Turning 30

I have decided for my 33rd birthday, to share with you an excerpt from my book. The book is about dating after being widowed. Most chapters are about various disasters that I dated; each time hoping that HE was the one. This chapter has nothing to do with dating, and everything to do with those who were there for me after Joe died. If you read it, (it's long for a blog entry!) please let me know.

A week after Joe died, I remember saying to my best friend, Melanie, “What about my birthday?”

My birthday falls on Valentine’s Day, and it’s a day I take seriously. I always thought Joe got out easy, as he only had one day per year to pamper me, while most men had two separate days.

Melanie had looked at me with confusion in her eyes.

“Your birthday? I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, in a tone that was clearly trying to not upset me.

“Who will celebrate my birthday with me? I’m turning 30 next year, and my husband is dead.”

“Sweetie,” Mel began, “Your birthday is nine months away. Let’s try to focus on today, and we’ll worry about your birthday when it gets closer.”

I tried to follow her advice, but my birthday has stayed in the back of my head all of these months. As it turns out, it’s falling on a Monday night, the same night as my widow support group meeting. I’m sure they will present me with a cake, and I’ll probably get the longest amount of time to speak about how depressed I am.

Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine that my 30th birthday would be spent in a widow support group, surrounded by 12 crying women, all saddened by the fact that they too, lost their husbands way too soon, and are alone on Valentine’s Day.

The week leading up to my birthday I get a call from my mother.

“Betsy, I’ve been thinking, why don’t you and the boys come into Boston for the weekend? Scott (my step-father) and I will take you to Jae’s for dinner on Friday night. And we can go shopping on Saturday.”

Considering that I have no other plans, and dinner at one of my favorite restaurant along with shopping can’t be bad things, I agree to come over Friday after work.

Friday afternoon I hastily throw some old clothes in a bag for myself, pack up enough diapers, wipes, formula and clothes for the boys, pack everything on my minivan, and drive the 15 minutes into Boston.

Earlier in the week we had been hit with a snowstorm, and I’m surprised to see how much snow is still in Boston. My parents live in a townhouse in the South End, and while it comes with a parking spot behind the house, the only way to get into the parking spot is to navigate down the most narrow, potholed filled alley in all of Boston. Add snow to that alley, and a giant Nissan Quest, and you have a parking nightmare.

My car gets stuck as soon as I turn into the alley. I try to back up, and accidentally hit the fence that abuts the alley. Tears come pouring out of my eyes. I am so mad and sad and frustrated that this is what my life has become. Joe should be here to help me navigate my car. He should be here to help me navigate my life. I take some calming breaths, turn my steering wheel hard, and put my foot as far down on the gas as it will go. My car skids down to my parents’ parking spot, where mercifully, my stepfather stands waiting to take over the parking duties for me.

I bring the boys and all of our gear inside, and ask my mom if we can just get take out instead of going out. I’m tired, and cranky, and frankly, the last thing I want to do is go out.
She tells me that she already got a babysitter and a reservation, and that it will feel good to get out. Realizing that I will never win an argument against her, I go into the bathroom to pee, and do a double take when I see my reflection in the mirror. After having Josh in July, I have easily added ten pounds to my post pregnancy weight. My chords and sweater are far from fashionable, but are the only clean clothing that fit me. My curly hair looks greasy and dirty. My eyes have lines that I’ve never noticed before. So this is me at 30. How the fuck did I get here?

I give the boys kisses goodnight, tell the babysitter how to put them to bed, and walk out the front door with my parents. Jae’s is on the corner of my parents’ street, which is good, because the night is freezing, and I’m feeling exhausted. I just want to get the dinner over with so I can go to sleep.

Looking through the window of Jae’s I can see a few couples sitting with candles on their tables, wine glasses clinking, toasts to happy times. Jealousy fills my every pore.
The host walks us downstairs toward the bar area. I can see as we are walking down that it’s filled with young singles, gathering for drinks after work. The last thing I want to deal with is obnoxious drunk people. I tap the host on the shoulder, trying to get his attention. I want to sit upstairs where it’s quiet. Even if I have to sit with happy couples, it seems better than sitting with noisy drunks.

