Happy birthday to me: Bone death be damned!

Yes, today is my birthday. Forty-seven years old. Dear god, 47. Can it be? Fuck me. My father said it best: "Steffie, I cannot believe I have a daughter who is 47 years old!" I hear ya, Dad. I can't believe it either.

If it wasn't for my appalling and rapidly deteriorating physical condition, I'd say I was as happy and fit as ever. That is quite obviously not the case, at least not the fit part: I have glaucoma, Crohn's disease (for which I take infusions of a horrible immuno-suppressant called Remicade), and now a torn meniscus and avascular necrosis. That last diagnosis is as evil as it sounds: BONE DEATH. All the steroids I've taken through the years to combat Crohn's has resulted in improper blood flow to the bones in my joints. The right knee is the first to suffer. If I hadn't torn my meniscus dancing in March (thanks Sharon and Steve!!) the doctor said I might not have caught it until it was "too late."

So, I spent part of my birthday today getting an MRI on my right knee (the second one in six weeks). Results Wednesday. Will it be total knee replacement? Or just pins and scraping and injections and crutches for 6 more weeks? Stay tuned!

How is that I can feel so good and yet be so riddled with physical ailments? I mean it's not cancer or MS, but c'mon--glaucoma, Crohn's disease, and bone death? What gives? What twist of fate dealt me these cards? And can I turn them in for new ones?

When we hit middle age (and let's face it, 47 is actually well beyond middle age; I rounded that bend some time ago), we invariably look down the road. I see lots and lots of obstacles, and very little tennis or jogging. This is what I thought about as the MRI whirred and shook this morning, and I feel better getting it off my chest.

Best birthday gift? My husband bought me a car. A NEW car, mind you, the adorable and fabulous and super-fuel efficient Volkswagon Jetta TDI Sportwagon. Crazy. I've never had a new car, ever, so this is a first and huge treat. He is entirely forgiven for completely forgetting it was my birthday today until 90 minutes after he woke up and checked his datebook. The kids forgot entirely. Willa ran to her room and gave me two notebooks she found in her drawer and a clay dung beetle she made at the art museum. Oskar ran to his room and wrote me a gift certificate for "One hour of mostly whine-free chores of my choice, subject to availability."

I got texts and Facebook posts from all my lovely friends, so this is a good, good day. Avascular necrosis be damned! I hate jogging anyway.

Chris Eigeman on Slate

A great piece by my dear friend Chris Eigeman on Slate.com last week, in which his son learns a painful lesson on the playground at the hands of a dismissive girl:

Trust Me on This: “Abbey Road”