The Doubly Perfect Birthday

by Donna Poole

I read somewhere seven is the number of perfection and somewhere is always correct.

I don’t remember any details of turning seven, but I know it was fantastic. At seven, I loved summer days, jumping rope, playing marbles, and hopscotch.  I loved taking crazy risks like strapping on my metal skates and almost killing myself and anyone else brave enough to step on the sidewalk with me. I loved sitting on the rickety back porch in the rain with my sister and playing with pieces of dough Mom gave us until it turned black. Someone, probably a neighbor, had a pogo stick, and that was hilarious, out of control fun. I never knew where I might go on the next jump, perhaps Italy or the moon. I didn’t have a bike until I was sixteen, but I didn’t feel deprived. Summer days are full of fun and dreams when you’re seven. They have to be; seven is the age of perfection, and nothing can beat perfection.

Nothing can beat perfection except double perfection. I turned seventy-seven this week. I told my family I expect to be so perfect this year I’ll be sickening. I’m going to be so perfect I doubt I’ll be able to stand myself, but I have no choice. I’m double sevens this year.  

I had a lovely birthday! It began with so many phone calls I wasn’t even able to brush my teeth until lunch time, and I had to forgo my morning shower and smell a bit gamey all day. I know you’re used to me slightly exaggerating, but that’s gospel truth. One distressed friend couldn’t get through to talk to me; her calls kept going to voice mail, and she finally left a lovely if somewhat off-key rendition of happy birthday there. Another friend left a birthday song in a text message, and I was amazed. I didn’t even know you could do that. And three of my grandkids sang and shouted happy birthday aided by their parents.

Back to lunch. Our daughter Kimmee, who lives with us, told us to stay out of the kitchen while she cooked. I tried unsuccessfully to guess the meal by the enticing scent wafting through the house. She made delicious feta baked pasta!

Mid-afternoon John and I left for a park near us. We sat near the lake in a quiet spot we love and pulled out our reading material. The sun sparkled off the water and the green trees reflected in their depths. Just so we wouldn’t think we were in heaven, noisy work trucks joined us and spent the rest of the afternoon with us, but we didn’t care. I was flying high with an attitude transcending my circumstances; remember, I’m doubly perfect now. But I can’t say I had a good attitude about the nineteen spam phone calls! I don’t think even John, the apostle of love, could have suffered that many fools gladly on his birthday!

But, to a certain extent, life is what you make it. John and I read, talked, and laughed. And I tried to keep up with the hundreds of birthday texts and Facebook messages. We’re blessed with wonderful family and friends.

As the sun sank lower in the sky, we kept thinking the noisy work trucks would leave, but they did not. One exhausted looking worker said to us, “I can’t wait until this day is over.”

I’ve felt that way sometimes, but I didn’t that day. It was my birthday, and I was double sevens! It was my first day of being so perfect my family and friends could barely stand to be near me. Also, I hadn’t taken a shower, remember, so there was that too.

We headed home before the noisy trucks left, and when we got to our country home and blessed quietness, our daughter and son-in-law had a surprise for us. They’d made crème brulee, and one had a candle in it. They sang to me, and then we ate the creamy deliciousness.

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands, both of you,” they said to us.

We obeyed, and they gave us a rolled piece of paper tied with a ribbon. What a fantastic surprise!

It said, “Mom and Dad, you always say life is short; make memories. So, let’s go make some together. Happy anniversary and birthdays to you both. We love you guys immensely, and we can’t wait for December 16! We’ll have so much fun. Let’s make an evening of it. Love, Kimmee and Drew.”

Two red arrows marked the place where the four of us will be sitting for the Mannheim Steamroller Christmas Concert!

Words tumbled over each other as the four of us talked about visiting Horricks before the concert, getting cookies afterward, and dressing up in Christmas sweaters.

“Please, don’t agree to preach any funerals that day,” I said to John, and we laughed. “And even if they change my cancer treatment, I’m not going to U of M that day, no matter what!” And then we didn’t laugh. There was just the slightest pause in the conversation. I blinked back a few tears and didn’t look at Kimmee for a second. It was no time to cry.

You see, since January my three-month scans have been coming back questionable, and my poor family, church family, and a few friends have been on a roller coaster ride with me. I was supposed to have a lung biopsy earlier this summer to see whether or not Morticia is flexing her muscles, but U of M determined there was no safe way to access the place in my lung lighting up on the PET scan.

Is the cancer I’ve been fighting for five years once again growing? If so, what options will be available? I’m not a candidate for Car-T or stem cell transplant. I’m already in a clinical trial because traditional treatments of chemotherapy and radiation didn’t work. A recent diagnosis of cardiomyopathy and mild heart failure caused by earlier chemo further limits my options. My oncologist says there will be something. But what? And now what?

Now I wait for the next scan in early October. The larger area in my upper lung and the two smaller areas in my lower lung can disappear, or they can continue to grow.

Human nature wants answers yesterday. So, I can lie awake nights and talk to Dr. Google, or I can remember that the God I had when I was seven is the God I have when I’m seventy-seven.

When I was seven, I had a fascination with speed. I wanted to fly, not in a plane, just by myself. I begged Dad to let me put on my skates and pull me behind the car and was not happy when he refused. I decided to strap on the metal skates and fly down the steepest hill in the area. My younger sister with an older, wiser brain, told me not to do it. I told her I’d be fine. I wasn’t. When I landed in a bruised and bloody heap near the bottom of the hill, I didn’t blame God for not sending an angel to protect me. And, even as sore as I was, I thought, what a ride!

By the time I was seven, even though I was a crazy kid who felt invincible, I knew some important things. I knew life on earth doesn’t last forever. I knew everyone was a sinner, and sinners can’t go to heaven. I knew that’s why Jesus had left heaven and come to earth to die on the cross. Because I’d trusted him as my Savior, I knew I was going to live forever in heaven. Sometimes I’d lie on my back in the grass, watch the clouds sail by, and wonder what heaven would look like. No one had to tell me it was going to be even more joyful than being seven, I knew it. How could it not be? Jesus was there! And Jesus was with me too, forever.

So, now I’m seventy-seven. Sometimes life has been tough, especially in the last five years. But I don’t blame God for not sending an angel to rescue me. We live on a beautiful but broken planet, and bad things happen. The clouds still sail by in the sky reminding me of heaven. Jesus is still with me, and I love him more than ever. Friends and family still sing happy birthday to me. If I tried to hop on a pogo stick now, I probably would end up in Italy or on the moon, but I’m guessing I’d still say, what a ride!

How tough is life? I usually need a nap to recover from a shower. Perhaps because I’m so doubly perfect now at age seventy-seven I’ll quit taking them!

So, life isn’t easy for me; it’s worse for many. I’m going to keep living, loving, and laughing. Lord willing, and if the creek don’t rise, we’re going to Sight and Sound in Pennsylvania this month, an awesome gift from a son and daughter-in-law. Then we’ll have a wonderful few days of a sister reunion. Lord willing, and if the creek don’t rise, we’re going to sit surrounded by lights and music at the Mannheim Steamroller in December. I asked if I could wave a white hankie. Kimmee says no. I asked if I could wave my phone light. She says only if they tell me to.

Hey! I’m still the kid who whizzed down the hill on metal skates. There’s no telling what I might do next. I confess I still have an urge to fly, not in a plane, but by myself. And I will someday, when God calls me Home. Because of Jesus, I’m going to fly right out of this withering, pain filled body into one perfect and a lot younger. I wonder how old I’ll be? I wouldn’t mind being seven again.

The end

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These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter