I switched my eyes open at 10:00 p.m. last night, having already been asleep an hour. My man next to me was scrolling through his phone, image after image trailing after his finger. It was the eve of his fifty-eighth birthday, and the number rattled me. Fifty-eight. The same age as my dad in 1997 when he dropped the news into our lives of his chronic lymphocytic leukemia diagnosis. My mom was fifty-five at the time—just like me now.
I stared at the ceiling. Is this how fast it goes? Are we really here?
I flipped to my other side, hoping to drop back to sleep, but gloom covered me like a sheet. How grim. How grey. How finite we all are.
I booted out my death-thoughts and chose life again. Gratitude swept in, and my question curved upwards like the corners of a smile: Are we really here?
Yes, we are. The beauty of life, heightened by its brevity. And the celebration is just starting.
I woke up this morning to a new start with a freshly fifty-eight-year-old husband—both of us healthy and whole. Before my alarm chirped, I sprang from bed and made his birthday breakfast sandwich request: bacon, egg, and cheese on an English muffin—with orange juice on the side. And coffee.
I also scratched down birthday candles on my shopping list because I had hobbled along for long enough with leftover candles of all shapes, sizes, and numbers, making do with whatever ignitable remnants I had in the tattered Ziplock I stored in that one kitchen drawer. Time for new ones.
The birthdays are just beginning.
*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo), @TamaraSchierkolk (PayPal), or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)