I never like the “big birthdays”. They inevitably force me into a rather detailed assessment of my life, in which I never measure up to the person I think I should be at the “big birthday” age. I magnify all my character defects and shame myself for the hundreds of things I am now sure I will never accomplish, lambaste myself for my aging face and body, both of which are no longer taut or firm, despite my commitment to exercise, not eating like a circus animal, and generous use of lotions and age-defying potions. Generally, I get myself into a full blown depression leading up to a “big birthday,” which disappears the minute the actual day of my birth is over.

Then I’m completely fine.

But, the weeks prior are awful. Honestly, I think these “big birthdays” take years off my life, reducing the amount of “big birthdays” I have to face!

Interestingly, I am very good at being rah rah rational about everybody else’s “big birthdays.” I fall into the cheerleader category, glorifying the birthday honoree’s tremendously good qualities, their excellent character, and detailing the extraordinary things they’ve done with their years.

This year, as I struggle through the days before the ‘big birthday,” I am remembering when the outside of me was fresh-faced, overflowing with collagen and smooth skin, so foolishly believing that was just ME, that I would look that way forever. (I laugh just writing this!) But the truth is that while I had all that gleaming virgin skin, all that fitness on the outside of me, the inside of me lacked the smarts, the character, the hard-won perspective and wisdom that the “big birthdays” have bestowed upon me.

The above was written on the weekend before the “big birthday,” but I never finished it because I was almost finished–hit by a car while I was walking my dog, Daisy. Yup. Hit. By. A. Car.

I remember I was on the curb, (the same curb I’m on almost every day when walking home from taking Daisy to the park), then I felt a huge impact on my right side, and then I woke up flat on my back on a busy road with the realtor (and friend) who sold me my house next to me. I was on absolute auto pilot, in shock, visiting the land where the surreal happens. I looked at Daisy’s face and since it looked fine. my state of mind made me think she wasn’t hurt. The realtor asked if she could bring her home and when I actually ascertained who she was, (I kept saying no, until she identified herself because she did not look familiar) I said, yes. Then there were EMT’s, police, fire fighters. I was put in an ambulance to go to the Trauma ER at the hospital where I’d given birth to my two kids. A whole lineup of doctors lay you down and remove your clothes to examine every spec of you, in a fact finding mission to see what’s what. I was then shuttled off to X-ray, followed by a CT scan. The CT scan really speaks to my shock because I am 100% claustrophobic, as in I will walk up 100 flights of stairs to avoid a tiny elevator, for instance, and when I asked if my head would be inside the machine, I just said, “give me an eye mask before I go in,” which I could never do normally. Normally, I require DRUGS with that mask. My brother-in-law Frank came to the hospital because Peter had to take Daisy to Angell Memorial, the best animal hospital in the entire world.

I was told that nothing was broken (except my spirit). Little did I realize I had and would develop bumps, bruises, and cuts all over. A concussion gave me vertigo and blurry vision. I was in the ER for the whole day and about an hour before I left, I had pelvic pain so intense, I could barely walk, and when I heard that Daisy broke one hip, subluxed the other, and had tiny fractures on her pelvis, I felt OVERWHELMING AND DEBILITATING PAIN ALL OVER. Pain that made me scared she might die, or be paralyzed. Oh, and I felt guilt. Guilt that she was hurt because I was walking her. The flood gates opened. I couldn’t stop crying.

During the first week it was painful to do anything but stare into space. The second week, things began to loosen up and improve. This week, the middle of the third, is even better–pain is still in pelvis and knee, vertigo and blurry vision are still in play, but I actually took a three minute walk yesterday, my first time outside in 15 days! I’ve begun myofacial release, super helpful, and will see an orthopedic doc next week, and begin PT.

There should be a new category in the Westminster Kennel Club Show called “Best Dog in a Crisis.” Daisy has been a patient patient–loving, respectful of her limitations (She has to be carried everywhere), and my constant, good-spirited companion. She has graduated to a ten minute walk this week! My husband who has been walking her (and doing everything for me, too, not to mention my sister and BIL who stayed with us during week one and acted as paid staff ) says she seems her happy self and is unfazed by cars. You may think you have him or her, but it’s me who really does have THE BEST DOG.

Getting better will take some work and some patience. (I’m good with the work, not so good with the patience.) But guess who didn’t even think about her “big birthday” just two days after the accident, when it reared its ugly head! And as usual, I was just fine about my new age the next day. Maybe it was because family and friends from far and wide sprung forward with heaps of encouraging messages, enough flowers to open a botanical garden in my house, so much food, I may never have to cook again and oodles and oodles of love. And if there’s anything that can help you heal, it’s that.

Lots of gratitude (for so many people and things) that all my negative “big birthday” feelings didn’t manifest into me having no birthday at all. I’m particularly interested in a fact I just found out, which is that the driver did not know she hit me. (NO WORDS…..) But, you know, maybe I’ve finally learned my “big birthday” lesson. I guess we’ll see in another five years. Until then, I’m grateful to be this age, or any age. Because it’s crystal clear to me now, every birthday is tenuous, “big,” routine, small, or otherwise.