I’m Sharing My Birthday with the Super Bowl


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Last year on February 13, I turned 60—a milestone, some folks could possibly say. On my fiftieth birthday, I was in the grips of anorexia and my brother threw me a party at Peter Kelly’s restaurant Xavier on the Hudson, with scenic views of the Hudson River and the then-named Tappan Zee Bridge. Chunks of ice have been floating in the river and I was surrounded by my closest family members and good friends. Unfortunately, obsessed with my weight and my body, I was unable to loosen up and take pleasure in the occasion totally. If I recall, I even unintentionally threw up a couple of occasions, just from the anxiety of maintaining my secret.

Ten years later, we have been in the midst of a pandemic. Creatively, I discovered a cupcake enterprise with revolutionary flavors that shipped all more than the nation. In addition to carrot and red velvet, they had cupcakes infused with cognac and Jack Daniels, and other folks flavored with tiramisu and strawberry daiquiri. I drew up the guest list, obtained their preferred cupcake flavors, had them shipped out, and on the appointed evening we all gathered on Zoom. My family members — like cousins from Baton Rouge and Florida — and good friends sang “Happy Birthday,” I blew out my candle, and we crammed our cupcakes into our mouths.

The next morning was a Sunday. I took my rescue dog, Shelby, for our usual 6 AM stroll and at the halfway point of our loop, I slipped on black ice on the sidewalk in front of someone’s residence and went down. Hard. As quickly as I hit the pavement, I knew I had broken my wrist. It hurt. A lot. I attempted to get up, but I couldn’t. I was dizzy. Shelby was wandering off down the block and I had to retain calling her to come back to me. Luckily, I had my cell telephone with me and I referred to as 911, but I didn’t have my glasses on and could only vaguely describe exactly where I was. Regardless they discovered me and the EMT’s have been super good. They noticed I was bleeding, which meant the bone had pierced the skin. A police officer showed up and he took Shelby back to my apartment, finding the keys from the doorman. I went to the hospital exactly where an x-ray confirmed I had broken each bones in my wrist and would will need quick surgery. I would also will need to keep in the hospital overnight to get IV antibiotics.

What a lousy stick to-up to a sixtieth birthday. I guess it was a reminder that I was finding old. I have osteoporosis from my prolonged struggle with anorexia and had just began getting therapy for it in the kind of a as soon as-a-year infusion, but I guess even that was no match for the effect of my wrist hitting the icy sidewalk. Healing proved to be a challenge. I required one more surgery, then intensive physical therapy. One of the broken bones broken a nerve, so I have permanent nerve harm in my index finger, which implies that the finger feels numb all the time. And cold. At least it was my left wrist, my non-dominant hand.

Last evening my brother texted me and asked me what I wanted this year for my birthday, which takes place to be on the very same day as the Super Bowl.

I have no illusions about carrying out something on the actual day of my birthday. I’m playing it secure this year. I told him I just wanted to have a quiet dinner with him, my sister-in-law, and my niece.

Sixty-1 is an odd quantity, anyway.

© Andrea Rosenhaft

Source: © Andrea Rosenhaft



Originally published in www.psychologytoday.com