The host ignores my taps and continues walking down the stairs. Suddenly the room becomes silent, and I feel like everyone’s eyes have turned towards me. I’m wondering if my fly is down, or if my sneakers are that horrendous. Then I recognize my sister. Rebecca is here from New York? Wait, isn’t that Melanie? As my eyes begin to focus I realize that I know everyone in the basement. Suddenly I hear, “SURPRISE!” Wait? This is for me! This is a surprise party for me?
I look around the room. Not only is my sister here from New York, my brother and his wife are here from New Hampshire, half of the teachers I work with are here, two of my widow group friends are here, three friends from high school, and two neighbors are here.

“I can’t believe this,” I say over and over again. The tables are overflowing with food, colorful drinks are in everyone’s hands, and a huge pile of presents sit on a table behind me.

“You only turn 30 once,” my sister says. “We knew we had to do something big. This isn’t all though.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“After the party, you and I are going to the Four Seasons Hotel for a spa weekend. Jacob and Josh are staying with Mom and Scott. We are getting facials, massages, and manicures. And we’re eating dinner at the restaurant in The Four Seasons.”

“Shut UP!” I scream.

After countless drinks, platters of sushi and pad Thai, and a chocolate cake that will likely add five more pounds to my body, I get to open presents.

Joe was a wonderful husband in many ways, but one are he lacked in, was buying presents for me. Every year I would hold out hope that this year he would come through with a good present, maybe jewelry, or a trip. Every year I would end up horribly disappointed. One birthday my present was wooden hangers. No joke, wooden hangers for my birthday. Another year I received a coffee grinder and whole coffee beans, while knowing full well how much I despised making coffee.

To see a pile of presents in front of me was just as exciting as the prospect of a spa weekend. Most of my presents are items my friends knew I wanted: TIVO for my television, along with a year of service, a subscription to People Magazine for a year, new pajamas. With each new present I open there is hooting and hollering. When I get to the present from my brother, everyone gets quiet, like they know that his present is a serious one.

There are two packages, a big one and a small one. I open the big one first. Inside the wrapping paper is a framed, black and white portrait that my brother took of Joe and me when I was pregnant with Jacob. I’m sitting on Joe’s lap, and he has his hands lovingly on my belly. We both have these huge smiles on our faces, like we can’t believe we are really going to be parents. My brother is notorious for taking pictures and never developing them, so I had forgotten all about posing for him two years before.

I look around the table at my friends who had all been laughing and hollering minutes before. Most have tears coming down their cheeks. I instinctively touch my own cheeks and feel wetness on them as well. God I miss Joe.

I slowly open the second present in my hand, and gasp audibly when I see what it is. My brother has framed his Red Sox ticket from July 17, 1990. That was the day Joe and I met. I was 15 Joe was 17. We were both standing in line to take the ferry to George’s Island in Boston. One of my friends, Anna, was over heated. She said she was going to pass out. I knew that she needed a drink. I looked around and saw a cute boy holding a soda. I took it out of his hand while promising to buy him a new one on the ferry. A relationship was born.

My friends and I brought Joe and his friend home with us, and Joe ended up staying at my house until very late that night. My brother came home around 11, after having attended the Red Sox game. Joe asked him if he could borrow his ticket to show his mother. My brother agreed. Joe called his mother and told her that he had won free tickets to the Red Sox game, and that’s why he was so late, put the ticket in his wallet, and left. I was unaware that Joe returned the ticket to my brother, but apparently he had, and for some reason Jonathan felt the need to save it.

Seeing the ticket, and all that the ticket represents, framed with such love, brings out such a strong emotion in me I can’t help but sob. I look around the room and everyone, including Anna, and my brother are sobbing too. Everyone here loved Joe. Everyone misses him too.

We all manage to pull ourselves together and start saying goodbyes. Despite the ending, everyone has had a great time. My mother and sister threw me the best birthday party I’ve ever had, and I still have a spa weekend ahead of me.