This is 43.
I spent my 43rd birthday lying on the living room floor sobbing. It marked the end to a twenty-four day streak without paralysis, the longest I had gone in all of 2024. The stairs were insurmountable and the couch too far away as the inability to move took over my body. My dad was outside swapping out tires in anticipation of snow. The dogs kept him company. I was alone, unable to speak or even move my arms to alert him to my predicament via text.
So I cried.
There’s something about spending a day that’s supposed to be filled with festivities and cheer stuck motionless that feels like the ultimate gut punch. I’m not even one to put a great deal of stock in birthdays or celebrations. The proximity of mine to Thanksgiving has often meant it was overlooked. It was more that 43 wasn’t supposed to look like this. I’m not sure what exactly I envisioned, but it certainly wasn’t lying on the floor helpless.
Each time I have a setback, it feels like I’m failing.
On the days I’m not lying motionless and alone on the living room floor, I know that I’m not. My dad’s reprise of, “But you’re alive,” also serves as a solid reminder that there are and were other outcomes.
