Happy Birthday to me.
Happy Birthday to me.
Happy Birthday to me-eeee.
Happy Birthday to me.
I remembered a little while ago that today is my birthday.
If almost everyone--yourself included--forgets your birthday, do you have to count that year? I could just stay 47 instead of advancing to 48?
Paige called. She can't risk forgetting. Her birthday is tomorrow. We worked in a little bithday dinner over the weekend.
Secretly...not so secretly since you're reading it here...it bothers me that pretty much everyone forgot my birthday. Actually what bothers me is that it bothers me. I'm not big on the whole birthday big deal even in a normal year and this year certainly isn't heading into the family history book as 'normal.'
I just would have liked something, anything, to trump cancer. Just for a little while. Cancer takes over everything. Even my internal dialogue. Cancer even intrudes on my conversations with myself:
They all forgot my birthday.
Yep. They were thinking about ME.
Kevin forgot my birthday too.
Yep. And after all you've been doing for him. Work all day, stay up half the night while he talks about ME, get back up at 5 am to start your work day as he finally falls to sleep, figure out what he needs to eat and when, agree with everyone that, yes, he really is a trooper and all around amazing human, wade through the insurance mine field, make the phone calls, take the phone calls... All of which are about...say it with me...ME. Cancer. Hey, let's not even talk about jacking around your business commitments or the very personal nursing tasks you've become so skillfully accustomed to doing. And then he forgets your birthday.
Well, he is recovering from surgery, you know.
Sure. Pushing 4 weeks ago. He's been walking two miles a day for the last seven days. It's, what, 100 yards from the parking lot to the HallMark section of Walmart? A guy who's got Pizza Hut on speed dial and Amazon.com for a home page couldn't manage to call in a delivery dinner or do some online shopping? For you, not him.
He'll make it up to me next year.
Next year? Next year?? You've learned nothing. Do you really think it's smart to count on next year? Next month?
Fuck You, cancer. Next year is mine. And the one after.
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