I turned forty on October 13, 1998. For most women, this marks a milestone that they would much rather overlook, but which is as hard to ignore as a stubbed toe. I eagerly anticipated it as sure sign that I was finally becoming a grown up. Even as a wife of eleven years, a mother of an adopted eleven-year-old special needs child, a business owner for ten years and a social worker for fifteen years, I still felt very much like a kid at heart. My birthday ritual typically involved going to my favorite Chinese restaurant with my husband Michael and son Adam and ordering a delicacy called Vegetarian Kula Pork. Returning home, I would indulge my sweet tooth with a birthday cake made by my husband and decorated with the creative assistance of our son. This year was different.
On October 12th, I found myself once again in a hospital emergency room with Michael who was awaiting a liver transplant. The symptoms of end stage liver disease, one of which is ascites (the swelling of the abdomen with fluid) had taken hold and he needed hospitalization in order to stabilize. Tears welling up in his eyes, and a disappointed look on his face, he assured me that we would celebrate when he came home. He then asked if there was an oven I could use at the nursing home where I worked. Puzzled, I responded that there was. He then made me an offer. He said, “You bake the cake, bring it to the hospital tomorrow and I’ll decorate it for you.” “Gladly,” I complied.
The next day, I carried the multi-color sprinkled angel food cake into Michael’s room. Upon entering, what greeted me, but my adorable husband, sitting up in bed, abdomen distended as if he was 10 months pregnant. On his feet were his favorite slippers–furry bear paws with cotton claws extending out 6 inches. He was wearing a teddy bear decorated scrub top and a festive party fabric hat which he had made a few weeks prior. Grinning from ear to ear, he held out his hands and commanded, “Glove me!” as if he were a surgeon preparing to perform a delicate operation. I did as requested. He made a place on his lap (what there was of it) and propped the cake pan on his belly. With the deftness of an artist, he generously spread the vanilla rainbow-flecked icing on the cake. Two interns observed this scene in amusement as they awaited the ultra sound machine and technician who would scan images of Michael’s abdomen so the doctors could tap the excess fluid from him.
Within moments, the technician arrived, but kindly and patiently waited while Michael completed his masterpiece down to the last purple letter of Happy Birthday, doing all she can not to explode with laughter at this sight. Michael, you see, was not representative of their patient population. Upon dabbing the last stroke of icing, he handed me the cake, which I placed in a tiny refrigerator at the nurses’ station. The medical professionals did their jobs and when they were complete, a two-liter bottle of fluid (think Pepsi or Mountain Dew) sat beside him. “O.K., it’s time for cake. ” Michael announced and together with the doctors and technician, I enjoyed the best birthday cake in the history of the world, because of two key ingredients not found on the package: humor with a generous dollop of love.
Less than a month later, Michael re-entered the hospital in a coma and died on December 21, 1998, without having received his liver transplant.
Food For Thought: Silliness in the midst of sadness
Rev. Edie Weinstein-Moser
