On becoming a year older
Yesterday I danced the polka around the house with Tessie, and the laughter generated was a real treat for all of us.
I'm not a great one for remembering birthdays; each trip to the pharmacy to collect Christine's prescriptions results in my getting her details wrong when they ask me to confirm her birthdate. "Oh, it's the thirteenth or twenty-third, I think. March. Or maybe April..." as I hang my head, or occasionally chuckle. But one of the advantages of being somewhat exotic is that people tend to remember me, and they laugh and hand over the drugs anyway. It's sad, because if they'd only point and laugh and shout "Wrong!", it might reinforce the date in my poor old mind.
I spent about ten years in the clutches of Jehovah's Witnesses, and whilst I got out because of many disagreements with doctrine and their desire to control my personal life, when they insisted that adherhents to the faith did not celebrate birthdays, I was unfazed by it.
This unbirthdayness was highlighted this morning as we all began to move into another day. It's my habit to get up first to make tea, and I bring a cup to Christine in bed, so we can sit and talk and generally wake up together. This morning, I wished her "Happy Aniversary", the fifth celebration of our handfasting back in February 2005. My birthday never got a look in until we were all three around the breakfast table, when someone happened to mention that it was also my birthday. It's my 54th such event, and I was never much of a one to celebrate it. Contrast this with Tessie's comment that she starts to plan her birthday parties six months in advance, and she'll have a present list posted in each room of the house, filled with all the things her heart desires.
Christmas is almost as bad for me; Christine asks what I want, and my response is invariably the same: "There's nothing I can think of that I need". I then watch her exasperation rise, surface and follows the inevitable response question, "Well, what do you want?" Followed by a long silence, as I dredge around for some gift she can give me. Usually socks. This last year may have been an exception, as I really wanted a radio, and I was not disappointed. I also got some serving spoons, the lack of which I had been cursing for ages. She's good to me, I have no complaints in that regard. Oh, and for the record, I also got socks, which made me happier yet.
The thing about birthdays for me is that they make me uncomfortable. The fatalist in me wonders why we're expected to celebrate another year in the inevitable decline to old age and all the whatnot that it entails. We have a list of the things that others will have to do for us as we descend into that frail dotage; mine includes having to have my toenails cut, which raises some quite spectacular and satisfying shudders in my Other Half.
The Handiversary And Beyond
The main event for me on this date is the handfasting anniversary. Five years ago, we descended on Hampstead Heath along with a fairly large crowd of noders, to have a pagan celebration of our desire to spend as long as possible together. We had a delightful time in the centre of a circle of friends, spoke our vows and had a blessing from Wiccanpiper and Pandora before jumping the broomstick and retreating to the pub for food, cakes and ale. I probably never got to thank everyone enough on the day, and words will fail me if I try to do so again. Not that failing words ever stopped me before, so I wish not to thank everyone who supported us through the organisation leading up to it, all who came to wish us well that day, or sent greetings and prayers of support. It was a landmark day for both of us.
One final, special thank you is due, however, because there is one person who made it all possible, not just for that day, but for every day following. One thing we had both insisted upon was that Tessie (Christine's daughter, six at the time) also have a say in accepting me into the family. So during the ceremony, she got to answer a question regarding her willingness to have me join with her mother. It was the only time I really held my breath, and I was mightily relieved when she answered "Yes".
The past five years were glorious, despite Christine's being diagnosed with breast cancer. That changed our plans dramatically, and resulted in me dropping everything in the UK and heading post-haste to California, firstly to support her through the surgery, chemo and whatnot, secondly to marry her legally in the US, so I could qualify for my green card. Since then we've had a number of scares, and two incidences of The Return Of The Cancer, the most recent of which we're trying to view in the light of a comment from one dear noder as "...another twisty loop d'loop..."
So today, whilst I'm gloriously fifty-four and well into middle age, I am reflecting on the future. It is not all grim, neither will it be all beer and skittles, but one thing is for certain; we will make the very best of every day we can, and aim to spend at least some golden years together before the chap with the scythe comes to whip us away.
Of course, I couldn't possibly end on such a pessimistic note, so I want to assure you that although times are currently uncertain for our little family, we are not yet beaten, and that we continue to get notes of support and prayers from all religions, creeds and denominations (including, to my great delight, atheists) demonstrates that you don't want us to quit either. So may I just say that it's still my desire to approach my namesake, Saint Kevin, in pursuing a long and healthy life, not just for me, but for all of us.
Thank you, and in the words of Dave Allen, "May your God go with you".