That last birthday that my Mother was alive, I didn't know that it would be the last. She called me at their house from the hospital. Twice. She didn't remember the first time. She had had her first chemo treatment, if I'm remembering correctly. I didn't point it out to her. I couldn't bear to.
Amy and I got ready and she drove us to Danville to go birthday shopping in the Sunburn. We hit the music store, which was going out of business and desperately selling cds at deep discounts. I got Radiohead, Rise Against, and Weezer. (I promptly opened Radiohead so we could listen to Creep and Karma Police).
We did some other shopping too, but that's not very interesting! The best part happened when we went to Baskin Robbins. You know, you get a free scoop of ice cream there on your birthday. I didn't know that little fact before we picked out an ice cream cake and took it to the counter.
"Hey, Beth, look it says you get a free scoop of ice cream on your birthday!" Amy piped up, pointing to a small sign on the counter.
"Hey! It's my birthday!" I responded, looking into the uncaring face of the teenage boy behind the counter. He looked skeptical. He exchanged a look with the other teenage boy who worked there too. I reached for my purse to dig out my wallet and prove it, mumbling as much as I moved. He shook his head, indicating I didn't need to bother.
"I don't care," the disgruntled teenaged employee told me, his face a mask of disdain. Everybody probably says that, I realized, but it was really my birthday and I wanted a fucking free scoop of ice cream. And I wanted it without the fucking attitude. Amy got one too, except he charged her for hers. No way the fucker was gonna give both of us free ice cream.
In the car, on our way back home, listening to Radiohead at an absurdly loud level, we ate our ice cream (technically mine was orange sherbet) and laughed about the rude teenage boys at Baskin Robbins who didn't give a fuck if it was my birthday or not. Amy has a way of recounting details that is much funnier than this sad and hurried description.
It was really funny, and we needed a good laugh. I wish I could go back, reach over the counter and grab that kid by his shirt collar and yell in his face that I just found out my Mom's got really fucking awful cancer and was at the hospital at that very moment, and that he better give me the goddamned ice cream because it's their policy and it really was my fucking birthday and my Mom has the fucking c-section scar to prove it. But I didn't. I was cool.
But really, if I could go back, I'd drive the hour and a half to Lexington from Dad's house and spend my birthday with my Mother, whether anyone else liked it or not. One of my biggest regrets, I suppose. I don't think that, before that year, I'd ever had a birthday that I didn't spend with my Mom, get a hug and a kiss from her, wake her up, crawl into bed with her early in the morning and wait for her to give me a gift. It's funny how the last times are never recognized as what they truly are. I never thought for a second that it would be the last birthday that my Mother was alive. I couldn't have wrapped my mind around it at that point, so I didn't stop to think that I would regret, for the rest of my life, not driving up there to see her on my birthday.
And don't try to tell me everything is going to be okay. To get over it. To move on. To stop grieving. The truth is, I'm really fucking lucky to have had my Mom for as long as I did, but something broke inside me when she died. Something that feels like it won't ever really heal. Don't get me wrong--I'm much better than I was before. And I'm not going to go slitting my wrists. Don't you worry about me being okay. But just don't expect me to get over this. Ever.
[Sorry, that's real fucking heavy, but that's your story today, take it or leave it.]
