My mother turned 75 today, and when I called to wish her a happy birthday, she was crying. The Medicaid funding bill that passed today has her alarmed. Living on Social Security and dwindling retirement savings, any threat to her healthcare feels like a threat to her survival. The future suddenly seems precarious. But the loneliness hurt even more. Her best friend Lucille died of liver cancer late last year so no more birthday calls from her familiar voice. Roger, her other close friend, is losing his memory and refuses to see a doctor. For the first time in decades, he didn't call. At 75, she's learning that birthdays can be as much more about loss than celebration.
I'm heading to the east coast this summer for some concerts with old friends. Most of them are married men whose wives have made it clear I can't stay with them. Apparently, decades of platonic friendship don't count for much when spouses feel threatened by the presence of an old friend who happens to be a woman. The irony isn't lost on me. These are the same guys I shared hotel rooms with in our twenties without incident, back when we were all young and presumably more hormone-driven. I suppose I should be flattered that they think I'm still attractive enough to worry about. Though it does make me wonder if there is some post-menopausal lore of dormant predatory instincts I'm unaware of.
So my options keep shrinking. I can still make it to Denver for events either solo or occasionally with the few girlfriends I have. But there is a concert in LA this June. I'd love to go. A solo trip to navigate that sprawling city and dealing with a predominantly male fan base seems like a hard no.
But there's something liberating about reaching this stage of life. I've embraced being middle aged and feral. There's an odd freedom in becoming invisible to those who once paid attention for all the wrong reasons. But watching friendships fade from the slow erosion of time and changing circumstances.. well, that part sucks.
Happy birthday, Mom.