Happy Birthday, My Love

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Today is Walter's birthday.

Running through my head is an old song, being an earworm today:

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to
Cry if I want to
Cry if I want to
You would cry too if it happened to you!

Ah, youth! In the song the singer is betrayed by her boyfriend, who brazenly gives his ring to another girl right at the first girl's birthday party.

Which isn't, of course, why Walter's birthday triggered that earworm.

It's having the anniversary of his birth turn into something far different from the day of innocent happiness it used to be. He's better now than early on, but it's still depressing, I think. It looks to me like he's working hard to stay reasonably cheerful today. You see, though, he's working at it. Because it's impossible to forget what happened in 2001.

Some people say that those who died on 9/11 *gave* their lives that day.

No. They did not.

Their lives were stolen, because they were murdered in cold blood. Soldiers and sailors and cops and such, those men and women give their lives if they die while serving a country and its people. They make a conscious choice to assume that risk when they sign up for whatever service they join.

We all die in the end. If we're very lucky, we live long and healthy lives. But most of us have to grapple with the mundane pain and ordinary terrifying risk of life-threatening illnesses some time along the way.

When Walter had his near-fatal heart attack, he didn't know, at first, what was happening. He called me on his cell phone, and it was only by luck that I answered. By the time it was all over, my father and I had both overstepped our strong family beliefs in self-governance. We'd harassed and bothered the poor man until he finally agreed to call 911.

If he had not, he would have died there in his truck. As it was, it took many months for him to understand and accept how very close he'd come to dying.

And how precarious his remaining life had become.

Me, I want to live forever. When my time comes they'll probably have to drag me kicking and screaming through the door. I don't much care, in the final analysis, how sick I am or how bad things hurt. If I know I still have a chance to get out and see some beautiful flowers and birds and lizards and neighbors, to listen to music, the sounds of the outdoors or the music of the spheres, whatever it may be - if life still holds any pleasures at all for me, I want to hang on and enjoy them.

We're all different. I learned some time ago, and rather to my shock back then, that not everyone feels that way about life.

I've always understood that in extreme pain or loss, or in the face of terminal illness, a person may choose not to continue. My beliefs in our right of sovereignty over our bodies have always held: we have an absolute right to choose when to live and when to die. Choosing the manner of our death - should we be so fortunate to have the opportunity - may be one of the greatest freedoms we have in life.

What startled me was realizing the number of people who simply don't mind dying when the time comes. I wasn't expecting that.

I guess up until then, I'd pretty much grouped people in either the *terrified to die* or *embracing death* camps. I love life. That's one starting point. I hate death. So between those two, you could toss me into the *terrified* camp. It's not really terror, it's more abhorrence, but that's close enough.

Walter always told me he doesn't care. When it's time to go, it's time. My grandmother Helen was the same way; she had a *do not resuscitate* order for years towards the end of her life. I'm not saying I wouldn't do that too, given the right circumstances; but I'd sure wait until I was way far gone first.

When Walter had his heart attack, then learned his remaining life was easily forfeit, he had decisions to make. Want to live on? Quit smoking, lose weight, eat healthier, exercise more. All those happy-talk *Heart Healthy!* things people are supposed to do if they want to live far longer than heart attack patients did in the past.

He didn't care. He said it wasn't worth it to him to give up so many things he enjoyed. He'd rather keep on living as before, and go early.

I gave this a long hard think.

Because, you see, I don't much want to live without him.

And after I'd thought and thought about it, I made a decision not so very different from the one that got Walter to call 911.

I explained how I didn't want to live without him. That if he didn't care about his life, I did. And I laid on every motivator I had at hand.

His daughters in Europe, who have never *met* their father as grown women; haven't seen him since they were 7 and 4 years old. I explained that even though he's truly back in their lives now, still they need to see their father, talk to him in person, spend time with him. Watch his face as he tells them his stories of their childhood.

I told him what my life would be like without him. I used images and language and phrases and concepts I usually keep out of our conversations, even the most serious ones. I was graphic.

Essentially, this was a very selfish thing to do. Pure self-interest. I love him. I want him. I need him.

Meaning I want him to stay alive. For my sake.

I knew what telling him all this would do to him. It would take away his comfort level with his own death. This is not a particularly nice thing to do, when you think about it.

It worked. Now he's conscious of his mortality, and does not want to die.

That hurt him.

His capitulation has given me the greatest gift he can. Every single birthday he sees means he's survived another year, which means I've been able to indulge in the joy of his company for another year, too.

So. Happy Birthday, my love. It's your birthday, the day we usually think about what we want to give you. Instead?

Thank you for the gift you gave me.
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