When next birthday isn’t assured, every fraction counts

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 02/11/2024 (387 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

My dear friend David, a prolific writer, wrote a funny poem recently about half lives that made me rethink my own thoughts about birthdays. About how when we’re kids, we’re always rounding up to seem older. Then, in our teens we stop. But when we age, we start doing it again, proud of our longevity. Remember this — it’s important later.

Birthdays were never a problem until I was about to turn 40. Something about my starting my fifth decade just didn’t sit right with me. I wasn’t happy about this. I longed to go back to 36, the perfect age. Still young. But old enough to be taken seriously. And not 40, most importantly.

Part of the problem may have been the circumstances surrounding my 40th birthday. I was celebrating it on the surgery ward at St. Boniface Hospital, preparing to have my colon removed and an ileostomy surgery the next morning. My life would never be the same. I was mourning the loss of yet another piece of my body and another form of my independence. I grappled with this grief alone. We weren’t allowed any visitors because of a COVID outbreak. So, happy birthday to me.

It was not an ideal start to my 40s. It was also a taste of what was to come: more hospital stays, more surgeries and losing more parts of me.

The first year — 2023 — of my 40s was awful. I had sepsis at least 10 times. I nearly died from a bowel obstruction and a month later, I nearly died from septic shock and spent two weeks in the ICU. Fast forward to August, and I’m told I will never walk again. Then, more sepsis. And on Labour Day weekend, a central line “fell out” one night. Then, more sepsis. By the time my 41st birthday came around in November, I didn’t want to celebrate anything at all. I wanted to hibernate until my body would give me a freaking break from constantly being sick. I don’t think I did anything for my 41st birthday. It was just another crappy day in what was a crappy year.

I used to have huge birthday parties. At Riverview Health Centre, I would take over the cafeteria and have more than 50 people come celebrate. I’d buy a gigantic cake from Jeanne’s. My baby sister Cindy would travel from Thunder Bay. Birthdays were a big deal, because birthdays were never guaranteed. So, I celebrated them. Hard.

But then COVID happened. No more big gatherings. I also got sicker and more disabled. In March 2022, I moved from Riverview to Deer Lodge to start a treatment. I ended my 30s and started my 40s at Deer Lodge.

I realized something from the clever poem my friend wrote. I’m 41¾. I almost was only 41½. See the difference? These fractions matter like they did when we were 6½. I’m counting them from now on. Each month is an accomplishment. It brings me closer to another birthday, which is an achievement and worth celebrating, not something to dread and ignore. I shouldn’t be rounding down.

I know I’m not going to grow old. There will be no “golden years.” My husband, Brent, and I won’t enjoy retirement together. I likely won’t even make it to my 50s. So, knowing this, it seems irresponsible to fritter away birthdays. Life is sacred. Period.

I’m no longer able to have big parties or even eat a piece of cake, but that doesn’t mean I can’t celebrate. I’m also extremely difficult to buy gifts for, because what do I need, unless it’s art supplies or McDonald’s gift cards? (I love their coffee — it should be a food group.) I have enough lip balm to last me until 150, and I don’t think I’ll be celebrating that birthday.

What I do want is to spend the day with my close friends, such as David, and my family, and maybe do something creative I enjoy. And get an extra-large coffee from McDonald’s. And maybe a second one later in the day.

Birthdays are also a recognition of my fight. And I fight really hard. I could choose to stop fighting. I could stop the TPN (intravenous nutrition) and hydration, and I would be dead in a week or two. But I don’t. There’s things I still need to get done. I’m not ready to declare this life over yet.

I’m 41¾. Strangely, this fight hasn’t aged me, at least not outwardly. I don’t have a single grey hair (yes, you can hate me) and people think I’m in my 20s. My body may be a broken piece of crap, but it actually looks pretty decent. It’s what lurks underneath the hood, like a lemon of a car.

The point is, I no longer dread birthdays. I’m also not so hung up on being in my 40s. I would still love to be 36 forever (who wouldn’t?), but I’m proud I made it this far. I’m proud of all the things I have achieved, and I know there are still some things left to accomplish, like publishing my novels.

On my imaginary birthday cake this year, I’m blowing out the candles and wishing hard for a publishing deal.

Shawna (Shoshana) Forester Smith is a 41-year-old chronically ill, disabled Ojibwe writer and health-care advocate who lives on a chronic-care unit at Deer Lodge Centre.

shawna.forestersmith@freepress.mb.ca