I love my life!

I think some people are mystified about why I was so traumatized by my parents' recent health crisis. It wasn't just about the health crisis, and it wasn't just about my parents. It was about me. I was airlifted out of my life and into theirs. Over the three weeks that I was in San Francisco, I began erasing my appointments from my calendar and replacing them with my parents'. My life vanished before my eyes. For a while, I despaired of ever getting it back. And it made me realize how much I love my life. I love my kids and Other. I love my cats. I love my job. I love my friends. I love my apartment. I love New York. I love getting up early in the morning and having an hour or so to savor the house (well, after I clean up the cat vomit and sweep the kitty litter off the floor). I love all the trivial little chores and pleasures that are mine, all mine.

So it was a particularly happy birthday when I quietly turned 59 yesterday. First of all, there was a time a few years ago (three and a half to be exact) when my cancer diagnosis made me fear I would never see this birthday. Second, I spent the day distracted from my troubles by my job, which, miraculously, I still have. Third, I got a dozen phone calls and e-mails from friends in celebration, perhaps most notably a singing phonogram from one of my oldest friends, K, whom I love all the more fiercely as she embarks on her own journey with cancer (uterine). Fourth, I spent the evening in the humble comfort of watching Mean Girls on television with my daughter—who was once but is no longer a mean girl! Usually, Other tries to put together a big celebration for my birthday, arduously prepared food, many friends, a big event. I love it. But in a season when I spent Christmas and New Year's in San Francisco, it was spectaculor to spend my birthday quietly at home.