My Worst Birthday Ever

It was the worst birthday I can remember.

A week before, the whole world seemed to shut down. I attended a meeting at work where we taught each other how to use Zoom and I remember feeling like this would only last a month, maybe two at most. I took my work computer home just to be safe and so I could have access to all my work files.

But what makes me saddest as I look back on that dark time is how scared I was. Of everyone. Of everything.

Call me overly cautious. I know some did.

But I had heard enough of COVID-19, of its deadly effects and of its seemingly random nature, to think that I could get it anywhere at anytime. And that what happened after that would be terrible.

Still the more terrifying thought — that I would unknowingly pick it up somewhere by some small carelessness and pass it on to someone I love. Who knows if my mild asthma could be a complicating factor that caused me to deal with some of the more painful effects of the virus. But the thought of my mother, my father or my grandmother contracting it because of me…I just couldn’t handle it.

And so on my 33rd birthday, I saw almost no one. Not my grandmother. Not my girlfriend. Not my brother. Not my niece or my nephew, save through the magic of Marco Polo.

My mother insisted on coming to see me because she loves me and that’s what good mothers do. My early COVID depression already setting in, I dragged myself out of bed late in the morning, made myself shower and I stood in the alleyway, not even daring to allow my parents to come into the house.

Truth be told the house was a mess…but it was also the risk.

I hugged my mom and she gave me a gift — a nice tire cover for my Jeep. And that was it.

There were lots of nice phone calls and messages of course. But as far as physical human contact on my birthday last year, that was it.

I don’t share this story to depress you or to throw a major pity party that my birthday was overshadowed by a once-in-a-century pandemic that has forever shattered and reshaped our lived reality.

I share this because I want to tell you a little bit of what hope feels like.

On March 20, 2021, just one year later, I had what was undoubtedly the best birthday of my life. And it didn’t take much. But it was all I could have ever wanted.

On Thursday of that week, I drove down to Lexington to receive my first shot of the COVID vaccine, a gift I thought would still be weeks away.

When I pulled up, I met volunteers and nurses and strangers who were all making miracles happened. They greeted me warmly and asked me questions like why I still had a North Carolina driver’s license and what someone from Louisville was doing coming to Lexington for a shot (I’ve been waiting to get a better haircut for my driver’s license photo and it was frankly easier to sign up through UK).

They cheered.

They danced.

And when I sat down at the chair, I couldn’t help it. As the nurse went through the usual side effects of the vaccine, I felt the salty dampness in my eyes. Tears, long pent up from pain, sadness and loss. Kept in for too long, just trying to make it through another day. Just trying to keep myself functioning. And therefore not able to sit and feel and hurt and be sad.

I thought of my grandmother and how much I wished she had lived to see and feel this same hope from total strangers. And how my one solace was that she didn’t have to live through this awful, lonely, aching year.

I felt a shot of hope. And goodness, it felt a lot like my brother had just taken me back to our boyhood days and punched me in the arm for a solid hour. But it also felt like healing, washing over me.

On Friday, my “lady friend”, as one of my heroes Ronnie Adams used to call his significant other, took me out for a very special evening. She surprised me with well-made butcher block for my barbecue antics. And I, concerned with keeping it pristine, proceeded to wipe it down with fine mineral oil and…didn’t actually use it the next day when I made barbecue.

We went out for a night at the Swizel, the upscale restaurant in the Galt House that includes a room with riverfront views that rotates as you dine. It was a beautiful, perfect night, complete with drinks they put in smokey boxes to enhance the flavor and a complimentary gigantic slice of chocolate cake.

But then the real fun began.

I told everyone that the only thing I wanted to do for my birthday was to fire up my smoker and stay up all night, cooking the fire sale brisket I picked up at Kroger, and have them come over and eat it. The night was chilly, still and wonderfully quiet. I kept vigil through the night, tending the fire, anticipating the beautiful ways food has of bringing people together.

And when the food was ready, the people came. Friends that I hadn’t seen in months gathered in the same small alleyway where, just a year prior, I had gone out on a windy, bleak day to hug my mother and let my birthday pass without notice.

I told a friend later I think I was friend drunk — intoxicated with the joyous contentment of being around others that you love and love you back, that you don’t feel like you have to prove a single thing to earn that love. You just sit and drink it in.

I saw my mom and dad. I saw my friend’s baby, born in quarantine, a complete bundle of life and giggles and cute, chunky cheeks. I saw my brother and, for once, showed off my new toys to try to impress him. Most importantly, I saw the two beautifully silly joys of my life, my niece and nephew. Time seems to pass like nothing when they show up. And when I felt like we had just started to play Legos and throw frisbee and play “ticklemonster,” soon everyone started to head home. And the night was over.

I told you that I wanted to share with you what hope feels like. It feels something like this:

It feels like total strangers, dancing and waving and cheering you on.

It feels like being treated as the most special person on the planet, even though you fully know how ordinary you are.

It feels like being broken apart and then finding that things can come back together.

It feels like being people drunk, surrounded by good people, eating good food and sharing the old, old stories, and never wanting it to end.

It feels a lot like when a smiley, bright five year old crinkles up her nose and calls you a “silly Billy,” or when a getting-way-too-big-and-cool seven year old asks if he can finally build the Lego set you’ve had selfishly stashed away at your house for two years.

It feels like looking back on a year and realizing that even though it didn’t seem like it, as you toiled away day by day doing the same quarantine routine, things can actually change. For the better.

My God, I hope that’s true.