To Living Like a Pro

It's her second post-stroke birthday, but first post-stroke birthday she'll remember. 

A year ago she was in RIC downtown. She celebrated her birthday next to her roommate - a small Asian woman who spoke no English, vocalized her unhappiness with loud moans, giggled like a little girl and was either a nun or just happened to be part of nun squad. She wasn't the worst roommate on the floor. It could have been Frances (http://whatsgoingonwithpam.blogspot.com/2014/09/oh-frances.html)...the crafty escape artist next door to whom mom offered her assistance in hopes their success could bring us all some peace. 

I just went back and read my post from her last birthday. I still stand by what I wrote. Birthdays shouldn't be sad. They should be recognized as accomplishments and days of thanksgiving. Sure, you're hangovers have made you  begin to accept the ware and tear life has had on your liver. And yes, the elasticity of your skin is beginning to resemble well worn spandex. But for the sake of all that's holy, do any of you remember how painful it was to be a teenager? The drama. The agony. The acne. Or how horrible it was to live off of .99 cent Taco Bell tacos and Lipton instant iced tea while trying desperately not to gain the inevitable freshman 15? Think about it folks. Be glad you no longer have to worry about what you're going to do with your life because now you know it's easier to just accept the mediocrity. (I still believe in you though).

This day last year was a good reminder that birthdays are a moment to celebrate being alive. But honestly, I remember it being hard to celebrate that day. 

RIC was an amazing place. It was a place we didn't have to feel different. Our reality was everyone's reality. Life was less intimidating. Inability was the norm and ability was success. Fear was dethroned and hope promoted. "Will we be ok?" was "how do we make it ok?" And so it was much easier to be there than not, because outside inability was failure and the stark contrast of the two worlds hurt like a bitch. 

That day I recognized that she was alive, but not living. None of us were. And that was the punch in the face. My mom was a pro at living...she made it an art form. But there we were - eating, sleeping, breathing, but not living. 

A year later the space between life and living has gotten smaller. Failures are fewer and further between. And the contrast is weakening. Things continue to sag and wrinkle. The grey hairs seem to be multiplying and getting carded is a compliment these days. But if I get to the end of my life and realize that's the shit I wasted my time worrying about then she has taught me nothing. 

Happy birthday, mom. It's an honor to apprentice under one of life's greatest artists.