My Uppy Downy Ninetieth Birthday

I’ll tell you the truth. Being ninety—actually arriving at so august, so distant, so unlikely/impossible a number–on the one hand turned out not to be a biggie. On the other hand, it’s mind-boggling, marvelous. I confess I walk around with this mantle of age paying it no attention and more or less shaking my head in disbelief. Simultaneously.

Main thing is, I don’t feel old. As a matter of fact, I feel better, fitter, finer than I can remember feeling a decade ago. Why is this? Luck, for the most part, of course. I have been blessed with the gift of living with a human being whose match I’ve never met—my Bill. He is, to begin with—even though the DNA test announced he is only 1/500th part Jewish—a mensch. In addition, he is loving, generous, brilliant, funny, handsome (do you note my order of virtues…interesting, eh? I too find it so…I considered placing brilliant after loving, but to me, generosity in all things is as chief a virtue as loving—wouldn’t you agree?). We are in our fifteenth year of marriage, and although we’ve come to admit—and are dealing with it–we are shorter of patience than in our early years. What is it about the aging process that makes one impatient? shorter nerve synapses? We love one another more each day, are more keenly grateful for the other. For everything!

But back to crossing the Ninetieth-Year Line. My mother lived to One Hundred, which, of course, gave me a running start in the aging game. No question working three times a week with a superb coach at CrossFit has contributed majorly. And the luck of having a superb physician who has been caring, meticulous, and tireless in bringing us through annoyances major and minor.

Which brings me to last week, the day before my birthday, when said doctor came to our door, asked if I wanted the results of my CT scan now or after my birthday?

Can you imagine, he came to the house to tell me. What a kind generous caring physician.

“Now, of course!” but then I was practically rooted to the spot at the open front door.

“Good news or bad news?” asks I casually as I realize I should motion him to come in.

Pause. Consideration… Oh dear.  Something’s up.

“Both,” he said.

Backing up a moment, I’d like to mention that for some time—a year or two—I’ve been sailing along so blissfully, I’ve had the superstitious feeling that lucky as I’ve been, healthy and happy as I’ve been, something was going to sneak up on me… And the something would be a cancer. But where would it hit? I considered all the places (the disease runs in my mother’s family), each worse than the last.

Turns out–long story short—I have a smallish colo-rectal cancer—the bad news—but it’s at stage two—the good news.

My daughter the brilliant lawyer said, “Ma, if you’re going to get cancer, that’s the one to get.” Okay, Dinah, I’ll go along with that.

So I’m in virtual line at Stanford University’s esteemed Medical Center waiting for an appointment to make an appointment for surgery. Stanford is an hour’s easy drive away—so lucky!—and there we have friends who’ll have coffee and lunch with Bill while I’m confined for a couple of days (hope it’ll be no more).

Meantime, at our doctor’s recommendation, I’m faithfully taking my daily walks—down to the ocean and back–and eating way more MEAT than usual—lots of iron—and even more vegetables and fruits and whole grain good stuff than usual to build me up.

So stayed tooned. Send up a prayer for me, if you’re of a mind to do so.

I’m going to be fine.

That’s because my goal now is to get Bill to one hundred—which means I need just five more years. If he goes on his way not long after that, I’ll want to join him…

Oh yes, nearly forgot to mention that our novel—“An Invisible Hand”—is finished (after four drafts), another goal met. A few kind friends/relations are reading it to advise us whether or not it’s worth looking for a literary agent…

But I haven’t told you about celebrating my Juneteenth birthday!

I’m sure you understand that when I heard about my inner complication, I decided I didn’t want to deal with the complexities of a party. A dozen good friends had been invited to come at seven for Strawberry Shortcake Birthday Cake and Champagne—an old-fashioned Dessert Party. Everyone was, of course, very understanding about being uninvited, warm, encouraging.

When I told Bill I’d call The Buttery and cancel the cake, he said, “Don’t cancel it! Let’s eat it!” All twenty servings? Of course.

All day Thursday (the 19th), arrangements of flowers appeared at our door—voluptuous pink roses and white hydrangeas from my best friend in the seventh grade—isn’t it marvelous to be ninety and your ninety-one-year-old best friend from the seventh grade lives a stone’s throw away? Wonderful Susan. Friends stopped by with generous gifts and hugs. And the best part, granddaughter Maggie—the investment banker—flew in from Chicago for the occasion and week-end.

Long distance phone calls—my son and daughter-in-law in Israel….children and grandchildren from all over the country…calls and texts from friends at every stage of my life…Berkeley…New York…Mill Valley…Malibu… Idyllwild…West L.A….Ojai…and now Santa Cruz…

Bill took Maggie, daughter Dinah, son-in-law Gary, and me to a gorgeous dinner at VIM, remarkable young woman chef’s restaurant up the road. We came home to The Strawberry Shortcake! Made a small dent in it. There’s a four-inch square left in the fridge which we’ll polish off tonight.

Now I must finish writing my thank-you notes.

I forgot to mention that now my Big Birthday is accomplished and The Novel is Accomplished-Maybe, I’m cleaning up my study. Truly. From the ground up. Lots of discoveries will be made… I shall report.

Who’s a lucky duck?

Me!