61st birthday would be cool. I will come back to that thought later.

Turning 30 was a drag. At 16, 30 seemed ancient. A free speech activist from the 1960’s said, “don’t trust anyone over 30”. Then, The Who, one of my favorite bands, sang, “I hope I die before I get old.” This was intended for the 30 plus crowd.

40 was no big deal. Lori threw a big surprise party. Had a wonderful time.

50 did not sting much either. Small gathering, including my friends Bud and Jack Daniels.

Then, 60. Ugh. This is a different animal. It sounds old. A where did my biceps go kind of old. A why can’t I read this menu kind of old. A grandma and grandpa kind of old, though I should not complain about that one. My three-year old granddaughter Izzy calls us Papa and Yammie and that’s awesome. But, to her, we’re old.

What is mind blowing, to me, is that 60 lives only one block from 70. No disrespect to anyone over 70. I know many folks older than that who do not act or seem old. But I remember when my grandparents were in their seventies. They seemed old. Very old.

Where does old get off, anyway? Bread gets old and thrown out. Wine gets old and tastes better. I hate today’s music but love stuff from the 1970’s. A nineteen-year-old car might be considered a beater, but at twenty becomes a classic. Go figure.

Admittedly, there are times that I would like to be twenty again. But I would never take advice on any subject from myself at that age. Now, if I need an opinion, I seek out someone with decades of experience in that area.

Like doctors. No offense to someone who just completed their residency, but I want the doc whose first rodeo is miles behind them. The doc that gets you to that 61st birthday.

In January, I had surgery on my prostate. Not major surgery, but major pain. Nine days after that operation, I was diagnosed with kidney cancer. A tumor needed to be removed, and the general area explored for any more unwelcome guests. But I had to wait until April so I could fully recover from the last one. This was getting old, fast.

So, in March, when my wife asked what I wanted for my 60th birthday, my only wish was to be here for my 61st birthday.

Obviously, I am not the first person to do battle with “C”, who is undeserving of a name. I doubt that I’m the only one that was scared when told the news. But I am one of the lucky ones.

Mine was caught very early, by mistake. The tumor showed up on an MRI for another issue. Dumb luck? Fate? I believe it is God’s plan.

We all know people that have lost this battle. Loved ones. Family. Friends. Co-workers. Neighbors. It is everywhere and the scars run deep, always with a sad ripple effect. “C” is a heartless, evil bastard that needs to be eradicated.

Hopefully, if you know someone that has “C”, they defeated, or are defeating it. I had it easy in comparison to others, having witnessed the overwhelming pain and suffering it can incur. It takes faith, courage, a team of doctors, often a great deal of time, and a strong support group to get through it.

I struck gold there. Frankly, there were not too many good days from the first of the year through May. But there were wonderful moments. Repeated phone calls and text messages offering prayers and words of encouragement were welcomed and warm, lifting my spirits when I felt beat down. We had a group vacation planned in early May, as dear friends that I grew up with all turn 60 this year. However, I could not travel then. But without hesitation, they all agreed to postpone the trip until I was ready, and we rescheduled for July. I’ll buy the first round of hugs.

Post surgery, when my oldest son said he would not leave the hospital until they threw him out, I cried. Eventually they made him leave, but pride covered me like a warm blanket. When I came home, my other two sons watched over me while Lori went to work. This was not necessary but cherished.

Make no mistake, the person suffering from “C” is not the only one who feels the pain. The family shares the worries; the spouse lives it too. Lori, who would charge face first into an oncoming train if it meant she could help her family, has been my rock. For the longest time, I thought I was the tough one. I was wrong. In our two-person home, I come a distant second. From multiple doctor appointments, scans, bad news, follow ups, surgery, good news, more follow ups, and recovery, she was and is, in lockstep with me every minute. There is no level of “thank you” that could properly convey what she has done for the better part of the last eight months. I am truly blessed.

I was hesitant to write this column. This is not a woe is me thing and I don’t want sympathy. My prognosis is great, and I am starting to feel normal. There will be scans and labs for a long time and I would be lying to say it isn’t worrisome. But I am still one of the lucky ones. For those not as lucky, please make time to be there for them. Visit. Call. Text. “C” does not even need to be brought up. This is not the cure, but knowing others are having good thoughts for you is certainly part of it.

Then pray, pray, and pray some more.

For those who did that for me, thank you and I love you.

See you at 61.