My cousin thought we should celebrate Mom’s 90th birthday with a surprise party. All conversation at the dinner table came to a screeching halt as everyone turned to look at my cousin, then like we were at a tennis match, we looked at my sister, who is Mom’s caregiver, and then back again to my cousin.
I was privately thinking that my cousin is an idiot, but I decided to let my sister handle this one. “Mom has a bad heart and she falls down a lot,” said my sister, who does not gladly suffer fools. “Do you think it’s a good idea to have 30 people jump out of the bushes and scream ‘Surprise’?”
“The shock would kill her,” she said flatly.
My cousin was not giving an inch. “Well, at least we’d all be together for the funeral,” she said, as seven people, slack-jawed, stared at her, all thinking the same thing: “You’re a fucking idiot.”
“Well, you have to do something,” continued my cousin, unabashed, adding eloquently, “90 is freaking old.”
Her idiocy notwithstanding, my cousin did raise a valid point; what’s the best way to celebrate 90 years that have been both eventful and very average? More importantly, what is appropriate for a woman who is physically extremely frail but mentally as sharp as a tack? Should the party have a theme? If so, after 90 years, how do you choose the one major event that defines a life?
Ma was born at home with the help of a midwife who, conveniently, was also her godmother, and she remembers when her Uncle Jim would deliver big blocks of ice for the icebox in a horse-drawn wagon. Her immigrant mother insisted that Mom go to high school, in an era when education for women was thought to be a waste of time, and Mom was the only one of her six siblings to graduate.
She lived through a depression and a world war, and then married my dad, a disabled vet, against the wishes of her father who felt that marrying an Italian boy was beneath her. The young couple moved to the suburbs, when the suburbs were as new and shiny as their first Chevy, and started their family. Years later, after my 14 year old brother died of brain cancer, they decided to start over and they moved to Fort Lauderdale when it was a small, sleepy town. Then, only ten years later my dad died too, and she was left to raise me and my brother during the wild, drug-infused 1970’s which is when, predictably, her hair turned gray.
The years seem to blur as her kids grew up: Marriages, divorces, grandkids and great-grandkids. Houses and condos, dogs and cats, tragedies and triumphs.
And on to the present day including the last year, which has been rough: A bad fall that resulted in a broken hip followed by another bad fall that cracked her head open. A bout of pneumonia. The utter deterioration of her spine from osteoporosis and the relentless progression of congestive heart failure. Doctors, hospitals, nursing homes, repeat.
So how to celebrate her 90th birthday? My sister and I ditched the idea of a theme party and decided to have a BBQ and pool party for family and friends, grandkids and great-grandkids but before we knew it the guest list was at 50 and counting. Then in a rare moment of common sense we decided to ask Mom what she wanted.
She instantly vetoed the BBQ in favor of a quiet dinner with her 5 kids. “Can we have Boston Market?” she asked; for reasons unknown Mom loves Boston Market, although personally I’d just as soon eat cat food.
“Is that it, Ma?” my sister asked anxiously while I countered, “Don’t you want something special?”
Ma shook her head. “At 90 every day is special,” she said, adding, “Lets save the big party for number 100. When I’m really old.”