Happy Half Birthday to Me

Hours before I indulged in even a drop of coffee yesterday morning, I swallowed two radioactive scrambled eggs that were cooked in a Styrofoam cup in a microwave. No joke. As preparation for a gastric emptying scan, I chewed and swallowed the eggs without medicine or caffeine to assist.

After eating the glow in the dark substance (and two pieces of bread), a technician took pictures of my stomach with a gamma camera every hour. In between scans I sat on the other side of the building waiting to receive a TB test. Since a radiologist has suggested we biopsy my spleen due to the number of lesions, my doctor wanted to rule out Tuberculosis first. 

Go figure.

Without my morning brew and mito cocktail however, my body began to shut down around noon. By one o'clock, my legs were so stiff my sister encouraged me to let her push me in a wheelchair. Exhausted, I agreed. Starbucks and a slow afternoon aided recovery. But it was not a fun morning.

Thus, when I realized my half birthday would dawn in only a matter of hours, I sent a text message at 10pm to make sure my family wouldn't forget. Nathan, my oldest, commented, "Mom, I forget my own REAL birthday sometimes."  Sam, my youngest, moaned, "Don't encourage her," when his wife said I should surely go shopping today.

But since I've spent most of spring break writing in my bed, I've decided it's important to celebrate my half birthday. Why not? There's a lot of things I can't do, so adding an extra celebration to my year seems fair.

And in reality, there's actually another reason I know it's my half birthday. I didn't always celebrate the day in earnest. But at some point in my first marriage I realized the day held significance. For on April 11, 1987, I auditioned at Vanderbilt University's Blair School of Music and was accepted as a voice major with a half tuition scholarship. When I called home to tell my mom, she added, "A letter arrived in the mail for you today. Want me to read it?"

As I stood at a pay phone in the Nashville airport, I was introduced for the first time to the man who became the father of my children. Jason had watched me accompany my brother during a concert at a church a few weeks before and couldn't get the idea of an artist married to a musician out of his head.  So he called the church receptionist and got our address. Then he crafted two letters. The first held a donation for my brother. The second, addressed to "whoever played the piano for Mark" read:

“I’ve had some trouble trying to compose this letter so it won’t sound too strange. I saw you at St. Phillip’s on Sunday and wanted to speak to you—but had to leave early. I sang with the Boy Choir years ago so it was easy to help your brother out. Getting an address was so simple that I had trouble finding arguments not to write this letter however strange it may seem. I would like to talk to you. Even if I looked for a number I wouldn’t know whom to ask for—so I’ll give you mine. This really isn’t as silly or as much a generic pick up as it may sound. Please call—it’s relatively painless.”

I called. We married three years later. And I've got some pretty cool kids as a result. 

So Happy Half Birthday to me. The leaves are green and the azaleas in full bloom. Morning medicines have my legs in gear. And barbeque sounds much better than radioactive eggs. Sam and Courtney have dropped by and a bright blue covers the sky.

So Happy Half Birthday to me, indeed.

photo credit: Azaleas via photopin (license)