Happy Birthday to Me!

On November 14, 1955, at the Base Hospital at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, outside Dayton, Ohio, I made my entry into the world. Over the next 53 years, I moved from Ohio to Florida to Texas to Illinois to Alabama to Oklahoma to Alabama (again!) to Texas (again!) and finally to Georgia. (Whew!) I grew up (for the most part), married, raised two children (who have turned out pretty well so far) and worked as a government attorney.

All in all, my 53rd year has been a tough one.

In February, my father died, just three days short of his 87th birthday. Although he had been quite ill and in and out of the hospital for about two years, his death was sudden and unexpected and a shock. In fact, when I got there, on the desk was the birthday card I had mailed to him the day before he died. It was a painful trip to Springfield, Illinois, for his funeral and occasionally I can still hear him chuckle if I mutter something to myself about the mild escapades my children get into ("I knew your turn would come.")

I am very glad that I had decided to go to Springfield for a few days in July, 2007. I hadn't been there for many years and it was strange seeing the neighborhood with mature trees--it was a new subdivision when we moved there in 1970. My sister had warned me that Dad had lost a lot of weight and I was shocked at his appearance. He was frail but his mind was clear, which it remained until the end. I remember thinking that the next trip would likely be for his funeral, but I expected that would be a few years away, not seven months.

From a few months' perspective, I don't think my thoughts and feelings have changed too much. I recognized then and still do, that his death was a release from two years of illness that had drained his strength, ended his ability to do a job he enjoyed, prevented him from traveling with my stepmother, and virtually confined him to his house. That's not to say he wanted to die; I don't think he did. But it helped me realize that sometimes healing from illness isn't curing, it can be release. I miss Dad and I always will, but I am comforted by the knowledge that we had no unresolved issues between us and the faith that this wasn't truly the end.

Two months later, in April, I had my own health crisis when I suffered a mild heart attack and, through angioplasty, had two stents inserted in my right coronary artery. I was touched by the kindness of co-workers and members of my church. I was grateful for modern medicine and health insurance. I didn't have a real chance to worry about death while this was going on, because it didn't realize what exactly was happening to me and by the time I knew I had suffered a heart attack, it was over and I was out of danger. (But, a few months, later, the sudden death of Tim Russert from a heart attack reminded me the borderline between my result and his was not so large. If you believe in the science fiction concept of alternate universes, perhaps somewhere I didn't survive and my wife became a widow at 52. A sobering thought.)

But I got a second chance. I changed my diet, took (and still take) lots of meds and have dropped about 35 pounds. There are a few foods I miss, but there are some I've picked up--broccoli isn't that bad! I guess in some ways, it was a positive experience.

Other things have happened: we've elected a new President, the rector of my church retired, the Crimson Tide are undefeated and #1 as of now. The economy has gone south (as far as Antarctica, I think!). But I'm still here. My beloved wife is still here, too. We added a puppy, not long after I got out of the hospital.

All in all, not a bad year, I guess.